The moment Severus Snape woke up, he knew something was different and only when he looked up from where he had slept so soundly, he knew what it was.
Ophelia, curled around her stuffed hellhound – her head resting against the side of his stomach, sideways in his bed. In his bed.
She had flown into his arms, on his lap, had pressed her face – and the stuffed animal – against him and had cried, sobbed, breathing hitched and it had taken a long time, a very long time, until it had evened out, until she had stopped crying and whispering to him – something about shelves and a Madame Sylvie (the woman, he supposed where the youth office had found her) and sticks that rescued her. And about him. Something about him carrying her.
It was on instinct, really, that he had held her as well, sort of. He just made sure that she did not slide off his lap – and she was so tiny that he could have wrapped his arms twice around her. Or three times, probably. As soon as he had felt her going limp – asleep – he had slowly stood up. Wanted to bring her back into her room, back to her bed. Back into the room he hadn't used before and the bed that had once been a plate.
"No," she had said in her sleep and had clung to him and had made soft mewling noises, little complaints that subsided as soon as he sat down again. He had looked at her – at the little pale girl sitting there, sleeping, her lips a little parted, streaks of dried tears on her cheeks and after a few minutes, her hold on him loosened and he, once more, tried to get up.
Again, clinging tighter, mewling and Severus had known that he stood no chance of ever bringing her back to her own bed. She seemed, as impossible as that might sound, to sense when he was holding her and when he tried to carry her.
No – he didn't know how to handle it. A little girl, very small, very skinny, very tiny, on his lap, her arms and legs wrapped around him as far as they would go and the right side of her face resting against his lower chest. He would have to tell her to sit straighter – though – well, she was sleeping, and slouching was probably alright as long as she didn't do it on purpose.
He had grown tired as well and twice more, had tried to carry her – but she wouldn't let go – and since he needed his sleep too – he had carefully manoeuvred himself onto the mattress – and she, Ophelia – had been half laying on him, half on his bed, her head on his chest, her stuffed animal wedged between her stomach and his and one of the muzzles had painfully poked into him and he had to move that bloody animal a little – causing her to whine again in her sleep.
Now – a bit more awake, he still looked down at her, her hair in her face, covering her eyes, probably tickling her nose and the hellhound gripped tightly.
If he knew one thing for sure – it was that she was afraid of something. Screaming and crying that way in the middle of the night – someone whose life had been nice and kind didn't do that.
Severus Snape did not know how to make her life better – or how to make her more comfortable. He wasn't sure he even could.
Maybe – maybe he would have to find a foster family for her. Have her grow up with someone who had more experience.
But that would be shirking his duty, wouldn't it?
Yes – he would not give her to someone else. She was no goods to be traded, to be put away, to be – just brushed off. He had fathered her – not that he had known about it (and he strongly suspected that Ophelia's mother had just – picked him because she had known he had money and he had been – careless for once) and he would not let her down, not now, now that she seemed to begin to trust him and slept so peacefully in his bed. She was his responsibility – and she would remain so until she was grown up. Until she could go out into the world on her own.
He knew he could never be a good father – or someone who cuddled and loved much – but from what he knew, or suspected, he could give her a steady home. And of course, he could prepare her for her living as a witch – something which her mother could have never done (because she – frankly – had not known he was a wizard).
Suddenly, he found himself carefully brushing the lank strands of hair out of her face and quickly pulled back when – she opened her eyes slowly and blinked at him.
And smiled. "Hullo Sirfather," she said sleepily and blinked again.
Sirfather? A new word, a blend of the name she had used and the name he wanted her to call him. "Good morning," he replied after a moment, startled. It was the first time – the very first time, she had not shrunk back in the morning, had not looked like a scared rabbit when she saw him. No – she smiled. And had her own name for him.
As he had renamed her. And she had used it the night before. Had called herself Ophelia – even though he knew that her mother had called her Fiffi. Like a dog. He could not possibly call her Fiffi. Idiotic name. She was his. A descendent of the Princes. A Snape – a Prince. And neither one of them could be called Fiffi.
"We will go buy some clothes for you today," he stated and somehow, found himself unable to get up – found himself unable not to look at her. She had stopped smiling and had looked – puzzled.
"Didn't your mother buy you clothes?" he asked – realisation dawning on him.
She shook her head. "Bringed clothes."
"Brought, girl," he said sharply.
"Brought clothes," she repeated.
"No new ones?"
She shook her head again and her smile had completely vanished – as if she thought she had done something wrong. And maybe, maybe she thought so, since he was – less than amused about this and his face probably showed this.
Again a mistake. He wasn't angry at her. He was angry at her mother.
750 Pounds every month. That should have been quite enough to buy new clothes for the girl. More than enough. And more than enough to buy enough food.
"Get up, Ophelia," he said suddenly and jerked up himself. "We'll have breakfast and then we'll go out."
She looked scared again – and he thought that maybe, maybe, she was afraid, very afraid of going out. He couldn't fault her for that. It would be better in Knockturn Alley – definitely – but there would still be glances and looks and he wasn't sure how much she understood, could understand of their world.
He had not, yet, told her much, since, well, she was 4 and a half and how much would she understand? She knew he was using a wand, she had seen it every day, she saw him selling potions, saw him making them, had seen him shrinking robes and filling the tub full of hot water. She had seen the magical stuffed creatures.
But she was scared – and he hoped that in a few weeks time, she would just accept this as normal – without much explanation. He would wait a bit.
"Yes, sir," she said and scrambled from the bed and he groaned inwardly. Back to sir. Obviously. He would have to do something. He did not like the sir – had to call his own father sir more often than he wanted to. When he had wanted to call him worse names.
He needed to find books – or something on child raising. Something that explained, clear and concise what to do. Switch's and Marino for the books. Madame Irving's for the clothes. And Squiffy Mary Kelly would probably be waiting in front of the apothecary already.
"Ophelia?" he said, trying to keep his voice gentle.
She just looked at him from behind the curtain of dark hair and said nothing.
"And we'll get you a few books with pictures," he said impulsively. "Can you get dressed yourself?"
She nodded and with a last, questioning look, ran from his bedroom.
xx
A book with pictures? Like the book full of fairy tales? She hadn't been able to take it with her – had left it at home with Mummy and then the woman who had picked her up from Madame Sylvie had not gone back with her to get it. Maybe – maybe sir was nice enough to buy her another fairy tale book. He even bought her clothes. New clothes. Maybe something like the nice black coat he had given her when he had made it smaller with his stick. It was warm and soft and even though it was a bit tight, it was the best thing she had.
Or maybe a pair of woollen tights. Then her legs wouldn't be so cold all the time in the thin trousers. She could wear them underneath – or maybe a dress. And a skirt. And – and – and. No, he would pick.
Everything was better than that idiotic jumper she wore now. And the underpants she had that were too big. Everything was better.
She ran into her room (her room!) and as fast as she could, wanted to get dressed – when her glimpse fell on the bed. There was light in the room now but still a weird shadow underneath the bed.
No, Madame Sylvie could not be there. No, definitely not. She couldn't. She stared at the bed, frowning, biting her lip, clenching her jaw.
No – she would simply check. Sirfather would come when she yelled. He had even already sat on his bed the night before and had waited for her there. He would come when Madame Sylvie was really under the bed and would come rescue her again. He would.
She breathed deeply and fell on her knees. It was dark down there but – no, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. She breathed deeply. Nothing. Empty. And Madame Sylvie could not make herself invisible. Could she?
Even if – she would have to hear her breathing. She definitely couldn't possibly stop breathing and make herself invisible at the same time so Ophelia held her breath and listened very hard but all she could hear was Sirfather in the kitchen.
Oh – he would make porridge again. And she liked the way he did. With salt. It was better than that sweet stuff Mummy or Madame Sylvie had made. Salted porridge. She smiled and scrambled up – she would dress in record time.
xx
He followed her – quietly – into her room, saw her staring at her bed and stiffening. Now he knew for sure. She was afraid that something might be under her bed – like he had. Deathly afraid of a boggart since he had once seen one with his mother being somewhere he didn't remember. And that boggart had turned into father using Mum as a punching bag. He had checked every night – for two months – if there was one underneath it.
There never was.
She – he smirked – she was his daughter. Her little hands in fists, she dropped to her knees, pushed her little bottom up and looked underneath the bed – quite thoroughly. In every corner and he knew she was alright.
He smirked again and went into the kitchen. Leaving the stirring of the porridge too long without supervision – that would turn disastrous. The last time he had – he had spent hours cleaning the damn kitchen. And she would be fine. She had overcome her fear, had looked, had searched and she would come back into the kitchen – and he knew that she was afraid of whatever she thought was under her bed.
And he found, he did not mind her in his bed. It was big enough and she was small. And his daughter. His daughter should be allowed to come into his bedroom when she was afraid of something.
Right – he would make a list. Would begin to list what his parents had done – and would make the exact opposite.
His daughter – Ophelia – would not grow up as he had. She would not. She would be allowed to be weak. She would be allowed to cry. And she would be allowed to hug him. Even though he wasn't sure whether he was comfortable with it. She would be allowed to turn to him. No matter what.
She would get decent clothes. She would get toys. She would – he needed a Pensieve. Needed to retrieve the memories of his childhood and needed to make sure that she was better off than he had been. Even if he could not give her love.
xx
She liked the smell in the mornings before they went down to the weird shop. Sirfather had said it was an athocepary – or something. That smelled interesting as well – but not as nice, as warm, as it did in the mornings. Pumpkin juice for her (she had never had it before he had come for her) and coffee for him. She knew coffee. Mummy had drunk coffee as well. But this smelled better since it somehow mingled with the porridge and she could bathe in that smell.
She stumbled into the kitchen (trousers were too long) and climbed up the chair the way he liked it in the morning.
She wasn't sure whether he would like that she had brought Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood with her – probably not – but the dog fit just so nicely on her lap and he could just sit there and peek under the table and look if there was something as well. So Madame Sylvie couldn't somehow sneak up on her when Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood looked. This dog had three heads – and could bite her with his three mouths.
Simple.
Ophelia smiled at Sirfather when he put a bowl of porridge and the glass in front of her. He was there as well. Him and Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood would not make her have to go back.
"I'd like you to wear skirts," he said suddenly when he sat down with her on the table.
That alone – really – Mummy hadn't done that. She had given her breakfast and had then taken her cup of coffee somewhere. Or had sat down quickly for a – cigarette – and had then gone into the bathroom. Ophelia really disliked cigarettes. When Mummy smoked them, she always had to cough. And the smoke smelled really horrible. And had made her cough even more.
"It is customary here that girls wear skirts," he continued and she closed her eyes for a moment. Skirts! No trousers to stumble over because they were too long but beautiful skirts.
"Woollen tights?" she asked shyly and even though he had that little line on his forehead, he nodded and Ophelia was as happy as any girl in the world could be.
Probably – probably he would even buy her black ones. He liked black – she thought – he always wore it – and she liked black as well. And black woollen tights were wonderful!
She smiled broadly and spooned her breakfast, dangling her legs – glad that she had a Sirfather now. A Sirfather who had hugged her all through the night and who was taking care of her and bought her clothes and woollen tights. And skirts. And a book!
She didn't think about motives, she only knew that she was extraordinarily happy – despite the nightmare (or maybe because, because without the nightmare, she wouldn't have gone to sleep in his bed and that had been wonderful) and carefully slipped down from her seat, placed the hellhound on her chair and ran around the table and hugged her Sirfather's legs, looked up and beamed.
"Thank you," she said softly and hugged his legs tighter.