She clung to him as if her life depended on it. Her legs wrapped around his middle, her little arms around his neck, her face hidden in the fabric of his frock coat on his shoulder. He just held her tight. She didn't care much for patting or stroking in those moments, he knew. It was the same when she came to his bed at night after a nightmare. She just wanted to be held, wanted to know he was there.
At least that was what he thought. And if he interpreted this correctly, she was afraid of losing him.
The dunderheaded girl. Didn't she know that he was a possessive bastard who never let anything go that belonged to him? And Ophelia most certainly belonged to him, no matter what, she was his. His. And change her for Granger's girl? Why should he do that?
Didn't Ophelia understand that he had merely answered those questions of hers because he knew that it would annoy Granger deeply? And well, he was a little bit interested how much such a young girl could know when she had her nose in the books all day long but had no idea of practical brewing.
"Don't want to leave you, Daddy," she sobbed into his shoulder and he had to tighten his hold on her a little. And he tilted his head downwards, wanted to whisper in her ear, as he usually did when he had something of importance to say – something that not everyone was supposed to hear, something that was for her, and for her only.
"I won't leave you and you won't leave me," he whispered, "I don't know what gave you the idea," he added solemnly.
"But you" she sobbed. "used Sirfather-voice," she hiccuped and clung closer, her arms almost strangling him.
"I did what?" he asked quietly – and had quite forgotten about the audience they had. Every single Granger and Weasley in the house was watching the pair.
"Sirfather-voice," she repeated and he still did not know what it meant. He hadn't been Sirfather for quite a while. And what was a Sirfather-voice? He had used a kinder voice than usual to speak to the Mini-Granger – but just to annoy the adult Granger. But how could he explain that to his girl? Maybe this was what Ophelia meant – the Sirfather-voice was the kind voice. That was her logic. He had spoken in that voice when he had still been Sirfather and he needed to calm her and make her trust him.
And now, in her little head, this kind voice was the Sirfather-voice. He had not used it when Granger and her son had come to see Ophelia. He had, in all honesty, only ever used it with her.
"Oh Ophelia," he said gently and stroked her hair once while she was half sitting on his arm, and half clinging to him like a little monkey. "I do not want to exchange you for anyone else," he whispered in her ear.
She looked up at him, tear-stained cheeks and all and another big, fat tear was rolling down her cheek. "I'm your girl?" she whispered hoarsely and he – he had to, really – smiled a little. It was more a twitching of the corners of his mouth, but she knew he was smiling. She sobbed and buried her face in his neck.
"Of course you're my girl," he pushed his nose in her hair and dropped a kiss on those waves and he knew that the smile widened. His girl was just as possessive as he was.
And Severus Snape knew that he was now part of a club. The father-daughter-club. He was member of a family. His family. It was small, tiny, really, just him and his girl but it was a family. Even when his parents had still been alive, he had not felt part of a family. Now he was. He was head of a family and that thought – it startled him. It puzzled him. It confused him.
It was new. It was terrifying. It was beautiful.
He looked up suddenly. And groaned inwardly.
Granger senior, Mother Granger, Granger, the Weasley girl, the Weasley boy – all staring at them, at him and his daughter who still played little monkey and did not look up.
He had not wanted this. He did not want anyone to see how deep the affection between him and her ran. He had not wanted them to know. But – it had, apparently, just happened.
'And so what?' he thought suddenly. He loved his girl. Not that he would say that in front of them – but what did he care? For the first time in his life, he had something wonderfully steady, someone who truly belonged to him. And those Grangers?
He had nothing to do with him. Maybe after that episode today, Ophelia's wish to play with the Weasley boy had lessened and they could go back to their quiet existence. In the apothecary. Him and her. Their family. No intruders. No one who was staring interestedly. No one who would gossip over dinner about them afterwards.
No, this was not their world. During their dinners, Ophelia talked about the people she had seen and what she thought of them. Or she talked about the potion they had brewed. And he made remarks but mostly just listened.
He would make her read a bit after dinner, she would take a bath and he helped, and then, he would bring her to bed. That was how they did it. He would enlarge her bed a bit, sit on it, and she would snuggle up to him, in her night clothes, and he would read some more until she was almost falling asleep. He had learned to tuck her in, to kiss her good night and afterwards, when she was in bed, he would make himself comfortable on a chair or on the old couch and read a bit with a cup of tea before he'd go to bed himself. That was their way.
No big, boisterous family dinner. It was quiet and he liked it quiet.
"Ophelia, we'll go home now," he whispered in her ear and felt her nod against his neck. "Will you say good bye?" She shook her head. "Yes, you will. Say thank you and good bye and we'll go."
Slowly, she looked up – and he knew she would not dare to look at anyone in particular. "Thank you and good bye," she said in a small voice.
"Are you going already?" Granger – Hermione asked softly.
"Yes," he said, his voice icy cold. "We have to," he nodded at everyone, especially Jonathan Granger. "Good bye Mister Granger, Missus Granger, Miss Granger. Good bye Miss Weasley, Mister Weasley," he nodded again, and by simply lifting his wand, the front door was open and he strode outside, his girl clinging to him.
xx
Hermione stood dumbstruck. Too shocked to move. She had known before that Snape was a loving father, though it had taken her a while to grasp the concept – even realise something like this was possible – but this was beyond believable.
She wondered what Ron would say if she told him – and then remembered that she couldn't any more. And didn't want to any more. He would say that she was insane and that she could not have possibly seen Snape, the evil git, cuddling and consoling his daughter, kissing her hair and stroking it and letting her wrap herself around him and let her half sit on his arm. She had clung to him like a little monkey and the way she had seen it, she had felt safe only there. She had bolted from the kitchen when she had seen him talking to Rose. And he had gone straight after her.
It was intriguing. Why was she clinging to her father in that way? Where had she suddenly come from and how had she formed an attachment so quickly? And who was her mother?
"Oh dear," her father said suddenly. "And any of you doubt he loves that girl?"
She looked at him and noticed her mother staring as well. And her children. And they certainly didn't have to hear that. "Rose? Hugo? Will you go upstairs and clean up your room? It looked a right mess this morning," she said sternly – with the look she had perfected over the years with Ronald. Stern, forbidding (his words, not hers) and demanding. Both of them grimaced but grumblingly, stomped up the stairs and Hermione turned back to her parents.
"No, I don't doubt it but it is odd, isn't it?"
"No," her mother said suddenly. "It's simple."
"It is?" both her and her father said at the same time.
"I thought I was the only one who saw it," her dad said.
"No, John, you're not. And don't be so smug," her mother replied flippantly. "He's afraid and not used to showing affection."
"Finally," her father said.
"What do you mean finally?" her mother quipped.
"Shall we have more tea?" Hermione interjected. "Before you finally start more bickering?"
Both her parents pulled a face at her but moved to the kitchen. And there – she groaned. Ophelia's robes. And Snape's robes. "Their robes are here," she said quietly.
"Well, send him an owl," Jonathan Granger suggested. "And don't you two dare to go there to deliver them."
"Why not?" Judith Granger raised her eyebrows.
"Because..."
"Because," Hermione sighed, "he probably wouldn't take well to any of us wandering into Knockturn Alley and into his apothecary again."
"Because he'd think we'd be intruding?" her mother asked rhetorically.
"Yes, and because he'd think we want something from him," her father answered. "Write him, and tell him that those robes are here and if he wants to fetch them or if one of us should bring it."
Hermione nodded. She understood much better since she had seen him like this now. He had a family. He was still the same man she had known – well, not known, but suspected him to be – private, most of all, and guarding said privacy with all he knew. In all the years at Hogwarts, even with the help of the Marauder's Map, she had never truly found out where exactly at the school he lived and while everyone always heard snippets about the teachers' private lives, nobody ever heard of Snape's. It was still the same way – living far off in Knockturn Alley, and probably not having much social contact – and only his daughter. No other family.
She knew his parents were dead – and that he had no siblings. He certainly did not have any friends at Hogwarts left – or, as far as he knew anywhere else. Snape did not strike her as a person with plenty of friends. Or any at all.
So, if he had his daughter, he would protect her fiercely from any outward influences. He had fought nail and tooth at first before he had allowed Ophelia to play with Hugo (well, she had too, but conveniently, she overlooked that small matter). He wanted to protect her – or, less nicely put – wanted to stop her from making any contacts outside of their small world. And when he had talked to Rose – she had been jealous.
Even though – that had not looked like a jealous tantrum. More like – fear.
She sat down at the kitchen table with her parents, sipped her tea and wondered. Wondered why suddenly, Severus Snape was so interesting – and why she even cared and wanted to learn more.
xx
She didn't want to let go, apparently. As soon as he had began apparating, he knew that both of them had left their robes at the Granger's house. But – he would not go back there. Not yet, not now. He would send her an owl, and tell her to send them back. It would be the simplest way.
He didn't want to disturb Ophelia even more by letting any member of the Grangers into his apothecary. She still occasionally hiccuped and her breathing wasn't as even as it should normally be. And she was trembling. Cold, obviously.
And he – the idiot father that he was – had forgotten her robes. No matter how distressed she was – or how much he wanted to leave that insanely sane place – he should have remembered her robes. And should not have made her go outside with only her skirt and jumper.
"Are you cold?" he asked softly and quickly walked around the corner to his apothecary. He had, of course, anti-apparition wards on the building. But he would be inside with her quickly and then put a Warming Charm on her (he wished he could do it now – but since he had to hold her, he could not) or maybe tuck her underneath a warmed blanket on the couch. She needed some rest.
She looked up from where she had buried her face in his neck and shook her head – then nodded, then looked around. "Will be home soon," she whispered, her teeth clattering.
He grumbled and tried to lift her with one arm, trying to access his wand. It would only be two more steps inside but he didn't want to risk her catching cold.
"Daddy, look!" she said suddenly and unwrapped one of her arms from around his neck, pointing to the entrance of his shop.
Severus Snape could not help but groan. This was not good.