"Daddy?"
"Yes, Ophelia?" he asked, looking over her shoulder into the cauldron. She always began that way when she had an important question.
"Why needs Squiffy always the potion in the morning?"
He knew the answer – and he could give her one in a sentence. Or maybe two. But it was no story to tell an almost five-year old. How did he explain that Squiffy was Mary Kelly, once a respectable woman working at the fashionable Finkle & Maurice in Dover – the biggest, most expensive Wizarding Department Store in all of Britain. People went to Dover just to go to the food hall of Finkle & Maurice and Mary Kelly had been, for a while, Head of that Department. A good income, a, rumour said, happy family. A kind husband (working in the men's department of Finkle & Maurice), a son, a daughter.
Then her husband had died, untimely, aged 43, of a heart attack. And that had been the beginning of the end. The son just out of Hogwarts and the daughter in her final year. She had not coped well with the death of Joe Kelly and when people had thought that she was finally on her way to recovery about three years later, tragedy had struck again – and had killed her son and his Muggle wife in a car crash, as well as her daughter, being on a visit, after three days of hoping and possibly praying, in a coma. The Healers had not been able to help. And neither had the Muggle doctors.
That had broken her.
After that – Mary Kelly had become Squiffy Mary Kelly. Had lost her job, had gone to London, and by now, lived somewhere in the Alley. Worked, every morning, just after she got her Sober Up potion, at Borgin and Burkes as a cleaning lady. And spent her money on Firewhiskey or some such thing.
He knew it was the wrong way to sell her the Sober Up potion cheaper than he normally would – but he did.
And Ophelia liked her. And was, naturally, curious.
"She lost her family," he said shortly and she turned around.
"Can't she find them any more? We have to help her look, Daddy."
He groaned inwardly. Of course she would misunderstand that. "No, Ophelia, she did not lose them, as in misplace them. They are gone where your mother is now."
"Dead?" she asked bluntly.
He nodded. "Yes."
"But why needs she the Sober Up then?"
He groaned again. Apparently, it wasn't so easy to make his child understand that losing someone's family could make people drink and drown in alcohol. "Ophelia, Squiffy Mary Kelly is very sad and the alcohol she drinks makes her forget."
"Why?"
"Because that is what alcohol is supposed to do. And because she cannot go to work drunk, she needs the potion."
"Can I get alcohol if I want to forget something?" she asked innocently.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I say so, Ophelia. Alcohol is not for children. And I do not drink either."
"Is there something you want to forget, Daddy?" she looked at him with her eyes large and gentle.
He frowned. Of course there was. Too many things – and those could not be drowned in Firewhiskey but resurfaced stronger when he drank – he remembered more clearly. That was why he didn't do it. "I think there's something everyone wants to forget," he replied softly.
"Yes," she nodded with conviction. "I want to forget Madame Sylvie and the way her bed smelled and everything. And I want to forget that Mummy wasn't as nice as you are." She smiled gently and hugged him around the middle, her little arms pressing against his sides and he – admired – his daughter in that moment. She had understood it immediately. And – had been the very first person who had said the right thing.
He wrapped his arms tightly around her. Just holding his girl.
"You're my girl, Ophelia," he whispered gently and, because he couldn't help himself, lowered his face to her head and kissed her hair briefly.
xx
Every time – she swore – every time he said that she was his girl, she knew that he really meant that he loved her. He just had difficulties saying it.
But really, she had only said the truth. She wanted to forget that she hadn't always lived with him. He was nice. He loved her. Mummy had said it once in a while but she had never felt it. With Daddy, she never heard it but always felt it. That was the difference. That was why she loved her Daddy and why she wanted to forget about her life before he had come for her.
She looked up at him and his face was close to hers – he had – again – kissed her head. One of the things she loved as well about her Daddy. He never made a big spectacle about kissing her. He just did it. Simple. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek back, grinning. Then turning his head with her hands while he still hugged her.
"I love you too, Daddy," she whispered in his ear and was – strangely – rewarded with a tickle.
He tickled her now.
"That's unfair, Daddy," she shrieked and giggled. "I was nice and you tickle." She really wanted to say more – but he knew exactly – the meanie – how to tickle her and where and she couldn't really breathe because she had to laugh and giggle so much.
"Life is unfair, Ophelia," he drawled and didn't even stop tickling. He had that smirk on his face but she couldn't really see it clearly. Her eyes were almost completely closed because she was being tickled and she had to laugh and that made her close her eyes. Mean!
But it was nice because – well, he never tickled her in the apothecary and if she was being completely honest, she liked it when he tickled her. A bit.
Suddenly, he stopped and she was finally able to catch a breath – and saw why he had stopped. There was a woman – and Ophelia faintly remembered her. She had been there before.
But this time – there were to children with her. Children! So there were children in Knockturn Alley.
A boy and a girl. The boy was about as little as she was, the girl bigger. Older. And staring around the shop. Staring at the ingredients and vials that lined the walls – the dark wood shelves that were there. But the boy – the boy stared at her.
"Sit on your chair, please, Ophelia," she heard her daddy say and he used his professional voice. It was so much colder than what she was used to when he talked to her but she knew it. And she knew to obey it. She jumped off her chair and climbed on the chair, and, automatically, took the book. Daddy didn't like it much when he noticed that she was listening to what he was talking with the customers about. So – she always pretended to read or look at the pictures in a book. And listened then.
But this time, the boy's eyes followed her and she didn't understand what Daddy was talking about with that woman anyway. Something about papers and lies and Gryffindors.
Looking at the boy was much more interesting. He had red hair (she didn't think this was possible but apparently, it was) and blue eyes and grinned cheekily. Ophelia frowned.
Daddy said not to talk to strangers. Not as long as he didn't allow it and he also said not to interrupt him when he was talking to another adult. But was another child a stranger? Or even if the child was strange – wasn't it more important that it was a child? And Daddy said not to talk to strangers because they might be dangerous. How dangerous could another child be?
But technically, she didn't know the child. The boy. The girl was still staring at all the different things in the shop. She had done that as well but by now, she was used to it and Daddy had explained most of the things that were on the shelves. It was old news to her. But to stare so much? That was a bit much, probably.
The boy still looked at her and took a step forward as soon as the woman, probably his Mummy, had let go of his hand and had moved to the other side of the counter, directly opposite Daddy. She tried to look down at her book – she really did – but the boy was much more interesting.
"Hullo," he said suddenly and she frowned a little more. She knew she looked a lot like Daddy when she did that (everyone said so) but she didn't mind.
So – that brought her, his hullo that was, back to her problem. Was a child she didn't know a stranger or just a child? Daddy had never said – so it was probably safe to talk to the boy. He couldn't really be angry with her if she did – he had never explained so she didn't know.
"Hello," she said back and looked back into her book.
"What's your name?" the boy asked and she looked up again immediately.
"Ophelia."
"I'm Hugo," he replied and kept on grinning. "Do you live here?"
Ophelia knew that especially those questions were dangerous. Or could be. Daddy had said. So she said nothing. Even though that was rude.
"I came here with my mummy. Is that your daddy? My daddy doesn't live with us any more. We live with grandma and grandpa now."
"My mummy is dead," Ophelia said – knowing that to tell this fact wasn't dangerous. Nobody could do things to her just because her mother was dead.
"What's dead?" the boy – Hugo – asked.
"It means, erm," she looked back into her book, then up at the ceiling, "that you're not here any more."
He nodded pensively. "Daddy lives in the house we used to live in."
She nodded back. And didn't know what to say.
"Is that your daddy?" he asked again. She knew he had asked before. But couldn't really decide whether to say yes or no. Or nothing. But then again, everyone already knew that Daddy was her daddy.
"Yes," she nodded a bit and spoke softly.
"He looks scary."
"He doesn't. He looks just like Daddy."
"But why is he wearing only black?"
"I wear only black," she argued. "Why you wearing only colours?"
"Mummy picked out my clothes this morning."
"Daddy lets me decide what to wear."
"I want to do that too but Mummy says I'm too young."
"Daddy never says that," she suddenly felt very proud of her daddy. He treated her like an older girl.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Almost five," she replied without thinking.
"I'm almost four. You going to nursery school as well?"
"What's nursery school?" she asked, the frown appearing on her face again.
"It's where you play and where you are in the mornings and in the afternoons," he explained and Ophelia felt a little put out. He was younger than she was and knew what a nursery school was. And she didn't. But it sounded a lot like an apothecary. She played here. Well, brewed but that was like playing and she was there during the mornings and in the afternoons.
"Here's nursery school," she replied.
"That's not a nursery school."
"Why not?"
"There's no other children."
She shrugged – even though Daddy didn't like it but he was still talking to the woman. "It's nursery school just for me. And Daddy plays with me every day."
"Oh," he said. "I want Mummy and Daddy to play with me every day as well but sometimes, they're busy."
"Oh," she replied and smiled at Hugo. Poor boy probably had a mummy and daddy just like her mummy had been. Poor Hugo.
xx
That was a sight she never thought she would see. Ever. In her life. And beyond that. Never. Really.
Severus Snape – tickling his daughter and almost smiling at her when she squealed and shrieked and giggled. It was something she had not expected.
And it shed a completely different light on the entire matter. On him. And his relationship to his daughter.
"Good day, Pro – erm, Mister Snape," she replied as kindly as she could – and hiding her surprise as best as she could.
"Good day," he replied back, his voice cold. As cold as she had known it and the slight smile, well, almost smile, had disappeared from his face immediately. "What can I do for you?"
"I came because of the allegations in the, erm, Daily Prophet," she replied evenly and felt very foolish for coming here. He had nothing to do with it and they could not change the fact what they wrote there. She was glad though, that she had at least cast a Disillusionment and a Notice-Me-Not Charm over herself and her children. "I do not know how they even had the idea."
"And you think I do?" he sneered.
"No, of course not," she replied immediately. "It's just that I cannot believe the lies they print."
"And one should think that you had experience with them printing lies," he arched an eyebrow.
"Erm, yes," she could not help feeling a little – well – flustered. It had been such a long time ago but that time had hurt just as badly. Or maybe even more. But that he remembered it – that much was – surprising. "So as long as you don't care, I mean..."
"Miss Granger – is it? - I do not believe you would care whether I care."
"Well, it's also your daughter that's concerned..."
"Ophelia is not allowed to read the newspaper," he replied sharply. "And she does not know what is printed about her."
"Of course not. I just wondered if you even know about it."
"I did."
"But you don't care," she snorted. "Of course not. But your daughter is in there as well. And you should probably..."
"Do not even think of finishing that sentence. Like your mother. The Gryffindorness of both of you," he drawled. "Interfering."
"Professor McGonagall said that you weren't here every time she tried to see you."
He smirked. "Is that so?"
"Yes," she understood. He had always paid attention to who was coming in. He was a good wizard – he had probably trained for a long long time to react quickly. Only – she had taken him by surprise. He had been so busy fooling around with his daughter that he had not paid attention. And she had come in. With her children. And had seen him like probably nobody had seen him before. She still could not wrap her mind around it.
Severus Snape a loving father. A loving, sweet father.
"I'm sorry I came here," she said softly.
"Is there something you want to buy then?" he asked suddenly.
"Erm – that depends," she stuttered slightly. "How much is the Pepper Up today?"
He looked around – and she followed his glance. Her Rosie staring in wonder at all the things on the shelves, and her Hugo – talking animatedly to his daughter. Ophelia. Just like him to give his daughter the name of a mad suicide. Shakespearean mad suicide. Unhappily in love. To give her an unusual name.
"One Galleon and three Sickles," he replied evenly and she couldn't help but smile.
"What if I take five?"
"Then it's five times one Galleon and three Sickles."
xx
He would obliviate her – though – with her children there that might be difficult. Especially since the children could not be obliviated if he didn't want to risk them suffering brain damage. And they – though the offspring of two of the most annoying students he had ever had – were innocent. He would sell her the Pepper Up, she would go and probably the rumours and the things in the paper would disappear. Even though that seemed unlikely when she came out of his apothecary with her children.
"I suggest you do not come here again if you truly want those news in the paper to disappear."
She blushed a little. Just a tad, really. "It was quite impulsive of me," she chuckled. "But I cast charms over me and my children."
He nodded. "How many?"
"How many what?"
"Vials of potion?"
"Oh – erm, five, please. They will be good until...?"
"The end of the year," he replied and put five in a little carton and then on the counter.
And that, somehow, was the end of it. Even though Ophelia had talked to her son. And he had told her not to talk to strangers. Though – oh well – she never saw any other children and was probably just enjoying the first contact with one since she had come to live with him. He could not really blame her for that, could he?
He would have to find children to play with. Everything was better than have her have contact with a Weasley. True – he did not have anyone he could think of. Not a single person who had children that his daughter could play with. But he would figure something out. He had always done that.
Only – why had she come at all? To tell him what exactly? To achieve what exactly?
He looked at Ophelia, frowned – and, with a motion of his hand, just a simple motion, she understood and in a flash, she was standing on her stool again and they resumed their brewing.