It was strange – to say the least – to see her so like himself. She wore the same face he did when she concentrated. And that she did as they were brewing the Pepper Up. Well, actually, he was brewing it, she was watching him, standing on a little footstool he had conjured. Otherwise there would have been no sense in letting her watch – if she did not see what he was doing. And the counter was high and she could only peek over the top when she stood on her tiptoes. And that – over a greater amount of time – was painful. He supposed.
So she watched the cauldron, her little brow furrowed and once in a while, he spared her a glance, looked at her – even though she did not notice since she was utterly focused on the bubbling Pepper Up. And stared – with the utmost interest.
He had a daughter. That realisation hit him hard. Yes, yes, he had admitted it to himself that he had had sex with a stranger – or almost stranger – unprotected (well, he at least, had worn a spell he had created after the war – protecting him from diseases – it had, so far, worked nicely and he had no doubt it would – and Ophelia was healthy as well. The Healer in Knockturn Alley that he had gone to with her had given her a clean bill of health – even though she was too small for her age) and from that – well, union – had come a child. So far he had understood that. And he knew that the tiny thing, especially with the way she looked like, was his offspring. Had called her his daughter in his head. But apart from her appearance, he had never understood.
She was – Ophelia was – his daughter. She liked, obviously, books, brewing and had the same – strange – characteristics he had. They shared so many things.
And somehow now – he could really grasp it. His flesh and blood. His. Forever. She would remain in his life. He would have her for keeps.
Severus Snape found himself suddenly standing behind her – holding her by the upper arms and with his foot, pushing the stool right in front of the cauldron and moved closely behind her – his stomach touching her back ever so slightly and he reached around her and took his stirring rod and – gave it to her.
"Can you stir in a clockwise movement four times?" he asked and she looked over her shoulder, puzzled.
"What's clockwise?" she asked, obviously unsure of herself and shy again and he made her hold the rod – and took her little hand in his, moving it. She still had to reach up, and stand on her tiptoes to being able to stir – and with a flick of his wand in his left hand, made the stool a little taller. Made it easier for her.
She looked at him again – and smiled – when he directed her movements in the cauldron.
"That direction is clockwise," he said softly. "As if you're pushing things away from yourself."
"And the other one is when I'm taking things to myself," she said shyly. "Not clockwise."
"Yes," he nodded, "but it's not not clockwise but anticlockwise."
She nodded and then – seemed to be completely focused on stirring, slowly, and at the liquid in the cauldron.
She was his daughter. And he would be able to teach her, mould her, influence her. And he would make her the greatest Potion Mistress that country had seen in centuries. She certainly was bright enough.
xx
She stifled a happy sigh. Happy – she was so happy. He taught her stirring. Clockwise – moving hand away from body – anticlockwise – moving hand towards body. That much was in her head already and she always wanted to learn thing. Learning was nice. And this, this potion was fascinating. It had changed colours, from bright blue to a light green almost instantly when she had stirred.
She had done that! She had made the watery stuff change colours – by her stirring. She had done that! It was absolutely fascinating. Absolutely interesting. Absolutely great. Especially since her Sirfather stood behind her so closely and she could smell him and feel him on her back and his warm hand over hers until she had understood how she would have to stir.
"That's enough," he said so gentle in his Sirfather-Voice and she carefully pulled the wooden stick from the liquid and it bubbled wildly instantly. And turned a deeper shade of green.
"It changed colour again," she exclaimed before she could stop herself.
"Yes," he said so nicely and leaned a little over her shoulder. "Just the way it should be."
"And I did that," she whispered very softly with fascination and leaned back against him. His stomach was soft, and his chest was a little harder and her back was against his stomach and her head against his chest and this time she could not stifle the sigh.
This was wonderful.
Nobody had ever let her do something by herself. Everyone had always told her that she was too small and too young and too dumb and too stupid. Not Sirfather. Sirfather didn't think she was too small and too young and too dumb and too stupid.
And he had bought her books as well – and that showed that he certainly didn't think her stupid or dumb. He had let her stir. He let her still stand there, right in front of the cauldron, with the wooden stick in her hand and let her watch. And suddenly, his hands were on her arms and he almost pulled herself a little closer, though she was already leaning so closely to him and it almost felt as if he was hugging her.
She looked up and back and smiled. "I like this, Sirfather," she whispered.
"Yes, and you did that," he replied kindly and squeezed her arms.
xx
"A child, how can anyone let a child be with him?" Hermione ranted. "And who's the mother of that child? It would certainly have been in the Prophet if he had wed someone."
"Hermione, this is getting tiresome," her mother sighed and unlocked the door and let her daughter in before she stepped in herself.
"No, Mum, I mean it. You saw how he was. He wasn't kind, he was an idiot."
"He was nice to me," she shrugged. "And his daughter obviously loves him and he loves her. Did you see how she hid behind him? You did that when you were that age. Hid behind your daddy and he would reach for you and hold you somehow. That was exactly what he did."
"He lives in Knockturn Alley. With a child," she argued.
"And? He took good care of her. Didn't let go of her hand until they were in his shop and she was behind the counter."
"I would never take the children there."
Judith Granger rolled her eyes. "You're prejudiced, darling. Quite simply prejudiced. You had an evil teacher in school and you'll stick to it. And it's absolutely none of your business anyway."
"He didn't change, obviously," she threw her hands in the air. "Do you know what a vial of Pepper Up usually costs?"
"No," she shook her head.
"2 Galleons. If you get a good prize, 1 Galleon, seven Sickles, three Knuts. Not, what was it? Thirteen," she continued to rant.
"Supply and demand," Judith remarked sharply. "And you storm in there and demand, darling. You weren't nice to him either."
"Why should I be?"
"Oh, I don't know, because you haven't seen him since the day you thought he was dead and because I know that you felt guilty for a very long time that you left him there and didn't check closer if he was alive or not. I remember you sitting here, in that very room," she pointed at the kitchen, "crying because you thought he would have brain damage because you didn't help him. I remember, Hermione, and it would do you good to remember that, too. He knows you were there and don't you think he's allowed a grudge?" her mother sent her an admonishing glare that went well with her rational voice and argument and turned around quickly. "Think about it," she added and rushed up the stairs, leaving Hermione to walk into the kitchen by herself.
"And besides," she heard her mother again, coming down the stairs, "I only ever heard Ron really complaining about Severus Snape. You called him a hero, Harry did, as far as I can remember and it was only your husband who complained and whatnot. Called him a git. Not you. You let yourself be influenced by your husband and frankly, Hermione, I do not like that," she said calmly, then walked out again. Quickly.
No, it was not true. Yes, for the first year or so after the war, she had admired what he had done – all those years play-acting, spying, never once slipping, even killing Dumbledore on his own orders.
But then, he had seemed to embrace his dark side again – and she had learned about the apothecary – that he sold almost illegal potions to horrendous prices and dragged people into addiction. And that was – not hero-material in her opinion in any case. This was – Severus Snape at his meanest.
And so what if Ron was of the same opinion? She did not let herself be influence by anyone. Not even Ron. No one. This was her own, honest opinion.
Even if he had a daughter now, and probably a wife somewhere tucked up - or, more likely, downstairs. Probably on a leash.
But the girl – the girl had been cute. Sweet. And obviously really trusted her father. Polite. Quiet. And she did look like him. And he had – really – put a protecting hand on her shoulder. Or maybe it was a pushing, mean hand. She wasn't sure.
She would – go there again. Check on the child.
"And you better apologise," her mother yelled from upstairs, "if you ever want to look into his eyes again."
"I didn't do anything wrong. He began the meanness," she yelled back.
"What are you, Hermione? Five?"
"Maybe," she muttered, "Not even close!" she shouted.
"Then go back tomorrow or I will," Judith cried and all Hermione heard upstairs was a bit of rumbling.
She would most certainly not go back. At least not so soon. Had absolutely no intention of seeing him again and she could not imagine him wanting to see her. No, she would not.
And the good thing was – her mother had no way of getting to Knockturn Alley without a witch or wizard by her side.
xx
Judith Granger still grumbled hours later after she and her husband had gone upstairs to bed. She was mad at her daughter – a thing that well – happened sometimes. Hermione could be too stubborn sometimes and too good at heart. Didn't give anyone a lot of slack. Another reason why Judith sometimes wondered why their marriage had lasted that long.
"Stop it, Jude," Jonathan rolled around and eyed her suspiciously.
"Stop what?" she huffed.
"Your sighing and huffing and moaning. And thinking about it. You know what she's like. She'll complain for a bit and then she'll calm down and apologise for the shouting."
"This is not about the shouting," she argued. Well – they had only shouted a bit. After the children had been in bed. About stubbornness and unreasonableness and the fact that she could jolly well see Severus Snape and his daughter whenever she wanted to or not. It had been brief. But – clashing of tempers.
He sighed and turned the light on his side back on. "She's unbalanced at the moment and if you say that she adopted Ronald's view on this – whatshisname – then that's probably just sentimentality."
"Sentimentality? That's rubbish," she huffed again. "She sees what she wants to see and that poor man, yes, he was impolite and scowled but only after she called him Professor Snape."
"Why would that make him impolite?"
"Probably he doesn't want to be reminded of the time when he was a teacher, probably, he's just a stickler for manners. I tell you, he was perfectly nice to me. A bit short, yes, and he said that I'd misjudged him, but Hermione didn't, probably couldn't, see the way he looked at his daughter when she was looking at him when I asked for her name. It was tender. It was kind. It was the look of a father looking at his daughter. It was the same way you sometimes look at Hermione, even these days, when she talks to you. And I don't understand, why she insists on him being evil just because he loved a woman."
"Pardon?" he asked, clearly not understanding.
"Hermione told us, remember? He turned spy because he loved Harry Potter's mother. Because she was killed. And he loved her until – I don't know how long – but Hermione said he loved her until he – seemingly – died. A man with that capacity to love..."
"That's just obsession," he replied.
Judith Granger huffed and rolled away from him. "You're like her. She said the same thing."
"Well, since the woman was dead..."
"That's the point. It's romantic. It's true. It's lasting. It's horrible, yes, but it's also horribly steady and horribly lovely."
He sighed and moved behind his wife, wrapping her in his arms. "And you're terribly, horribly romantic."
"Mrgh," she replied and rather uncomfortably, crossed her arms over her chest and pushed him back.
"Jude, don't get mad at me. You know I'm an insensitive clod. I know about teeth and know that I love you but other than that...no."
She smiled despite herself and turned to face him. "All I said was that someone like him has to have a great capacity to love and I saw that when he interacted with his daughter. And she only sees the teacher, you know? That is what I think is wrong. She sees the professional being, not the private man."
"Maybe he doesn't want her to see the private man. Do you want Mister Warren to see you like this?"
She rolled her eyes. "No, of course not. Leering old bugger. But..."
"But I know – she didn't even try. And Mister Warren tries all the time."
"Not that again," she sighed. "Jealous, John?"
"Nope," he grinned. "I have you in my arms and he has to be content with a blow up doll."
"Oh John," she groaned. "You had to say that now, didn't you?"
He chuckled and kissed her briefly. "Yes. And your plan?"
"Plan? Oh – plan. Well, let's just say that I borrowed Hermione's owl earlier and will go to see her still-father-in-law in London tomorrow."
Jonathan Granger rolled his eyes. "You'll only be fighting with her again."
"Yes, but that man is interesting. And he should have a professional teeth cleaning," she blinked and snuggled into his embrace.
xx
She couldn't sleep. Just couldn't. No matter what Ophelia tried – not moving, not thinking, talking to the dog, not talking to the dog, the duvet over her body, one foot out of it, the other inside, or the other way round – she couldn't possibly sleep. First it was too warm, then it was too cold, then too warm again and her head was whirring.
Clockwise, anticlockwise, nettles and peppermint that were thrown into the bubbling liquid. And how Sirfather had shown her how to mash some things. How to use the mort-something and the pest. Or was that pester? It was nice and stony and very, very heavy. But she liked to crush and mash and mush leaves and other things in there. It was fun.
And then, he was always so close behind her and she had utterly enjoyed that feeling.
He was just made her feel safe and even though she really really really liked the warmth in her bed, she couldn't help but...and why not?
"Come, Fluffy and Cabby and Wormwood," she whispered and took hold of her cuddly, padding quietly out of her room and, across the hall, into his bedroom. The door was open and not only ajar had it had been before and Ophelia stood for a moment.
It was a nice room – as this was a nice flat. Much nicer than Mummy's or – yuck – Madame Sylvie's. Madame Sylvie's had those red light bulbs everywhere and pink scarves or something hanging over everything. And pink curtains.
"Ophelia?" Sirfather suddenly asked, and he sounded like she had never heard him before. Oh – she had not meant to wake him but apparently this was what she had done. He sounded tired and groggy and sleepy.
She said nothing – couldn't think of anything to say and just walked as quietly as she could towards his bed.
"Did you have a nightmare?" he asked and his voice really sounded gentle – he had never sounded so gentle before and she just wanted to hear that voice all the time. It was so low and she bet she could feel it when she pressed her ear against his chest.
She shook her head slowly and, with a questioning glance, looked at him. "Can't sleep, Sirfather," she whispered and her lower lip – even though she didn't want to – began to tremble.
He made a humming noise and sat up a little, lifting the edge of his duvet. "Come in then," he growled but it was a nice growl. And she had woken him. She would growl as well when she would be woken like that.
"Thank you, Sirfather," she whispered and lay down, and only noticed now that her Sirfather was sleeping in a t-shirt and underwear. Or shorts. She wasn't sure but her own cold feet connected with his naked thighs and he hissed.
"Girl, how long have you been out of bed? Your feet are freezing," he complained and she looked up fearfully.
"Not long," she replied and – since he made no move to stop her, pressed her feet against his very warm legs and her entire body closer to him.
And there was this warm feeling again, the lovely, wonderful, warm, cosy, amazing feeling when she suddenly felt one of his arms going around her and the other underneath her head.
She was hugged by her father! Sirfather – no, that probably didn't fit any more. He was no sir any more. She would have to think of another name. But not now.
Now, she was tired. Very, very tired and her eyes fell shut but there was one thing she would have to say before she fell asleep in her father's arms. One thing he should know.
"I love you," she whispered and didn't notice the nose pushed in her hair, smelling her, since she was already asleep. She didn't notice the quick tightening of arms around her and she didn't notice the disbelieving, surprised, shocked look on her Sirfather's face.
xx
Hermione paced her room – her old nursery. She had been wrong, probably, about Severus Snape. But maybe not.
And how the hell had he ever managed to get a daughter? What kind of woman was the child's mother?
She didn't know. Absolutely didn't know.
Would Minerva McGonagall know? Probably not. Hagrid? He – sometimes, ventured into Knockturn Alley. Harry.
She opened her window and whistled for her owl and sat down on her old desk – and wrote two short notes. One for Harry – one for Hagrid. Either one should know at least something about it.