Severus Snape had grown used to his daughter being a little less shy, being more demonstrative, hugging him a lot, and sometimes, during the night or in the mornings, crawling into his bed for a cuddle.

He did not cuddle. He held her, yes, sometimes stroked her hair and/or her back, sometimes even gave her a pat on the bottom when she stuck her icy cold feet between his knees. And when she fell asleep, he liked to run his fingers gently through her hair – like his, only, due to him, much cleaner than his. Much wavier since it was cleaner, much better smelling. He had made her a shampoo. Mild. Smelling of green apples. He liked the smell, and, when she was asleep, and didn't notice, when the world outside seemed not to exist and nobody knew he was doing it, he pushed his nose in her hair, had a strand wrapped around his finger and sniffed. It wasn't solely the scent of the shampoo, the green apples but something just Ophelia. A little of the apothecary, a little of the washing spell he used, a little of her soap (green apples mixed with cherry blossom. He had made that because she liked the smell and he liked the smell) and her. Essentially, his daughter smelled like his daughter.

And even though he would never admit this – not to her, not to anyone else – he knew that he enjoyed those minutes, hours, when he could watch her sleep, when she clung to his t-shirt and had her feet pressed against his thighs or between his knees and hair hair tickled his nose or his chin or his cheek, when she had her body pressed against him and sought the security only he could provide. And no, this was not his thought, not his expression.

It was hers. She said that she had never felt so safe in her life and protected. She told him. Again and again and again. And though this was another fact he would never admit – he liked to hear it. He liked her saying that she loved him.

The one thing in his life now, he knew, that he could rely on. The only person that always smiled at him. The one person that trusted him explicitly, implicitly. It was him she pressed against when she was surrounded by a lot of people, it was him that had to pick her up, shield her with his body when she had grown scared, by something he didn't know, when they had walked over the Millennium Bridge – towards the Globe Theatre. He had not been allowed to set her back on her feet until they had actually entered the Globe. And then she had clung tightly to his hand, had walked very closely to him, her shoulder brushing against his hip. But – she had listened raptly when he explained, when he told her about that theatre – about Elizabethan theatre. She had giggled when he had told her that man had played the girls' roles. She had listened in wonder when he had retold her some of Shakespeare's plays (he, as a person, had always preferred Marlowe – but maybe that was taking it all a step too far. He would explain Ophelia about him as well – when she was a little older) and had even asked for him to read her something.

He read to her. Every night for at least fifteen minutes until she dropped off. So if she wanted Shakespeare (and he would teach her to say it – Shipsbeer wouldn't do – had only elicited a few laughs from tourists – hyper-intellectual Germans, probably), she would get Shakespeare. Not everything – of course but the less bloody plays would do. Comedies, probably. Or maybe the histories – they had visited the Tower after all.

He lay and stared at his child, carding his fingers, once more, through her hair. Silky. Soft. Dark. He had ten more minutes before he would have to get up. Get up, open the shop, give Squiffy Mary Kelly her potion (even though – yes, Ophelia had made him soft and...well, it wasn't near completion anyway), and then brace himself for an assault of Gryffindors.

Even though – he still doubted whether Granger would actually bring her son to him. Or, much less, would leave him there. She would probably look around (as far as that was possible with her nose in the air) and would deem him and his apothecary unsuitable – and would take her son with her again.

And that would break Ophelia's heart. But – she could help with the potion, the new development, he was working on. And hopefully she wouldn't cry for too long if he distracted her well enough.

And suddenly, Severus felt his daughter stir beside him (maybe another nightmare. Apparently, he would have to find out more about her mother and that woman she had always left his daughter with. If he had known...) and closed his eyes quickly. She liked waking him. Even if it was sometimes painful or plain silly. Blowing into his nostrils. Pulling his eyelids apart with her little hands. Sitting on his chest and jumping up and down a little. She had even tried poking and tickling him – and he had been able to resist, not to give into the urge to cringe and flinch because he had been awake(when was the last time someone had tickled him? Probably his grandmother. Back when he was too little to remember. And Lily had. But only once.). It would not do for her to find out that he was, like her, ticklish.

And then there were methods that were solely her own.

A kiss for him. Anywhere on his face. Nose, cheek, chin (even though she did not like the stubble much), his eyelids, even and sometimes, she planted one of those rather wet, rather sloppy kisses on his ear. Which resulted in him hearing a whizzing sound almost all day long. He would turn his head today if he sensed her going for his ear – which, in all honesty, he doubted.

She was already jumpy and probably very excited about that afternoon and that send a pang into his chest. He did not want to disappoint his girl. And if Granger disappointed his girl – she had another thing coming. No matter how he would be able to achieve that. Nobody disappointed his girl. End of story.

No, that morning, she lay down flat onto him, chest on chest and stomach to stomach (almost anyway – but she was so tiny) and pushed both her index fingers in a nostril.

He swore if anyone would ever find out what his girl was allowed to do, he would have to use an Unforgivable. None of that would be leaked out. That was between him – and her. And she knew that, too. She knew if she told anyone that she would not be read to for a long time.

"Ophelia," he groaned and opened his eyes.

"Daddy! Daddy! Hugo's coming today," she screeched happily and he had to hide his grimace. She would be hurt.

"Ergh," was all he said and pulled her hands away from his face and threw her – as gentle as those things were possible – on the other side of the bed, made her bounce on the mattress and she squeaked.

"Daddy!" she tried to glare but failed and scrambled on her knees.

"No, Ophelia, Squiffy Mary Kelly is probably already waiting," he admonished a little and sat up. "No time today."

She sighed dramatically but smiled a moment later. "And Hugo's coming today!"

xx

She had found a flat. Only – she could not afford it. Moving would have to wait. Probably. Or she would have to wait until Ron understood the concept of alimony. Not for her – only for the children. That would then be enough to pay for a flat. One that she liked. Only, he didn't up until now. Reason? He was having the children every weekend (more like every other weekend because he was so busy – and, Hermione suspected – had found a girlfriend already) and the Wizarding courts were unused to the matter of alimony. It was not known. Probably divorcees made contracts with one another – she wasn't sure. As a matter of fact, she did not know a single divorced couple. Not really.

Oh well. She would deal with it – with him - somehow. But now – she dug her head deeper into the softness of her pillow – she had something else to consider. To agree to have Snape watch her baby had been utter, sheer madness. And yet, unfortunately, her Gryffindor-mouth (honestly – it had only worsened during her marriage with Ron) had run away with her again and she had told Hugo. And even now, she saw the shining eyes of her son. He was looking forward to it. And Rosie's "He will not bug me an entire afternoon?" had given her the rest. Naturally. But still – if she was being honest, she did not know that man at all. No, really. What was it that she knew? He was a potioneer, had been a teacher, had been a spy during the War, had loved Harry's mother obsessively, had almost died, had killed Professor Dumbledore cold-heartedly.

And she was supposed to leave her son with someone like that? Though – the cold-heartedness? She wasn't really sure about that. Nobody knew. Except probably him. And he would never tell anyone. Probably not even his daughter.

But – little Ophelia and him – that had been quite a sight. And he had treated her – like a father should treat his daughter. Loving. Gentle. Kind. He had listened to her. Had talked to her. Had let her talk. Quite differently from how Ron had behaved. He loved his children, yes, but taking them seriously? No. Letting them tell him things without interrupting or looking bored. Snape had looked many things – but not bored. No – interested in what she had to say. Listening attentively. Holding her hand. And that was – something Ron had never been able to do. Too focused on himself.

But honestly – him taking his daughter to the Globe? Tate? What was next? Buckingham Palace? Madame Tussaud's? The Tower? National Gallery? Windsor? Eton? Educating her in English Muggle Culture? Snape? The evil git that had followed the Pureblood-Maniac teaching his daughter about Shakespeare? Unthinkable.

No, in short, she did not know Severus Snape any more. And 14 years were a long time in anyone's books. People could change in 14 years. Not that that would probably change her mind about leaving Hugo there. She would observe for a while. And then decide.

"Mummy!" her door was rapidly pushed open and her Hugo stomped into the room, jumped on her bed and snuggled into her arms. "I'm going to visit Ophelia today, yes?"

She chuckled and hugged him to her. "Yes, Hugo, you'll go and visit Ophelia today."

"Yay!" he squealed and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Want to wear black today," he added and scrambled out of the bed – and ran from the room, leaving her sighing.

xx

"Daddy, when will he come?" Ophelia was, for the first time, not focused on the potion they were brewing. And maybe it was better this way. He had, for the first time in years, botched something up. But then again, it was something that would earn him a lot of money if it would work. And all of that just because his daughter could sometimes not stop talking about Squiffy Mary Kelly – and that she should not have to drink alcohol to forget.

Getting Squiffy Mary Kelly away from the alcohol – that would be the task of this potion. After that, oh well, she would, if all went according to plan, which it would, not feel the need, or the urge, or even the wish to drink any more. She could begin her life again. And find other employment.

And since he was a selfish bastard – if she had sobered up, and would remain so for a while – well, she had experience in selling things and with Ophelia and the way the business had picked up – he could do well with someone who was in the shop for him. But that was all rather hazy. First, he had to manage to actually brew the potion – and find out how Squiffy Mary Kelly was – sober. Then he could decide.

"Ophelia, either pay attention to the potion or go sit in your chair and read," he told her sternly.

"But Daddy," she complained. "It's Hugo! I'm going to play with Hugo."

"I know," he groaned. "You haven't talked about anything else today."

"But I'm happy," she argued rationally. "And looking forward."

He shook his head. "Go sit in your chair," he said, more angry at himself than at her. Usually, he never messed up potions. Not even new developments. Simple because he liked to do his homework before testing something new. Obviously there had been a mistake in his calculations (maybe because he had, in his frenzy, used a piece of parchment that Ophelia had drawn on. But he had been in a hurry to get it written down and since she was a prolific painter – and a good one – that was all there was).

"Bloody bugger," he muttered under his breath – not loud enough for Ophelia to hear and vanished the gooey mess. Lime green when he had calculated that it should be bright red. He would have to go over his notes. Write them out again. Calculate again. Check his ingredients. Double-check everything. And Squiffy Mary Kelly would be free of her addiction.

He looked at his daughter – and she sat quietly, more or less (she was humming, actually) in her chair and pretended to read. The book was, as it had been so often in the beginning when she had become his daughter, had become his girl, his Ophelia, turned upside down and she was in actual fact looking at the door. With a grin on her face. He turned his gaze to where hers rested and grimaced.

There they were. Bracing himself – he forced his face back into the indifferent mask.

He would just let them sit there, even if that meant conjuring another chair, and they would be good for him. Otherwise, he would send the Weasley brat right home. Though – was his last name Weasley at all?

"Hugo!" Ophelia squealed and jumped down from her chair as the door opened. She stopped in her tracks, however, and shot a questioning glance at her father. When he nodded slightly (what else could he do?), she let the book fall on the floor and ran to the door.

"Ophelia!" the boy squealed as well.

Two squealing children? In a serious apothecary? That couldn't be good for business. And couldn't be good for his head. A migraine was the last thing he needed.

"Mister Snape," Hermione Granger had come to the counter and looked at him. He could not really place what kind of look it was. Testing, probably. And he would let the children be. She did not, obviously, trust him, to look after her son. And he would prove her wrong. Even though – oh well – he had no idea how to look after two children. He had enough trouble with his Ophelia already.

"Miss Granger," he nodded curtly.

"Surprised?" she asked, smirking and he shot an evil smirk back.

"A textbook Gryffindor letting someone like me even in proximity of their child? Yes, you could call that surprised. Or a few other adjectives."

"Don't make me take him back with me," she hissed. "He was looking forward to this visit and judging by Ophelia's reaction at seeing Hugo, she was too. Or would you like to purposely ruin your daughter's joy?" she asked – challengingly.

He just smirked. "I close the apothecary at six. If he's not picked up until then..."

"He'll be ingredients for your new potions?" she asked, anger obviously gleaming in her eyes.

"I was actually going to say," he drawled, "that I will send him back through the floo but if you insist..."

She stared. And stared some more and he smirked.

"Daddy!" Ophelia suddenly squealed and dragged Hugo behind her. She had manners, he had to say – when she pushed him forwards and smiled proudly. "Daddy, this is Hugo, he is my friend."

"We've met," he still couldn't hide his smirk. It was – very much like his Ophelia, "Mister..." and then he lost it. The smirk. Weasley? Granger? Granger-Weasley? Weasley-Granger?

"Weasley," now Granger smirked for a second at him and he noticed that glimmer in her eye again. It wasn't actually a glimmer – it was a golden speck. One single one. In her right eye. Brown eyes – one golden speck.

"Mister Weasley," he pulled his eyes away from hers. "There are a few rules..."

"Ophelia explained, sir," he interrupted shyly. "No talking to strangers and not coming too close to caul-thingies."

"I see he's in good hands," Granger said and, an evil smile in place (which he didn't know where it came from), she kissed her son on the top of his head, she strode out of the apothecary.

Leaving him with two very young children. Who squealed and smiled and hopped on the spot.