She turned around sleepily and her arm sneaked around his waist as she snuggled to him from behind. She knew he was at least a bit awake when his hand came to rest upon hers and he tangled his fingers with hers. It was bliss when they had a little time like this in the morning. Just for a little cuddle -when neither of them had to get up immediately, when they had time for themselves.

She heard him groan – a familiar sound – and she chuckled softly and pushed herself up a little to kiss his neck. "Morning," she whispered in his ear, closely.

"Morning," he groaned back. Groans were the only sounds that came naturally to him in the mornings. Before his first cuppa. But he would always turn around on mornings like this and wrap her in his arms and take her in his embrace and kiss her forehead or her temple or her hair – depending. Or, like this morning, he would first push her unruly, tousled curls away, away from his own face, breathing, puffing to keep the strands away, before he dropped a gentle kiss against her eyebrow.

He groaned again and moved his hand to her hip and pulled her closer and she chuckled again when she buried her nose in the top of his pyjama. "When do we have to get up?" she asked softly.

"You woke me," he replied, "do you think I want to turn around and see what time it is?"

She chuckled again and pushed him on his back, glancing then at the alarm clock on his bedside table. "7.10," she said and made herself comfortable on him, her legs between his and her head on his chest.

"She'll be up already," he kissed her curls again and let his hand wander up and down her back.

"I don't care right now," she complained a little. "I want to stay right here."

"And she'll walk in again," he groaned.

"I thought you've taught her not to."

"Hmpf," he muttered, "she will have forgotten about this."

"I doubt she forgot anything you ever taught her," she laughed and snuggled closer, pressing her legs against him.

"You can't mean that when she's awake," he grumbled.

"Why not?" she smirked.

He rolled his eyes but before he could say another word, she had wriggled upwards and kissed him on the lips, smirking when she felt him respond in kind, when his tongue slipped into her mouth. It was a matter of seconds, when they were engaged in a deep, loving, sensual kiss and she pushed her hand underneath his pyjama top, stroking his chest, grazing her fingers over his skin.

He groaned, this time – for another reason as she rubbed her leg up and down and she pulled away and stared into his eyes. A surge of love rushed through her and she knew she had to tell him.

"I love you, John," she whispered breathlessly and touched him on his cheek, on his chest.

"I love you too, Jude," he whispered back before he made short work of her nightie and pulled it over her head and threw it far, far away.

xx

"When do we go, Daddy?" Ophelia asked impatiently, pushing her green beans and liver around her plate. It made him smirk, really. Granted, it had been a bit much, probably, to serve her liver and green beans for lunch, and yes, they would go, no matter what or how much she would eat and yet, but so far, she had been incredibly Slytherin in her ways and he was curious to see how far she would go to see her new friend. And she had already gone incredibly far. It was the first time, he had made her liver (since, well, he did not like it much himself – remembering all too well how his parents had always made him finish his liver and whatever it had been that he had not liked – and if he didn't – he would get it again for the next meal from his father. Even if it was breakfast and he would get nothing else but cold liver) and it was incredibly clear that she despised it as well. Her face was still too open.

But then again – she could read him well also. SO maybe it was their connection as father and daughter that made it simple for him to understand her. Whatever it was, she was – bravely eating. Even though she obviously hated it.

"Chew, Ophelia," he said suddenly when he saw her choking it down without chewing properly.

She nodded miserably but when she looked up – and into his eyes – there was cold determination. Something that he had not known from himself when he had been that age. But – maybe, he had not dared to do that. To have that look. It would have meant the belt in any case.

She was different. And she was absolutely determined to see her friend. He knew his gaze softened when he saw her putting another large piece of liver in her mouth, chewing it twice and gulping it down. And then a bean – chewed twice.

"You'll make yourself sick," he said gently but she kept her eyes on her plate and kept eating and a few minutes later – she was finished – when he was still fighting to get the liver into his stomach – and he was astonished. By her strength, determination, power to carry out something she had planned to achieve.

"Done," she said grimly and pushed the plate away from her. "Can we go to Hugo now?"

He knew that something was wrong with his face. Completely wrong. It had not felt this odd for a while. And he knew, by the shocked look on her face – that he could smile.

He smiled. Full of pride for his strong daughter, stubborn, fighting little girl. And his girl saw it. And smiled back – suddenly.

"You can smile, Daddy," she said and rushed around the table to inspect it more closely.

"Of course I can smile," he replied gruffly and it was gone again. As quickly as it had appeared.

"Do it again!" Ophelia hopped on the spot. "Please!"

He shook his head. "No," he replied. "Go and get changed and we'll go to this Weasley."

"Really?" she asked and hopped more and squeaked and bounced and hugged him and flew into his arms and hugged more and in a flash, she was gone, leaving a startled, proud Severus behind. Who could only shake his head. Smiled. Because of his daughter. Completely odd.

And he would have to see Granger and her parents and that brat and be in a Muggle house. And he had smiled – and that had shaken him. A little. It had, oddly enough, not hurt. Not at all.

xx

Jonathan Granger had only had appointments and no emergencies that morning. Only two and he was glad. That morning had – oh well. He loved his wife and her occasional wish for – things – in the mornings. Not that often but all the more wonderful for it. Peaceful. The perfect start to the day. In his opinion – despite the fact that they had been married for over thirty years, he still found he loved her more every day he was with her.

And with their daughter back home – and the grandchildren – it seemed it added another layer. Though he could not put his finger on it. Maybe because he was more at home – that he had cut back a little on the appointments, even if it meant people, who were not emergencies, had to wait longer. All those bleachings anyway – as long as the teeth were good – no cavities – nothing, so? He disliked those young girls coming in, trying to force him to bleach their teeth that he thought they'd be glowing in the dark. No, he did not like to do that and could jolly well cut back on that.

Maybe it was that – maybe it was the fact that every night, either Hermione or Jude cooked for him. That there wasn't always something out of a packet. That it was good food – and that the entire family assembled around the table and ate together. Yes, it had been sad that Hermione had that divorce. But lucky for them, he thought. And besides, Ronald and him – no – that boy had taken their girl from them. Had kept her from them. Had made her spent every...no, no need to cry over spilt milk. No use in that. It was over. And that was maybe why she was so reluctant to leave again.

And nobody would hear him complain. Not when Hugo was playing with his train set (non-magical) in the living room, when Rosie was sitting in their room reading, Hermione and Judith out to the shops to buy things for the dinner and he could read the paper – peacefully – in the kitchen with a cup of tea in front of him.

And – he knew – company coming. Though Hermione had said that she still believed that this Severus Snape person would not show up. Jude thought he would. And he – he wasn't sure what to think. But to be honest, he would use the chance. He would thank this man. For saving his daughter. Helping her and her friends. For almost giving his life.

Something his two women, both Jude and Hermione, had clearly not done yet. And that was wrong of them – but if he said something, they'd both be angry. And with an angry Jude – a morning like this was not possible. He smiled and took a sip of his tea. What a lovely morning it had been.

xx

White fence. Naturally. Trimmed lawn. House. Average.

"Is this where Hugo lives?" Ophelia asked, happiness in her voice.

"I certainly hope so," he replied gruffly and looked at her. Just to spite the sheer Muggleness (and he did not mind the Muggleness per se) he had told Ophelia to wear her robes and skirt and jumper and her silver-buckled snake shoes and he had not changed himself. Let those nosy neighbours that always lived in places like this talk about the Grangers. He smirked as they walked up towards the house – Ophelia's hand in his. He would not let go of her in such a place. Or anywhere.

"Daddy, look, there's a bell," she said in wonder. Of course – the girl had lived in the Muggle World for such a long time and now she was back after her brief stint with him. Door knockers were still new – bells normal.

"Ring it then," he grumbled and, with a look in his eyes, she dragged him forward and rang.

For a moment, nothing could be heard from inside and then – the boy's voice. Shouting something. And another moment later – the door was flung open (such were the post-war children. Completely careless. Not his Ophelia. Definitely not. She would get no bedtime story for the rest of her life if she'd ever consider opening the door that way) and Ophelia grinned and the boy grinned and suddenly, he did not feel her hand in his again and she had skipped inside with the boy. Without adult supervision!

"Hello," her heard then and a man – Granger's father, probably – came out from a room at the end of the corridor. "You must be Severus Snape."

He nodded sharply. "Good day," he said. Were they early?

"Just in time," the man said as if he could read his mind and walked towards him. "I'm Jonathan Granger," he added and reached out, shaking his hand. "Please do come in, my wife and my daughter are still out shopping."

He didn't know what to say to this – Granger – not on time? Was she aware that she would never allow her son and his daughter to play together after this? Not that he cared – but her son would. And of course, Ophelia. He found himself stepping into the house. Heard his daughter squeal happily and a sudden thump and he looked up.

"They probably discovered the train set," Jonathan Granger chuckled. "Come through to the kitchen, we'll have a cup of tea."

He still did not know what to say. He had planned to stay, yes, but close to Ophelia. Watching what she was doing.

"The living room is secure for children. I don't know how my Hermione did it but nothing can be broken and even if they jump on something, it will not fall over and hurt them. No need to worry."

Severus Snape was – puzzled. Completely. This man was a Muggle – he should not be able to know what he was thinking, feeling. He had his wand at the ready – inside his pocket – ready to hex him, blow him to pieces, should it turn out this was an imposter. Someone disguised as Granger's father but someone who meant harm to his girl.

"Don't worry," he said, looking over his shoulder and then walking towards the room he had come from again, "I know what it's like. I couldn't really let Hermione out of my sight when she was that age and she's rather like Rosie in that respect and read a lot. And kept to herself."

"I see," he said, completely stunned. Who was this man?

"Earl Grey? Darjeeling?" the man asked again and Severus Snape was not sure how he had made his way into the kitchen. Someone – anyone – to treat him this way? Inconceivable. Had not happened. Ever. In his life. Never. So open. So normal. So – friendly.

"Earl Grey, please," he found himself saying – feeling warm in the kitchen. It was just the kitchen that he had always thought a normal family would have. Warm, clean, a lived in feeling though – with a large table in the middle, six chairs around it, a kettle, various appliances that had not existed in his time as a Muggle boy, an Aga. Fridge. So normal. So Muggle. It struck him as so – average. That one of the – really (and he said that as the former Head of House of Slytherin) brightest witches of her generation – had grown up here seemed so – strange.

"There you go," Granger said and put a mug in front of him. A white mug. Normal. "Sugar? And you should maybe take those robes off. My wife overdid it with the heating again."

He was still sort of speechless but almost obediently, he slipped out of the robes and put them carefully on the back of his chair, the wand now stuck inside the sleeve of his frock coat. "Nothing, thank you," he replied. Or rather heard himself reply.

Had Hermione Granger told her parents anything about him at all? What he had done? That he was not to be treated like a normal guest?

"I'm afraid my women are rather always late when it comes to shopping. It's not my Hermione's fault – it's my wife. She always meets someone for a little natter but I'm glad that I have a chance to speak to you alone."

A loud, happy squeal from Ophelia (it was a noise like the one she made when he tickled her) pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Why?" he asked – his voice back to the normal, cold self.

"I wanted to thank you," Granger sat down opposite him, holding his mug of tea. "I know that my wife didn't and I know that Hermione didn't and I think you deserve it."

"Excuse me?" he asked – stunned again. What a day that had turned out to be. Ophelia eating liver and green beans without a word of complaint, him smiling, him being treated like a normal human being, and – now he was being thanked? A weird dream – probably.

"I mean it," the man opposite him was very serious. "I know that Hermione always complained about you in the early stages when she went to Hogwarts. Too stern, too unfair, too whatnot but later – after the War – before she got married, of course, she said that she had learned the important spells, the nonverbal spells from you. That you saved her life on more than one occasion. And I think back then, before she married that...Weasley, she would have wanted to thank you. As it was, that...husband of hers had more influence on her than we thought and I think she quite forgot. And I have not had the chance to talk to you yet, and I want to thank you. You brought my girl back alive. You taught her well."

To say he was shocked now would be – not enough. Thanks? Unheard of. And he had to say something now, didn't he? It was expected. "It was my task," he replied – voicelessly.

And Granger – he shook his head. "No it wasn't. And I just wanted to say it. Nothing more. So – change of topic. That daughter of yours is awfully sweet."

And still – that incredible feeling of shock in his chest. Maybe the squealing of the children, the shouting, the day before had somehow damaged his eardrum and he had not heard correctly.

No – his ears were fine. He had even talked briefly talked to Squiffy Mary Kelly that morning and had understood her slurring. Telling her that she would get two potions in the near future. His ears were fine. He had been thanked. By a Muggle. By a Gryffindor's father. By none other than Granger's father.

"I'm afraid her manners are still sorely lacking," he found himself saying, "she did not even greet you."

Granger laughed. "That's quite alright. That – Weasley – never even greeted people decently. No worries. She was probably just as excited as Hugo wa..."

"Hello!" came a shout from the door. "We're home."

"We're in here," he called back and a moment later, he found himself staring into the smiling faces of Hermione Granger and her mother.