Severus Snape – sitting in her parents' kitchen – sipping tea – chatting with her father? That was odd – to say the least. But she could not really imagine that he felt any less – odd, drinking tea with her father and her mother, despite everything, smiling and shaking his hand and pouring herself and Hermione a cup as well before she stored away all the things and pushed her daughter – her own flesh and blood! - less than gentle on one of the chairs. She had listened, in the meantime, to her father talking. About her as a child and more than once, a groan was threatening to escape her throat.
Nobody – least of all Severus Snape – had to hear the story when she had picked flowers from the neighbour's and had brought them to her mother. And yet it seemed, her father – her own flesh and blood! - delighted in telling this story. To everyone – whether they wanted to hear it or not. The entire Weasley family had heard it. Harry. Professor McGonagall. Hagrid. Every other member of their family (including dotty Aunt Mildred – who loved to tell it to other people as well). And it wasn't even that big a deal. She had been 2. And had wanted to bring some joy to her mother. And those had been the nearest flowers. Flowers brought joy. What had she known that those were prized English garden roses? At least she had not bled to death from those silly thorns. And it had been a nice bunch of flowers.
And nobody had told her.
She smiled secretly. It seemed she was really getting over Ron if she could smile about this now. Ron had first not understood that there was such a thing as prize-giving for flowers (no such thing in the Wizarding World, it seemed) – and when he had understood, he had spent days, laughing about it. And about her.
She had been little. And she thought those smelled nice and looked pretty. It had been hard work, getting the flowers away from the bush. But she had managed, with fingers, hands, teeth.
And Mum had been terrified and shocked. Poor Missus Walter's roses. Poor them for probably having to pay for the damage done (Mum knew as much about flowers, and roses, as she did. Close to nothing – even though – roses were used in various love potions and healing draughts. But to actually grow them herself? No, she could not possibly. They'd be dead after two days. No green thumb found with the Grangers).
But really – was she getting over Ron? So quickly?
She wasn't sure. The odd throbbing in her chest had lessened. The feeling of guilt had not. She still felt it. Guilty towards Ronald for leaving him – and towards her children for making them miss their father.
Plus – Rosie had confessed. Just the night before. Rosie had stated clearly that her daddy always said that he missed them. Missed Hermione. Not that she could imagine that if the rumours were true and he had found a nice girlfriend that was somehow related to a cousin of Molly's. A nice, homely girl. That's what the people in the Ministry had said. Worked part-time in a store for clothes in Cardiff.
And was probably willing to give it all up for a man.
Not like her.
And, looking at the man opposite her – he had given up nothing for his daughter. Even though the poor girl's Mummy was dead (said the Ministry records at least). And he had let them play in the shop – without a nanny or a minder. There had been no one but him. Why – why should she give up work (for longer than necessary) if single fathers didn't?
Single? Well, technically, she didn't know that he was single. But she knew someone who would know. Smirking slightly, she got up and walked to the kitchen door – towards the living room where she could hear them play.
"Oh, Hermione," her mother held her back suddenly. "Please stay here and entertain Mister Snape for a while. Your father must look at the, erm, gas cylinder in the, erm, car."
"I just wanted to check on Hugo and Ophelia," Hermione turned and looked at her mother – seeing through this little charade of hers. Her father would not even find a gas cylinder if it were put right in front of his nose. Which it probably was. Hermione didn't know herself what exactly that was in any case.
"We'll do that," her father said levelly. "Oh, and Mister Snape, please don't leave before we come back. There's a secret about fatherhood that I have yet to tell you. Without nosy women listening in."
xx
He felt a slight push on his back and turned to glare. "Very smooth", he hissed and without waiting for an answer, he peeked inside the living room.
Both children, his red-headed Hugo and the dark, black-haired Ophelia were sitting on the floor, playing with the train – and – letting two trains run towards each other. Until they crashed. John raised his eyebrows and chuckled until both of them looked up gleefully. "Look, granddad, we played train," Hugo said proudly.
"Yes," Ophelia nodded. "And now we have to heal all the people before the trains can run again."
He chuckled again – Ophelia was awfully sweet. "Then keep on healing and crashing. Your Daddy, Ophelia, and your Mummy, Hugo, are in the kitchen should you need them."
The children nodded and he watched for a moment longer as they were immersed in their play. Ophelia had understood magic very well, he thought. She waved her hand, with an outstretched finger over the trains – and the probably imaginary people in them, and grinned at Hugo. "We can crash again," she said solemnly. "They're all still alive."
xx
He knew, technically, that people were different when they were at home. Nobody but Ophelia had ever seen him in his own home and he planned to keep it that way. He was different at home – shed the robes and frock coat as soon as he came into the door but nobody but Ophelia knew that.
Granger there was different as well. She seemed to enjoy being there, albeit very quietly. He had never known her to be quiet. But no, she had only chuckled once quickly when her father had told anecdotes from her childhood (and hadn't the man realised that it would only make him, Severus Snape, keep an even more watchful eye on his daughter? Even though he had to admit – talking to Granger, the male Granger, oh, sod it, Jonathan Granger, had been simple. The man spoke and he listened. Insightful, really. Sort of). And had then almost left the room.
To look how the children were doing.
And now, now they were sitting opposite and probably, for the first time in both their lives, completely at a loss at what to say. No, he could not get it out of his head that the woman who had yelled at him, the girl who had set him on fire, had stolen from him and had done all sorts of mischievous things at school would be so quiet when she was around her parents. Both her parents.
He wasn't known to be the great conversationalist in any case. Until, of course, a thought came into his head.
"What spell did you use to make the living room safe for the children?" he asked, trying to keep his voice, well, at least neutral.
And in that moment, her eyes lit up. The golden fleck appeared and she smiled.
xx
He was interested in how she kept her children safe? Interested in silly wand-waving? Well, of course it was his daughter as well who was playing in the living room now but still.
Ah – so he had not done anything in his flat. That was why Ophelia was kept on the chair in the corner the entire time? It would most certainly make sense and if Harry had been right (or the Ministry record that Harry had looked at), then he would not have had the child for long. Not since birth (and yes, oddly enough – those newspaper people had lost interest in their story. For the time being, probably) and she had to smile.
The same thing she had seen in his eyes the day before. A sort of wish to be helped. Without actually having to ask for it. It would be like him after all.
"I use a combination of spells, really," she replied, smiling. "The glass objects and other breakables in the room have an Unbreakable Charm on them. There are age lines around the TV, for instance, or the Stereo. I had to add that after Rosie thought it was funny to see what this thing did. One Sunday morning when we had all still been sleeping. And my father has this insane liking of – erm, Elvis Presley. I don't know where he got it from. Are you...?"
"I do know who Elvis Presley is. Was," he snarled.
"Fine," she still smiled. "So this Sunday morning, about three weeks ago, we were all woken up by a loud, blaring, In the Ghetto. Not the way I want to wake up."
He nodded. "Any other spells?"
She looked at him. It had been a funny morning. One when she hadn't woken up feeling quite so guilty. No, in fact she had wanted to strangle her daughter. But only for about two minutes. Then she had wanted to strangle her father for actually singing along. In front of her door. "Yes," she said slowly.
"And which?"
He was curious. Strangely curious. Hermione could easily say that she had never seen that particular expression on his face. It was new to her. Like a school boy, eager to learn. And if that hadn't been Severus Snape sitting at that table with her, this expression on his face would have endeared him to her. Such as it was – no. She would explain, he would snarl something about incompetence and idiocy and Gryffindors and he would wait five minutes in silence, tell his daughter it was time to go and disappear.
"There is another one which I find highly useful," she continued. Best get it over with.
"Yes?" he drawled.
"It's a combination of a Cushioning and a Motion-slowing Spell," she said softly. "I, er, invented it."
He remained silent. Said absolutely nothing. Probably waited for her to say, to explain. Only – why should she?
Right – because children got into trouble. Children sat on chairs and bounced and chairs fell over.
"It's two-fold," she began hesitantly. "At first you have to make sure that the object, like a chair, or a coffee table, or in case of my children, the regular dining table, and even parts of cupboards, stay where they are. I use a Sticking Charm with the tables and the cupboards and a modified Sticking Charm for the chairs – meaning that they can only be moved about, let's say, a meter from where you had them originally. After that, you cast the spell, my spell, on the object and the floor surrounding it. I suppose a regular Cushioning Charm would do – but since my spell is only activated by rapid or sudden movement away from the designated area, you don't have to walk over that Charm all the time."
"What's the incantation and the movement?" he asked suddenly, pulling his wand from the inside of his sleeve and Hermione Granger had to breathe deeply. Severus Snape wanting to learn something? From her? Inconceivable.
xx
Of course the car was fine. But Hermione had a lot of baggage with that man and darling John talking about how little Hermione had been would not help the two of them in the slightest.
And yes, she had been angry, a little with John. Down there, back there, in the garage.
"You're not matchmaking, are you?" he had asked, his arm around her waist as she looked at the motor compartment of their Hybrid Car (Hermione had insisted. Environmentally friendly). Only plastic to be seen there. And things she certainly did not understand.
"Of course I'm not," she had huffed and pushed his arms away. "She should have a chance to speak to him."
"She had that yesterday."
"Yes, but in his shop and the children around and you know how she is. She'd rather bite her tongue than say anything in front of the children that they could misunderstand."
John had sighed. "Have we been long enough out here? I doubt this thing has a gas cylinder."
And he had merely pulled her with him. Back inside, where Hugo and Ophelia were still playing train wreck and healing people and where the door to the kitchen was slightly ajar.
She peeked in, of course, it was in her nature to protect her daughter and what she saw caused her to gasp slightly. There they stood, both of them, in the middle of the room, with their wands out, casting spells at cups and saucers and letting them fall on the floor. Both of them. And those were not shattering. The cups and saucers bounced back a little and rolled a bit on the floor before they just stayed there. Unbroken.
"You know," John whispered suddenly behind her, his chin on her shoulder, "I would not mind having him as my next son-in-law."