The usual disclaimers apply.

xx

Slipping the Sleeping Draught into the Pumpkin Juice had not been difficult. Even Ophelia missed him doing it – even though she was standing right next to him, and helped him preparing a few sandwiches when Mary Kelly had been in the bath. No, slipping it in had not been difficult.

But, after she had emerged from the bath, clean, hair washed, clothes clean, scrubbed, it had been difficult. Very difficult. With the dirt vanished, her embarrassment-level had risen and she had wanted to disappear again.

If it hadn't been for Ophelia, the woman would hve probably bolted as soon as she could. Without food and sleep and straight to the next Silvergin bottle. But his little witch had held her back – and quite efficiently at that. It had not been a Slytherin tactic – not at all. No self-respecting Slytherin (not even an almost 5-year-old) would plant herself in front of the door and stand there, with her hands on her hips and glare. Well, she had the glaring down pat now. And Squiffy Mary Kelly – who at that moment had not been squiffy at all, let herself be pulled back into their kitchen, had eaten two sandwiches – or had rather devoured them but had eyed the pumpkin juice with disdain.

No, Severus Snape had absolutely no alcoholic beverage in his flat. He did not believe in drinking in his own four walls. If he had felt, in the past, the urge to drink, he had gone to a muggle bar. And ever since he had Ophelia – he had not been able to leave his flat without her anyway. He would most certainly not leave her alone.

So, he had glared – Ophelia had glared (though why he wasn't sure) and Mary Kelly had drunk the juice. Five minutes later, her head had fallen hard on the table and soft snores were heard immediately.

"Daddy?" Ophelia had asked and he had sneered.

"She was tired, I suppose," he had replied and with Ophelia's help, he had levitated her into his daughter's bed. It hadn't been late and he had read a bit with Ophelia but the girl was unfocused and her eyes kept on trailing to her bedroom and she had been jumpy.

And she had insisted on going in to see her sleep in her bed before she would get ready herself. And it had surprised him how she had acted in there. She had obviously paid attention, at least once, that he came to see his girl when she slept before he went to bed himself (and yes, he had not planned on ever letting her finding out. It was a sentimental thing to see if she slept peacefully, to make sure she was alright before he went to bed but he loved her. He had only said it once, but he did). She, just as he always did, crept closer and brushed across Mary Kelly's hair once, pressed a kiss on her forehead and tiptoed out.

Severus wasn't sure how old Mary Kelly was – but the matted hair had hidden the greying streaks rather perfectly and even during sleep, there were lines on her cheeks, around her eyes. But calculating back, he gathered that she had to be at least ten years older than him. Had lived in the Alley already during the Dark-Snake-Man-beginning with V but she had not been quite so deeply in the clutches of alcohol then. Fifteen years then, maybe since her children had died. And then she had been around 50. That would make her – 65. Easily. If not a little older.

The life he could have had. If he hadn't had the talent for brewing – if he hadn't had the means to establish his apothecary. If he hadn't been that good, it could have gone the way she had gone. Or worse. He knew. His life had depended solely on brewing. It was his way of keeping himself sane, and of putting food on the table and clothes on his back. He had been able to support himself – and when the need to drown all the evil memories had grown too big, he had brewed, complicated potions, had developed new ones, had taken his mind away from images roaming through his mind, flashing in front of his inner eye.

No, he was a lucky one compared to Squiffy Mary Kelly. But then again, he had only lost one person he had loved. And one he had liked a lot. And had gained now – another one he loved. More than he had ever imagined to being able to love Lily. More than he had ever imagined he could love anyone.

It was another smile, he knew but it was gone before Ophelia could see and she danced around him and grinned and seemed happy.

"She's safe and sleeping, Daddy," she said and bounced up until he reached down and she could jump into his arms and scrambled up sort of, until she could wrap her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek. "Will she still be sad in the morning?" she asked innocently, her legs around his waist.

"Yes," he answered gruffly. "This will not go away because she can sleep in your bed."

"But I'm not sad any more," she argued. "And I was really, really, really sad this morning."

He pulled her a little away without actually setting her on her feet and looked into her eyes. "We will go to bed now," he said, even though he had meant to say something completely different. But he did not know how to reassure someone, not even his own daughter. He did not know how to make her believe that she was the only thing in his life that counted. Apart from the potions and the apothecary. He couldn't tell her. He wasn't a man who said those things in any case.

"No, Daddy," she whined a little. "I'm not tired at all," she exclaimed happily, and wriggled down from his arms. "I'm awake!" she cried (and without Sleeping Potion, Mary Kelly would probably have woken up) and bounced and jumped and ran and skipped. From the kitchen to the living room, into the bathroom, into his bedroom, back into the living room, into the kitchen, back to where he stood in front of her bedroom.

"Will we keep her?" she asked hopefully.

"You cannot keep a human being," he grumbled.

"No, I know," she rolled her eyes, "but she can stay here and I'll sleep in your bed from now on."

"You'd like that," he muttered and picked her up quickly and carried her into the bathroom and set her down on her feet in there. "Wash up, brush your teeth and your nightgown is there," he pointed at it, hanging on the magically heated wall.

"But Daddy," she complained, "I'm not tired."

He merely looked at her sternly and pulled the jumper of her head. "Ophelia, now!" he said and sat down on the rim of the tub and watched her as she jumped out of her skirt. Why she was so happy – he didn't know. She had been so sad, so desperate this afternoon. Had thought that she would lose him.

Maybe – she was realising that he would not exchange her for anything in the world. For nothing.

Severus Snape watched his daughter brush her teeth, standing on one leg, balancing on it, then changing it, and balancing on the other leg.

Exuberant little girl. How he could have ever fathered such a happy, content child was completely beyond his grasp.

xx

Ophelia didn't want to go to bed. No matter what, she didn't want to go to bed. Squiffy had a safe place to sleep and she was allowed – officially – to sleep in Daddy's bed all night long.

Sleeping in Daddy's bed was great. He always warmed her feet and kept her in his arms and hugged her until she slept and he let her wake her with a kiss or she was allowed to put her fingers into his nostrils when she felt like it and he would tickle her and then cuddle her.

Oh, how she loved her Daddy.

But being with Hugo that afternoon – it had been great. Until Daddy had been nice to that girl and she had been scared. She still was scared but not as much. He had cuddled her again. And had told her that she was his girl. It was great. He loved her. But – she didn't ever want to leave him.

Still – it was unfair...

"Daddy?" she asked after she had carefully wiped the left-over tooth-paste from the corners of her mouth.

"Yes?" he drawled, that smirk on his face when she began a question this way.

"Why are you not married to Mummy? Did you get a divorce too? Like Hugo's Mummy and Daddy?"

He waited for a moment – he always did when she asked a question. He thought. Clearly. And he took her question seriously. He always did. She liked that about Daddy.

"Your mother and I," he said slowly, "were not married."

Not married – mh. Alright. "And a grandma and grandpa? Like Hugo? Where are they? I want some."

He sighed. He always did that when she asked a particularly hard question. Maybe he didn't know. But everybody had parents, or not?

"Erm," he said and he never said erm. Maybe it was really a hard question and he did not know about Mummy's parents. But she had never seen them. At least she couldn't remember. "Your grandparents are dead as well," he said slowly.

"But I want some," she replied petulantly. "I want to."

He looked at her deeply but said nothing. Instead he only grabbed her nightie from the always-warm-wall and dangled it in front of her. She grimaced and finished undressing just before he pulled the warm, cosy nightie over her head. And Ophelia had an idea.

"Can Squiffy be my granny?" she asked innocently and looked at him in the way she knew he could not say no. Only – it didn't seem to work now.

"No."

"But Daddy – Hugo told me he has four grandparents and I have no. It's unfair," she frowned. "I want grandparents."

He nodded slowly. "You have none, Ophelia. And remember when I told you that life is not fair?"

"Yes, but I want it to be."

"It isn't," he shook his head and picked her up again. "Bed."

She shook her head. "But Daddy..."

"Ophelia!" he said angrily. He really was angry now. But she wanted grandparents as well. She wanted them. "You do not have grandparents and Missus Kelly will leave in the morning again. She has a place of her own and..."

"But she said she lived outside," she argued fiercely. "Can't let her live on the street. It's cold!"

He was quiet, suddenly, and carried her into his bed and let her fall down. She bounced on the bed twice before she rested on his side and took a deep breath of the smell on his pillow. It smelled like Daddy and she loved that smell. Just like him.

He undressed as well and she liked to watch. He had so many buttons on his clothes and he always used his wand to open them. It was really awesome to see them popping open.

And, well, he would not say more about grandparents so she knew it was over. But – a moment later, he had disappeared into the bathroom and she knew she would have to stop being so wanting if she wanted to hug him before sleeping. She couldn't have grandparents. But maybe, maybe, she could get something else. And obviously, he did not want Squiffy to stay. Which was sad but...she could make sure Squiffy was alright. As long as she was still there every morning, she could see it. And if she couldn't have Squiffy as a granny and couldn't have any other grannies or granddads, then, maybe, maybe, she could have something else. A dog, maybe. Or a cat. Or a snake! A snake would be lovely!

And her birthday was soon. Maybe, if she was really nice and kind and quiet and everything, he would give her a pet-snake for her birthday.

She smiled contentedly when he came back into the bedroom, in his shorts and t-shirt.

"Can I have a pet instead?" she asked when he slipped into bed.

"Instead of what?" he asked and rolled around to face her.

"Instead of grandparents, Daddy," she replied, rolling her eyes again. He should have known that. They had talked about grandparents for the last five minutes!

He groaned and kissed the top of her head. "Sleep now," he said gruffly.

She hummed and snuggled into his arms. "Tell me a story, Daddy," she whispered and inhaled his smell again. It was so much stronger than on his pillow and she adored it. "Please?"

He sighed. "My little witch," he held her tightly. "A story?"

She nodded and he began – slowly, sweetly, in an even kinder voice than his Sirfather-voice and she knew she was the only one who would ever hear it.

xx

She sighed and rolled the fountain pen between her fingers. This was difficult. She wasn't sure why but Rosie and Hugo – they had been odd. Rosie had not been able to stop herself from gushing about how much he knew and how patiently he had answered her questions. And Hugo had been afraid that he was never allowed to play with Ophelia again since she had cried so much and they had left so quickly.

Her father had grinned the rest of the night and her mother had poked him time and time again.

And Hermione herself?

She could not ban the image from her head when he had cuddled, held his daughter, had whispered in her ear and had told her things and his hands had soothed her by stroking her hair, her back.

It was a different person and she had understood that she should not allow herself to confuse the man she had known back in school with the man she had seen earlier. With the man she had experienced, who had talked to her father, who had bounced cups and saucers with her because he wanted to keep his child safe. Different.

And she would write that letter to a different person.

She stroked the owl sitting on her desk briefly before she put pen to paper. Different man. Not Professor Snape. Not evil git of the dungeons.

She sighed and began to write.

Dear Mister Snape,

As you had to depart rather abruptly, and I do hope that Ophelia is fine again, you forgot your and your daughter's robes at my parents house. I could shrink them and sent them to you or bring them back personally or if you would like to come over again, I will keep them safe for sure.

My son was very disturbed and is afraid that Ophelia is not his friend any more. I hope that this is not the case and that you will allow your daughter to play with Hugo again. He enjoyed it very much and I would be happy to have him play with her again. They seem to be good for one another. My daughter Rose was very taken with you and she had a lot more questions for me, some of which that I could not answer, I'm ashamed to say since they were so specific.

My parents were happy to have you here and they asked me to tell you to invite you to dinner soon. I hope you agree.

Best wishes,

Hermione Granger

She tied the scroll to the leg of the owl and watched it fly away, just quickly before she looked at the alarm clock on her bedside table. Twelve five.

Her anniversary. Or had been. Now, now she was free, free with her children. An eerie feeling.

Still, no use thinking about it. She had her children and they were all that mattered. She would have them, keep them, love them and Ronald wasn't that interested in them anyway.

And suddenly, the image of Snape holding his daughter played in front of her inner eye.

xx

A pet?

He had always wanted a pet as a child. And why not give her one? He had briefly, yes, considered giving her a snake after the visit to the zoo but he knew, deep inside, that he was not ready to allow a snake into his household. But another pet? Was probably a good idea. Would teach her responsibility.

She was still pressed against him, and he had to hold her, had to kiss her brow and had to smell her. Just had to. His little witch.

A pet – they could handle a pet.

As long as he found someone who watched her when he went looking for one. She would get those things that he had always wished for when he had been a boy. She would not lack for anything. She would get all those things – within reason – that he had wanted and had never gotten. Because he was different from his parents. Because he – he loved her.

"I love you, my little witch," he whispered in her hair and she shifted in her sleep, sighing softly and smiling a little.

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