"Yer 'Ermione's mother, aren't ye?"
"Uhm, yes," Judith replied, staring up at the very hairy, very tall, very broad man – and remembered. "You're Hagrid. From Hogwarts."
"That I am, ma'am," he bowed his head. "What brings yer here?" he pointed at the apothecary – in which Severus Snape was holding his daughter closely to himself, obviously consoling her somehow. With his hands gently rubbing up and down her back. And Hermione thought that man couldn't love – really – what utter rubbish. Of course he could. Everyone who saw this would realise. He held the little girl so tight and kissed the top of her head and soothed her. Just like fathers in general – those loving their children – did.
"I, erm, my grandson is a little ill and he needs that, what's it called? Pepper Up Potion and the apothecary in Diagon Alley is out."
"I heard," he grumbled. "Hogwarts going low as well."
"Really?" she asked with a smile and knew that she had to, somehow, get in before this hairy man did. Needed to witness this father/daughter bonding more closely. "Excuse me," she simply said then and stepped past him, to open the door.
"Lemme help ye," he said immediately and held it open for her and she had to admit to herself that she wished she had trained her facial muscles a little better. It was usually simple – wearing that mask at work and she could grimace – at least with her mouth and nose – as much as she wanted. But she could not hide the fact that she didn't particularly like to come into the shop with a Hogwarts teacher. Or staff. She wasn't sure which. Couldn't remember. But she most certainly could not imagine Severus Snape, after all she had heard, being on friendly terms with someone from Hogwarts.
"Thank you," she smiled sweetly, or tried to and it might have come across as a little fake but he did not seem to mind at all and grinned back.
"Mornin' Snape," he boomed behind her and she couldn't help but roll her eyes.
"Good morning, Mister Snape," she said gentler, "good morning Ophelia." She looked over – and the girl still clung to her daddy. Tightly. Her face buried somewhere – her black hair disappearing, not visible over his black clothes. And her black clothes.
"Ophelia?" Hagrid asked.
She watched interestedly, as Severus Snape got up, his daughter clinging to him, wrapping her legs automatically around him. It was just as Hermione had always done with her daddy. Obviously, no matter what, this girl, Ophelia, was a daddy's girl. Just as Hermione had been. Or still was. A little.
He – Severus Snape – merely nodded his head and sat her on the chair, whispering something to her she didn't hear, then turned to them.
"What is it you require?" he asked coldly.
"Is it true y'have a daughter?" Hagrid asked – immediately.
"Obviously," he drawled and Judith Granger knew an opportunity when she saw one. And that was it – the girl looking at her, remembering her, and she pulled a large picture book from her handbag.
"Hi Ophelia," she said softly, ignoring Snape's glare and Hagrid's astounded expression (and a sort of gurgling noise). "I brought you something."
The girl – merely shook her head.
"It's a book that my daughter had when she was your age," she bent down to Ophelia. "Want to take a look at it?"
She shook her head again.
"What are you doing?" Snape snarked.
"I brought this for your daughter," she replied, standing straight once more. "It's an old book of Hermione's and I thought your girl would enjoy it." She could glare as well – just so he knew – and she did.
"My daughter has books."
"Snape, when didya get a daughter?" Hagrid asked.
xx
He wanted those people out of his shop. That Granger woman was just as interfering as her daughter, bringing his Ophelia books – as if he couldn't afford to buy her some. As if he didn't know what she needed.
And Hagrid. If the entire Wizarding World had not known about his having a child, they would surely do now. Within the next half hour or so.
"Either buy something, both of you, or get out of my apothecary," he threatened silkily, in the voice he knew made most people – well, tremble.
And the Granger woman – nice as she had seemed the day before, glared. "I came to bring your daughter a book. Nothing more, nothing less."
"She does not need this particular – or any other book from you. She has books."
"I have nice books," Ophelia piped up. "And Sirfather said not to take anything from strangers."
For a moment, he could not help himself and looked, almost proudly, at his daughter. Yes, she had understood. She would survive. She would be tough, she would make her way into the world. One day. Not yet. But she would. When she was grown up. Older. A lot older. She would. He would help her but she had grasped the basics.
Do not trust anyone (well, of course she trusted him but he was her father, after all, wasn't he?) and do not take gifts. From anyone. Not if you don't know what that might entail.
And still, she was a little girl. She was four and a half. She was a baby. She had cried in his arms. There were still traces of tears all over her face. Just because she had not wanted to leave him.
Did not want to leave him.
"Apothecary's closed," he said suddenly, spinning around looking at his two customers.
"Excuse me?" Judith Granger asked.
"It's closed," he repeated slowly – even for her to understand. Mother of a Gryffindor. He knew where Hermione Granger had inherited that from. Clearly.
And he wanted them out. Wanted to brew in peace. Have his shop invaded by cruel, drunken, weird, dunderheaded types. Those that usually came in. He could deal with them.
But the revenge? Not as easy as it should have been. Not as satisfying with Ophelia sitting there, looking, frankly, even more scared of Hagrid and the Granger woman than of anyone else, even Squiffy Mary Kelly.
"Snape, I need flesh-eatin' slug repellent," Hagrid said slowly. "Tis that time of year again."
"Fine," he spat and had a vial in his hand within seconds. "You know how it works, no need to ask. Seven Galleons."
xx
Snape was never, not as a rule, personable. He wasn't nice. He wasn't one to chit-chat with his customers. He made the potions, or in this case, a concentrate, handed that to you, wanted the money and that was all. But that rude?
No, Hagrid could not remember him ever being that rude. Brisk and short and sharp. Rude? Not really.
"'ere ya go," he had the money ready in one of the many pockets of his coat and put it on the counter. "She's a nice young girl, she is," he nodded towards the quiet little one, sitting stiffly, almost scared, on her chair. "You'll say when yer need help," he simply said – couldn't think of anything better to say and turned around, the vial with the slug repellent shoved deeply into his pocket.
He had thought that maybe, just maybe, Hermione's mum would have been smart enough to leave as well but when he looked back inside the clean window, she was still standing there, a large book in her hands and he walked away, not sure what to tell the Headmistress and everyone else.
xx
The lady had been in the day before. She remembered that. And she remembered that Sirfather had said that she could say hello. And tell her her name but to take a book from her?
That would be like stealing.
At least, Mummy had always said that when she had merely looked at some of the things on Mummy's dresser. There were those funny little crayons that she used to make her eyes black around the edges and those that made the lips red or pink. And there were little pots of colour in them that Mummy usually put on her eyelids or her cheeks and sometimes, sometimes Ophelia thought that that was too much. That Mummy did not look like Mummy any more. But different.
So, once, Ophelia remembered clearly, she had climbed up the chair that stood in front of the cupboard with the mirror where Mummy stored those things. And they were all lined up perfectly. And actually, Ophelia, who was still Fiffy by then, had wanted to draw her a picture. There was never any paper around but she thought that maybe, with one of those crayons, she could draw on the mirror. Then Mummy would see it immediately when she got up from her nap.
She had been extra-quiet but then, Mummy had stood right behind her and the long, painted fingernails of one of her hands had dug into her shoulder painfully and Ophelia, who was still Fiffy by then, had yelped in pain. She hadn't even started on the picture. She had just opened the red crayon that Mummy used for her lips.
"Taking what don't belong to yer is stealin', young lady," her mother had said and Ophelia, Fiffy, had ran away from her mother's room. And had never managed to draw her a picture.
And that here was the same, wasn't it? Well, the woman had wanted to give her the book, but still – it wasn't hers. She hadn't paid for it. Or rather Sirfather hadn't paid for it and she had said that the book had belonged to her daughter.
That would be stealing from her daughter. Whoever that was.
And Ophelia did not want to be a stealer. She didn't.
She turned to her father, her eyes wide and really didn't want to run to him again. She was a big girl already. Almost five. And with almost five, girls did not need cuddles all the time.
That was what Mummy had said. But Sirfather, he always cuddled her. And protected her. And made sure she was no stealer, even if she didn't mean to be one.
Ophelia bit her lip hard and suddenly, the decision whether to run to Sirfather or not was out of her hands when she felt him next to her, his hands gently touching her upper arm.
"I think you better leave. You're scaring my daughter," he said in his evil voice. But it wasn't directed at her. It was directed at the woman. The one who wanted to make her a stealer.
The woman than made a face, "I only wanted to be nice. My daughter thinks you're incapable of love. I don't think so. I think you just don't want to seem weak in front of anyone for expressing love. But that is your own cup of tea. If you can't even recognise niceness, well, then I bid you good bye. And good bye, Ophelia. I'm sorry you didn't want to look at the book."
Ophelia bit her lip again and leaned a bit more against her Sirfather. Didn't they understand that she did want to look but couldn't since she didn't want to steal? Didn't they know what stealing meant?
"Good bye, Missus Granger," Sirfather said and made his mean face – until she had closed the door behind her.
"Let's brew, Ophelia," he said then and his voice – his voice had changed immediately. It was kind again. And nice. And her Sirfather's voice and she just smiled up at him, knowing that she was safe with him.
That he would not let her become a stealer or a liar or any of the other bad things that Mummy always said she would be when she was grown up.
Sirfather took good care of her.
Even if she really needed another name for him.