"Morning, Mum," Hermione smiled and pulling her dressing gown tighter around herself – the morning was cold, even inside – she sat down on the kitchen table.

"Morning, darling. Slept well?"

She shook her head. "Not really, no. Where's Dad? And the kids?"

Judith Granger chuckled. "Shopping."

"Shopping?" she grinned. "Dad?"

Her mother shrugged, still grinning and poured her a cup of tea. "And what are your plans today?"

"I actually wanted to go to Diagon Alley. I need to pick up some books fro..."

"Are you sure?"

Hermione shrugged. "I need them for work and the sooner I get them, the sooner I can start looking through them, and the sooner I'll get my mind off the entire – thing."

"That's my girl," she grinned. "What's the thing you're working on?"

"Same old, same old. Lucius Malfoy and his bloody purebloodedness. He is barely out of Azkaban and tries to get a sort of compensation and apparently is working on trying to pass a law which would cause all Muggle-borns working in the Ministry to have to pass certain tests on their abilities. It's ridiculous but what can you do?"

"And what kind of books do you need for that?" she asked, curiously. Her mum always tried to make sure she knew that they were both interested in what she was doing, what she was working on, what was going on in the Wizarding World.

"There's a book I ordered about ancient pureblood-laws and I think he might want to use that as a reference."

"Know thy enemy," Judith smiled. "Would you mind...no."

"Yes, yes, Mum!" Hermione's eyes widened and she smiled. "Yes, I want you to come with me."

"I haven't been there in years and I thought that I might like to, you know, see how it looks like now after the war. But if you want to go alone...?"

Hermione shook her head quickly. "No, Mum, I want you to come with me. I just thought you might not be interested to watch me browsing through a book store."

Judith Granger laughed and sat down, taking her hand. "I have done that for almost thirty years – before that, you were not browsing but crawling and pulled books out at random. I think your father was always more embarrassed than I was," she mused fondly.

Hermione chuckled. "It does me some good, I think," she said softly, pensively, "to stay here."

"I hope so."

xx

Ophelia beamed. She really did and she almost ran down the stairs to the shop. She would not let him walk past her, she would not let him pass her, she ran down, the bloody stuffed three-headed dog in her hand, one of the heads bumping on the stairs (and yes, he knew that she had named every single one of them – though the reason why was, for him, incomprehensible – Fluffy – Cabby – Wormwood. It was probably Wormwood that was right now having his head banged against the heavy wood of the stairs) and he felt uneasy – sort of. The trousers she wore were too long and he knew she would trip at any moment. Not that he didn't know how to use simple Healing Charms, he did, but he wasn't sure how well she would take to it – having his wand pointed at her, the magic seeping through her, tingling, tickling, cold and warm and he did not want to deal with a crying girl.

Not again.

The nightmares would return anyway and that was quite enough.

"Woman again," she said suddenly, and pointed at the door. She had made it down the stairs – unhurt.

He growled but realised with a weird feeling in his stomach, that she had remembered Squiffy Mary Kelly. Who needed her Sober Up Potion every morning – only to be drunk a few hours later again. Ophelia noticed. And Squiffy Mary Kelly was only one of the very many – colourful – characters coming into the apothecary every day, and she had witnessed every single one of them. Every single man who needed a potion against one of those diseases that a betrothed should not know about, every single unwed young – or not – woman – who needed something to make sure she would not be a young – or not – mother. Or, the other way round – to make sure she would be a mother – at a certain time. Old people who did not want to die – old people who did. Young ones that did.

And no – he did not feel guilty, he felt no moral dilemma – nothing. He made the potions, yes, and he sold them but they asked for them, they wanted them, they took them. He wasn't tipping anything in anyone's throat. He wasn't forcing anyone to do anything. Nothing. It was their own problem – and he merely made money with the fact that, while people distrusted him personally, they thought him shady – not quite light, not quite dark – they knew that his potions were brewed to perfection, could be taken without problems and no questions would be asked.

Still – they did not know that he had an extraordinary memory. And one day – one day – it would serve him.

"Yes," he replied finally and could sidestep her – between Ophelia and the door. "That is that smelly, disgusting woman, girl. But she will pay today and that will be at least a book for you," he growled and with a flick of his wand, the door opened a little and he pushed the girl – subconsciously – behind the counter.

"Well?" he sneered as he looked at Squiffy Mary.

"I've got ye 30," she slurred.

"That leaves 50 to pay still," he replied coldly, "but better than nothing." He picked up a vial with Sober Up and levitated it – just out of her reach – and stepped a little closer. "And?"

The drunk woman rummaged in the pockets of her robes and pulled out a pouch and stepped forward to drop it in his hands. He weighed it suspiciously in her hand, and nodded sharply. "Go," he drawled and the vial sailed into her shaking hands. She downed it quickly.

"Thank you, Master Snape. Thank you."

"Go!" he said again and closed the door – and warded it. When he turned around, he knew that his features – softened.

The girl had remained behind the counter – where he had more or less gently pushed her – but instead of cowering, or sitting in her chair, she was apparently standing on her tiptoes, watching his interaction with the addicted woman with the greatest of interest.

"Ophelia," he said, his voice soft, low and threatening – and he noticed immediately that it had been too much – too much and her face fell and she hid behind the counter.

Books on raising children. At least a stack.

xx

"Come," he said and it sounded like the voice that he had used before – earlier – gentle and kind and she knew this was the Sirfather-Voice. The other was the sir-voice. One was nice – the other not. When he used the latter one, she had done something wrong.

And yes, she had. He had put her gently behind the counter because he wanted to protect her – and she had peeked, had been too curious. Mummy had always said she was too curious for her own good. And one day, she would get the results of the curiosity. What that meant, Ophelia didn't know but Sirfather was angry because she was curious when he had only wanted to make sure she kept out of harm's way.

She sighed softly and risked a glance up at him – but his face was quite normal again. And normal meant the little line between his eyebrows, the straight line of his lips, the thin lips, like her own lips, and his eyes open and seeing everything and she knew he wasn't angry.

So far, she knew that he made three faces:

One: the line between his eyebrows was quite deep, and them – the eyebrows – a little closer together, his mouth as if he had just eaten something that did not taste good. That face meant he was angry. He had looked that way when he had picked her up, for instance. And when he spoke with the people who came into the athocepary.

Two: the normal face. Like he had now. That meant everything was alright.

Three: no lines, the mouth a bit open and his eyes shining. That meant he was pleased or content. He had looked that way briefly that morning.

And Ophelia was curious – curious to see if there were more faces. Maybe Sirfather could even smile.

xx

Judith Granger looked around in utter astonishment – Diagon Alley had changed since she had last accompanied her daughter there – sometime around her second or third year but it shone only brighter, and there seemed to be more shops open now and those she remembered, the quidditch-thing, the book store, where they had bought Hermione's wand, seemed bigger and brighter as well.

"Flourish and Blott's is this way, Mum," Hermione smiled and took her mother's arm.

"I know but what's that there?" she asked, pointing at one shop especially colourful and sparkly.

"George Weasley's," Hermione said darkly. "Mum, I think I'd rather not..."

"Of course not," she shook her head. "And it's a joke shop, isn't it? Well, I'd rather not think that Rose and Hugo get those. Your father would die of shock."

Hermione seemed grateful and pulled her away with her. "It's not only that, I just, I mean, I don't know how they're reacting and I'd rather not be somehow, well, I don't know. It'd be just weird."

Judith rolled her eyes and let herself drag along. Her daughter always moved faster when she was in the vicinity of books. Always. She had a nose for it. Whenever she was close to a library, a store, anything – she moved faster and knew where to go. Instinctively. But she had always liked the Wizarding stores – no matter which.

"Oh Mum, do you mind if we go to Luculent later?"

"What's that?"

"The apothecary. I need some Pepper Up Potion for the children. With the weather's getting cold, I think it might be good to be prepared."

She smiled at her girl. "I came here to spend some time with you. And I even thought we might have some lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, was it?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Your father knows about it, I wrote a note and he's perfectly capable of warming up some noodle soup for Rose and Hugo. I take it mobile phones still do not work here?"

"No, Mum, you're..."

"Yes," she said softly and found herself with an armful of Hermione – quite unlike her – especially in public, "it's alright, darling. Now go get those books."

xx

Her eyes were the biggest he had ever seen when they entered Switch's and Marino – saucers at the sight of shelves full of books, and still, she pressed herself against his thigh, and held the hellhound to her. It was clear that Ophelia disliked people. Or many people at once.

And he would probably feel the same way too – if he'd be that tiny and had to look up for everything. And people looking down at him.

He put his sneering face on and bent down. This time – she did not shrink away, she did not flinch, she just looked at him, with a trust in her young eyes he had not seen in anyone's before – and had lifted her in his arms quickly.

He was protecting his daughter and he saw absolutely no reason why he should not show this. This did not mean cuddling, did not mean that he carried her around – it only meant that he did not want his heir (or heiress rather) trampled on. And he would make sure everyone knew it.

The darkest scowl, the meanest sneer and he was off into the small children's section (the one at Flourish and Blott's was about seven times as big), he held her up and let her look. And look some more. And some more.

Suddenly, she turned her head towards his and looked at him questioningly.

Alright – so getting something was not in her nature either – she wasn't used to it. And he remembered a little boy – a scared little boy who was not used to getting things either, who could be made happy by a used book – anything.

He would have to use a different tactic, he knew – and pulled a random book from the shelf. It was a simple book but a staple in every Wizarding nursery. The Faerie Book of Faerieland.

"Do you like that?" he asked his daughter quietly and she nodded immediately.

"Good," he replied and placed a levitating charm on it – making it follow them.

She apparently was fascinated by that alone – and he picked two more out. Beedle the Bard – idiotic as it was – and More Faerietales from Faerieland. Three were enough. He didn't want to spoil Ophelia – but maybe, she could learn to read from those books as well. Maybe, he would have to read to her.

And somehow, that prospect didn't sound so appalling.

And her face, seeing two more books following them was priceless. Open, innocent and full of joy.

xx

"What do you mean, you're out of Pepper Up Potion?" Hermione asked agitatedly. "What about the ingredients? I can brew it myself."

"Sorry, ma'am," the apothecary shook his head. "Nothing to be done. There was a bout of flu in Wales and all our supplies have gone there."

"And?"

"It cannot guarantee another shipment for the next three weeks," he shrugged. "I am sorry."

Hermione huffed and pulled her mother out of the store.

"Do you need it desperately?" her mother asked once outside.

"Not really but Rosie doesn't react at all to muggle medicine and she gets a cold quickly. Pepper Up works nicely and if I could get the ingr..."

"Ingredients?" her mother completed the word.

"Yes, ingredients," she shook her head and sighed. "We have to go to Knockturn Alley."

"Knock...but didn't you always say that you didn't really like to go there?"

Yes – yes, of course she had and she did not. And no respectable person ever ventured there – but she had been curious for a while now, actually. She knew Snape owned an apothecary there. And she had really wanted to see it – had wanted to for quite some time but – there would have been talk if she had been seen going there.

Now, with her mother – and the respectable apothecary Luculent out of potion and ingredients for her son's upcoming cold – she had the perfect excuse. Nobody could talk about her then. Nobody.

She smirked inwardly. "I need it and besides – it's not that bad."

xx

Ophelia was happy.

She had observed her father closely, standing next to him, when he had ordered the woman in the shop around. The best shop in the world, she thought. There were those lovely coats (or cloaks? Sirfather called them robes or something) hanging from thin air and he had told the woman to pack three. Two in normal black – only black – and one a bit shinier, with something almost furry on the edges. She knew that she would never take it off. Never.

Then, there were suddenly skirts and dresses and Sirfather had just pointed at three or four different ones, black and grey and one in dark blue and then, suddenly, blouses and jumpers and he pointed as well.

"Self-sizing?" he asked – and this was the sir-voice – that he always used when he spoke to other people. She had, oddly, never heard him use the Sirfather-Voice when he spoke to anyone else but her.

"Yes, sir," that woman nodded her head and he put the normal voice on.

"Shoes."

Suddenly, there were a lot and a lot of different shoes in front of her and Sirfather and he pointed again – though – there was one pair. They were – black – and had shiny, silver buckles. She looked a little closer and saw that there were little snakes on the buckles. Snakes were nice. She thought. They were pretty and hissed so nicely.

Ophelia knew that she wasn't the most courageous, brave girl in the world – on the contrary. If she had been brave, she would have said that she did not like Madame Sylvie and the men that were sometimes there but she never had. Or she would have told Mummy that she did not like sugared porridge. She would have slept in her own bed – despite the fact that there might have been Madame Sylvie under the bed.

No, she wasn't brave but those shoes – they were – like a dream and she carefully tugged on her Sirfather's sleeve.

"Yes?" he looked down almost immediately and she had to bite her lip. She couldn't ask for those shoes. No. "Is there a pair you like?"

She bit her lip further and he groaned – and bent down. "Which one?"

"That one," she said voicelessly and pointed at the beautiful black shoes with the shiny silver buckles with the snakes on them.

"You have a little Slytherin there already, sir," the woman said in a weird voice and Sirfather sneered.

"Obviously. Them too. And six pairs of black, thick woollen tights. As well as the usual underwear for girls."

She looked up at him and she could not stop her smile and she could not help herself and hugged his legs again and whispered many thank yous into his trouser leg when she suddenly felt his two strong arms lifting her up. He picked her up again!

Shoes and skirts and dresses and robes and woollen tights and he picked her up.

She smiled at him and, because he, for only a short moment wore the third face, the content, happy face, she bent over quickly and kissed his cheek. It felt warm and smelled good and she never wanted to stand on her own feet again if he would always carry her. And she knew that she never ever ever wanted to leave her Sirfather. Always and forever wanted to stay with him.

Because – he was nice, he was kind, and he protected her and he was there and he smelled good and his cheek was warm and he did not push her away when she rested her own cheek against his and he had just bought her those pretty shoes and six pairs of woollen tights.