She knew Rose and Hugo were fine with her father and Miss Breaze in the dentistry. There were books, there were drills that especially Hugo loved and there were always x-rays that Rosie loved to look at. Hermione knew that they were well looked after and that she could, without any worry, go to Godric's Hollow.

Not that she really wanted to – since she suspected Ron would be there as well – but after signing the papers, after trying to work some more, she knew she had to find out if Harry did know something about Snape's daughter.

And if that could be combined with tea and cakes and sandwiches with him and Ginny, so much the better. She hadn't seen them since she had left Ron. Besides, she wasn't sure which side they were on.

No matter what people said, no matter that they had separated in relative peace, there were sides. And yes, she had left him. She was the guilty one. She was the one who had stopped loving him. Who had lost her love. She wasn't sure whether Ron had – no, she was. Really. He had as well.

And well, probably her mother had been right – or maybe not. But if she compared her parents marriage and hers – world's apart.

No, probably she shouldn't. Her parents were – made for each other. All through the years, ever since she had been a girl, ever since she could remember, her parents had been – tender – loving – towards each other. She couldn't even count the times she had seen them kissing somewhere. Even after thirty years of marriage.

She hadn't kissed Ron in months. And they hadn't snogged, like she had caught her parents doing a few weeks ago – on a visit – in their kitchen. Her parents. Married for over thirty years – 34 to be exact – snogged. And she – hadn't done that in ages. Probably some time after Hugo had been born.

She sighed – and apparated out of her parents' garden, straight to Godric's Hollow.

Why was it, really, that her parents had a better love life than she had? Or rather – why did they have a love life and she didn't? Not that she really wanted to know. But muggles could only close doors – and not use Silencing Charms. And closed doors worked only so far.

She shook her head and sighed again, looking at Harry and Ginny's house. Another perfect marriage. Three children. No fights, no silences – at least as far as she knew. The love not lost. It had worked out. Somehow. And she had failed at it.

Failed at the one thing she had always wanted. A steady, kind, loving home, a family. She didn't have it any more.

Lived with her children with her parents. Brilliant achievement.

She breathed deeply, and, not knowing what to expect, knocked on their door.

xx

Judith Granger, through three teeth-cleanings, one bleaching session and a fixed cavity, couldn't stop her bad mood. She had never been treated that way. Never in her life – and she was a dentist. People were scared of her and people disliked her. She was bitten, she was sometimes gagged at (yes, that was possible), she was sometimes spat at. She was used to being treated with suspicion. And even some sort of hostility. Yes – yes. But never like this. Never this rudely. And never without a reason.

Because, really, people who were usually not that nice to her had it coming. And she was doing something to them. Not to Severus Snape. She had just wanted to bring the girl a book. It couldn't possibly be interesting to sit on a chair in a shop all day long. She had just really wanted to be nice. Nothing more, nothing less.

And not to have that appreciated – not nice.

She was angry all the way home, all the afternoon at work, all the time she watched her husband play with the children, all the time she read Hermione's note that she had gone to visit Harry and his wife and all the time she prepared dinner.

"You're a very violent masher, aren't you, Jude?" John's soft, very familiar voice came from right behind her and she felt an arm on her shoulder.

"I don't like lumps in my mashed potatoes," she huffed and shrugged his hand off.

"And what got you in a mood?" he asked again, his arms sneaking around her waist.

"That former teacher of Hermione's," she huffed and kept on mashing the potatoes. "Where are Rose and Hugo?"

"Watching the telly," he replied. "They begged and I wanted to know why my darling wife is in such a bad mood."

"He's a rude man," she huffed. "I don't doubt that he loves his daughter but he doesn't love anyone or anything else."

"You don't know that," he replied and put his chin on her shoulder.

"No, of course I don't know that but the way he spoke to me...John, nobody has talked to me like that since Jean McDonald at University."

"Who was she?"

"The girl who had a crush on you," she pushed his hands away again. "You should remember her."

He shrugged. "I don't."

"And she was just like he was. Rude without a reason. You're nice to that person and the reply is just mean-spirited. Without a bloody reason. No reason at all. I wanted to bring his daughter a book. One of Hermione's and he threw me out."

"Why did you go there in the first place?" he asked and stepped away a little.

"I don't know," she spat. "I was interested. I told you. It's a mystery. Nobody knows he has a daughter. Nobody. Absolutely nobody. And you can't hide a child like that for such a long time. You know how often Hermione was in the papers after the war. This world is a curious one – a nosy one. They have everything in their Prophet. Everything. I don't doubt that it would have been in it. And the child was so – she's so tiny and so well-behaved and so quiet and I wanted to do something nice for her. And thought I could bring back the potion for Hugo."

"What potion? He's not sick."

"No, it doesn't matter. And I don't know why I'm getting so up in the air about it. I don't have anything to do with that man."

"You know how you are when there are children involved," he smirked and pressed a gentle kiss on her cheek. "You're lost."

She sighed – slapped his arm and turned back to mashing the potatoes. "Cottage Pie later."

xx

Both weren't hostile. On the contrary. Both Harry and Ginny were, well, nice. Both hugged her, and they didn't really talk about her failed marriage. No, they had just sat down, little Albus Severus (she doubted Snape knew – but oh well...she would get around to asking eventually) had made himself comfortable on her lap and they had talked about Harry's job, Ginny's job, her job. The children. Harry, well, he had sort of looked at her suspiciously for a while. He probably knew she was disliking his habit of taking ages to answer owls.

And yes, they looked happy. Very happy. Even touching each other from time to time. Every time either one of them got up to get one thing or another, there was a tiny touch. Nothing major. But just – intimacy.

Not what she had had for a while.

Oh well – she shrugged to herself – and decided to plunge straight in. Even though Al was still perched on her lap.

"So?" she asked suddenly.

"So what?" Ginny asked back – looking puzzled but Harry, Harry knew what she was talking about.

"I don't know anything. I hadn't even heard but when I got your owl..."

"What are you talking about?" Ginny asked again.

"Snape has a daughter," Hermione replied quickly. "And I asked Harry whether he knew about it."

"And I didn't. Until I got the owl and did some questioning in the, erm, registration office. He has a daughter, Ophelia Sophie Snape. Born April 14th 2007 in London. Lived with her mother up until about two weeks ago. He registered her then. Girl's a witch, the documents say. Nothing else. No name of the mother," he shrugged. "Since it was so clearly stated that she was a witch and already on the list for Hogwarts, I suppose her mother is a muggle. Otherwise, well, you know how it is."

"Yes, I know," she sighed. Children of purebloods, or a marriage between a pureblood and a halfblood were only marked specifically in the documents if they were Squibs, not magical. And those papers were magic themselves. They knew even before it manifested, really – and only rarely wrong. Thank all the deities known to men and women that they were not open to be viewed by the general public.

One more thing – this marking – she would have to fight against.

"Four and a half then? She looked younger."

Harry shrugged again. "I only know that and I will not look further," he said with finality. "He's made his life with his apothecary and I do not want to intrude on it."

"Snape has a daughter? A four year old? How?" Ginny asked, and lifted her son from Hermione's lap, sending him to play with his siblings.

"You know how," Harry rolled his eyes. "And I will not take part in this speculating. I spent too much time already thinking about this and researching. This is all I'll do." He got up and walked out of the room.

"Still not made his peace with him. Adores what he did but can't really say it out loud."

Hermione shrugged. "It's okay, I guess, doesn't matter. I was just curious and probably shouldn't have been."

"Come on, Snape has a daughter. That's huge. You're allowed to be a little nosy. What does she look like? Did you see her? Why were you there?"

Hermione sighed. "I went down there because there's a Pepper Up Potion shortage. Because of that epidemic in Wales and you know that Hugo gets a cold easily. So I thought I could just go there and see his shop and you know. And there she was. With him. Holding Snape's hand."

"A little girl holding Snape's hand," Ginny repeated astoundedly. "Really? Must have looked a sight."

"Especially because she was dressed all in black and she looks like him. Exactly like him. Well, not the nose but the rest. And they walked along Knockturn Alley together. I mean I would have thought everything possible in Knockturn Alley. Really, but not Snape and a little girl clinging to him."

Ginny grimaced. "I can't imagine really."

"You can go down there. She has a chair behind his counter and apparently sits there all the time," Hermione explained further. "He keeps her in the apothecary."

"Keeps her?"

"Well, what else."

"Stop it, you two," Harry stepped back into the living room where they sat. "He deserves happiness and he deserves to have a child without being made a spectacle of."

xx

Daddy didn't fit. Father didn't fit. Dad didn't fit. Papa didn't fit. Pa didn't fit.

And she didn't really know any more names for fathers.

And she wasn't sure what his first name was. Sev'wus or something. Sevrus maybe. Snape was his last name. Like her last name now. He had explained that she was Ophelia Snape when he had picked her up from that aunt in that strange place who had picked her up from Madame Sylvie's place.

Before that she had just been Fiffy. Didn't know if she had a last name. Mummy had never said.

Mummy. The logical other form was daddy.

She sighed and stretched out a little. He had put her in the bath. Again. And had said that he would come in to help her wash her hair. And she really really really appreciated that. The last time, she had tried alone and all the soapy stuff had run into her eyes and she had to cry a little. And it had burned. So maybe, if he did, it wouldn't burn so much. Because, really, she liked her hair if it was washed. It wasn't that heavy and didn't feel so dirty and didn't hang into her eyes as much.

And he had said that he would do it. And he, Daddy, always kept his promise.

She still wasn't sure whether Daddy was the right word. She would try. Maybe. And see if he liked it as well. And if he didn't – his face would show it – and she could go back to Sirfather. She would try. And if Daddy didn't fit – then she would think of something else and use Sirfather in the meantime. Yes.

She smiled at her three-headed dog that was sitting on the closed toilet seat and watched her bath before she picked up the soap and clumsily tried to wash herself.

She had enjoyed that day. Well, apart from that giant who had looked at her so intently and that woman with the book. But afterwards – afterwards was great. There were no other people in the athopecary and he had shown her how to peel flobberworms and she had been allowed to stir that potion again and it had changed colour again and he – Daddy – had stood behind her again and had helped and she had sort of snuggled up to him. Well, she had pressed her back against his stomach and she really liked that feeling.

He always knew how to make her feel good, how to make her smile and happy and feel protected and safe. He let her sleep in his bed.

Mummy had never allowed that. But her bed had smelled bad as well. A weird smell. And that perfume. And she always had to sneeze. And Mummy smoked in her bedroom and she didn't like smoke.

It was nice to sleep in his bed and she wondered – no – she didn't wonder, she made the plan of not being able to sleep that night again. So she could cuddle with him again in his bed. Which smelled good, was warm and cosy and wonderful.

She smiled and turned on her stomach and closed her eyes and dived a little under the warm water.

xx

"Ophelia!" he said loudly – his voice sounded a little odd – when he saw her with her head under the water.

Oh no, he had left her alone in the large tub in his bathroom and she had drowned. He had known it was too deep. He liked his bathroom. It was airy, it was light, it had white tiles, a white tub, a white toilet, a white sink and it had two windows. Real windows, not enchanted. A little cupboard for potions and his toiletries. His razor, his comb, his aftershave.

But it was a large tub, too deep for such a small girl. How would he explain to anyone that he had let his daughter drown?

He tore towards the tub and knelt down in front of it immediately, pulling her up.

"Hello, Daddy," she grinned and wiped the water from her eyes and her hair out of her face.

"What did you think you were doing?" he asked angrily.

Her eyes went large and wide and she bit her lip. "Looking under the water," she said in a small voice.

He knew he had to take a deep breath before he did anything, said anything. He had scared her enough already. But – what had she been thinking pretending to have drowned?

She was his duty – it was his duty to keep her safe and well and healthy and protected. It had nothing to do with worry of her well-being, it was just that it was his job.

Probably.

"Ready?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and steady.

"For what?" she asked, still seemingly a little afraid of him being angry.

"Washing your hair, girl," he drawled and took the shampoo vial in his hand.

She nodded – and a smile appeared on her face again. "But..."

"But?" he asked. "Please speak in complete sentences."

"Not in the eyes?"

"No, not in the eyes," he replied immediately and carefully, since he had never done it before, poured a bit of the self-made liquid from the vial onto her head, put it down again and, slowly, moved his hands to her little head, his fingers onto it and she looked up in that moment and he realised that she had not been afraid of him.

He didn't need any Legilimency for this. Her face was open like a book to him. She was afraid, yes, but not of him. She was afraid of doing something wrong. Making him angry by doing the wrong thing. Disappointing him, probably.

And quite suddenly, washing her hair was very simple. It just came to him.

Even though – the warm glow in his stomach irritated him.