The usual disclaimers apply.
xx
He was just in time. In time to add another ingredient, in time to send Ophelia to the coal flat to fetch Mary Kelly, in time to see the hopeful eyes in the trembling woman, in time to have dinner with his little witch and Missus Kelly, who tried very hard to remain calm on the table and to gulp down the cottage pie she had made – had wanted to make. He wasn't a monster – not all the time. He would have let her be in the coal flat – she had chosen to eat with them – to make Ophelia her favourite dish.
But she was – tense. Hurting. Realising how she had lived her life. How much she was missing. What she had lost. She realised it, every day. Every day a little bit of what she had lost.
He could relate to that. And he knew that in this – she was alone. No child – not even such an enchanting one as Ophelia – could save her from the agony she was going through. Nothing could.
No one could.
Time – as stupid, as silly as that sounded – was the only thing that had the chance to heal her. Not completely, of course. She would never be healed. But time would make her better – gradually. Until the stabbing pain turned into a dull throb and from there, into itching memory, a badly healed scar that hurt during every weather change. That was angrily pink and that she couldn't bear to see any more. But it would get better. Eventually.
He doubted, however, that Ophelia could help. Ophelia, such a lovely child – had forced him to lunch at the Grangers. Just because she was Ophelia and embodied a sort of person that he had never imagined could exist. Honest. Helpful. Kind. Caring. Loving. Unprejudiced. Fair. And as such, Ophelia was almost, despite her flaws, and despite the fact that she could be too stubborn and almost too Slytherin for her age. Too loyal. Too good to be true. And seeing that – after having lost a child – no, he was not a sympathetic, tender-hearted person – far from it, in fact – but she had earned his respect. As simple as that.
The way she sat there – quite rigid – and still listened to Ophelia telling her all about her swimming with him – no, this was admirable. And he generally did not admire many people.
Or any, for that matter. Maybe.
Apart from, well, he had to admit that it had been quite interesting to see Hermione Granger standing her ground like that against Weasley. Not that it was difficult standing one's ground against him – but still. They had been married after all.
He knew – that married people did not often love one another. He had seen it first hand. Couldn't imagine why his parents had married and had him. Or how. Well – the how had probably been – well. But the why was difficult for him to understand.
Though – love to a woman, after all was said and done – was nothing to want to achieve. Nothing he wanted. He loved his daughter – and that was about all the tender feelings he could ever have for another human being. And of course, the admiration, silent, quiet, nothing he would ever express, towards Mary Kelly. And a slight sort of – he couldn't name it – towards Hermione Granger.
That was it. He could not feel more for any other person. His feelings were completely tied up for Ophelia. And the bit of admiration and whatever. Definitely. End of story.
He only listened – and thought – and did not pay as much attention to his daughter than he normally would. But even after dinner, Ophelia had made Mary Kelly sit with them, with the tortoise, pale like the moon (she was tired, definitely), walking slowly over the table, being observed by Mary Kelly and his little witch, he thought more than he listened. And that was usually not the case. But to be honest, that day had been rather exhausting. Very much so.
Ronald Weasley had it coming. No one tried to hex Severus Snape when he turned his back. Those days were long over. And nobody tried to hex Severus Snape when his back was turned and he carried his daughter. Especially not then. Not even someone like Ronald Weasley. Especially not someone like Ronald Weasley. Who could never, in his life, would be able to get through his shields.
That man, obviously, was still as impulsive, still as stupid, still as not-thinking as he had been all those years ago. And still not any better to see a shield. And a hex coming. How he had ever been praised as someone who had played a large part in defeating he-who-had-not-really-been-called-by-his-name-since, Severus did not know and did not understand. It was a miracle, really. He understood Potter, of course, since, well, he had to, and Granger, since she had the brains. Really, but Weasley? What had he done? Maybe – oh, he had heard things. The portrait had been most forthcoming back then about telling him – Slytherin that he was – and Weasley had taken off.
No, true, he would do most anything to get back at the Weasleys. The entire family. He knew it was vindictive and that he was being a bastard – but – he had protected George Weasley. He had given him his life. By taking his ear, yes, but he had still been alive. He still was alive, and apparently married to Angelina Johnson and breeding like any good Weasley did, and they were still amongst those that still did talk about him. Apparently, of course. Who still did not accept that he had played a role. Who had boycotted one of those evil award-winning ceremonies he had been invited to (no, he had not gone).
He did not understand that either, to be honest. He had always taken the Weasleys, especially the Weasley parents as people who forgave rather easily. Not this time. Apparently. Still, he did not really mind. But a little revenge – no, it didn't hurt.
Even if it meant taking Granger's side. And having to have lunch with them on a perfectly good Sunday.
Besides – Ophelia had promised him to be good. Had promised to eat all her greens. Everything that he wanted her to eat. Besides, she was a good girl and she deserved to play with the Hugo Weasley boy. For not making a fuss when he wanted to leave. That certainly screamed reward.
Even if it meant taking Granger's side. And the side of her family.
"I think you should bring her to bed," Mary Kelly said suddenly – softly – her hand on his arm.
Ophelia had fallen asleep, leaning against her, her lips opened slightly and one of her arms holding onto Mary Kelly.
He nodded – angry at himself that he had not immediately reacted when the tortoise had turned pale moon-coloured. And he had wanted to talk to her about the apparition and the letters and the owls before going to bed. And had been too lost in his thought. Not thinking about his daughter enough.
"I'll do the dishes," she whispered, carefully disentangling Ophelia from her side.
"There is no need, Missus Kelly," he whispered back. "I didn't do this because I needed a housekeeper."
She nodded and lifted the girl in her arms before she handed the softly whimpering child to him. "I know. But I have to repay it somehow."
He frowned but said nothing. There was nothing to say. He understood obligation. And the need to do it. Definitely.
His little witch, on the other hand, had her arms immediately around his neck and calmed a bit, kept on sleeping and he carried her, as careful as he could, even more careful than he had carried the sword of Gryffindor to the Forest of Dean, in her bedroom and, with a flick of his wand, prepared her bed to get ready for her. He laid her down gently and, another flick of his wand, her clothes were gone and she wore her most favourite (her expression) nightgown. With little snakes (she had picked it) on it. He pulled her comforter over her and tucked her in, bent down, brushed the hair from her face, kissed her forehead, and had to smile at her. His big girl. Five years old.
"I love you, my little witch," he whispered so softly that he was sure nobody, not even her in her sleep could hear him and, making sure she was sleeping peacefully, made his way out of her room and back to the kitchen.
And returned not to a sight he had expected.
xx
Respect.
She knew. She respected him. A lot. For what he had done. Not only for what he had done during the war – but for the way he had acted at her house – no, her parents' house earlier. So cold towards Ronald but at the same time, so secure. So sure of what he was doing. Taking her side, really. Making sure Ronald knew that he – especially he – who had a reputation – did not mind his daughter, his only daughter, the most precious thing in his life, playing with her Squibson. Or Muggle. She was still unsure and it did not matter. But no matter what – Severus Snape had shown him that there was no need for prejudice. None at all.
Not that Ronald believed her in any case and she knew she had to go back to the Registration office and talk Morna Bux into letting her copy the file – or tell Harry and let Harry explain. He had to understand though. Understand that their son was not the powerful wizard he thought he would be. And make him understand that it did not matter after all.
It apparently did not matter to Severus Snape – and she had been surprised about that fact. Honestly. Had not thought he would react this way.
So – she respected him.
Besides, and at that thought, an evil grin spread over her face, he had knocked Ronald down. With his back turned – almost. He had just spun around, with his daughter in his arms – and had knocked him flat on his back. Just like that. And the way he had towered over him – it had been funny. She had to bite back a laugh. Truly. The way little Ophelia had bent down, had frowned and had asked her Daddy why the poor man with the funny-coloured pink ears had fallen down – ridiculous.
Of course Ronald didn't understand that. He had been less than amused and had taken off – just after she had revived him. Without saying good bye to his children. Had just stomped off. Still as inconsiderate as he had ever been.
But oddly enough – no, she did not mind. All those little things – they made sure that he would not get his children permanently. Not like this. Not with forgetting to say good bye. Definitely not.
"Still up, my girl?" Dad suddenly stood in the doorway to the living room. She had gotten comfortable on the couch, had read a bit, after her parents had gone to bed. Wasn't tired. Thinking too much.
"I am," she smiled gently and pulled her knees up, her cheek resting on them.
"It's quite late," he said gently.
"Early," she smiled, looking at the time. It was indeed later than she had thought. Half past one. And work tomorrow.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked and when she just smiled back and patted the couch next to her, her father was immediately beside her and she could not help herself. It was like old times when he came into her bedroom and hugged her and cuddled her just before she fell asleep. It was the same, really. She didn't feel over thirty. More like maybe eight.
He lifted his arms a little and she dived under, her head resting against his chest and her arm across his stomach. Warm and cuddly and her Daddy. Would always be her Daddy.
"Did you ever talk to Ronald about all this?" he asked her gently, rubbing her upper arm, stroking her hair.
"I tried, Daddy," she whispered back. "He didn't quite understand, I think. And he didn't even try. I'd say, Ron, do you think it's normal? Do you think married people just live the way we do? Just next to another, not really together? And he didn't really answer. He'd just say that we were normal, that he had a job, I had a job, I wasn't home enough and that was it. I tried, Daddy. I tried fixing it. I didn't want to end it this way. And I think, I don't know, I think he thought that me, wanting to move out was spontaneous. But it wasn't. I talked about it. I just don't think he listened."
"Mh," he replied and pulled her a little closer and kissed the top of her head. "I don't think you were compatible, love."
"You were angry, weren't you? That we didn't come here as often as we went to his parents," she asked, looking into his eyes.
"Not angry, no. We missed you and the children. And Christmas without you, Hermione, that was – not the same. I just thought it was strange that he never felt comfortable around here."
"He never did," she whispered. "Ronald is – a kind person – when he wants to be. But he took the children for granted, he took me for granted and he forgot where I came from. He and his family, Daddy, they're famous in their world to be Muggle-loving, but he was still scared when he was directly confronted with them."
"I think our toaster could tell a story about that," he chuckled slightly and seemed to sniff her hair. Daddy always used to do that when she was little – he probably still loved doing that. It made her smile. It made her happy. It made her feel safe.
"Poor toaster. Didn't expect there was a spell coming towards it," she answered and sighed. "Daddy, I don't think I want to leave here."
"You don't have to," he answered, chuckling a little. "Your mother and I we talked about a little annexe. Will be no problem."
"Really?"
"No problem, love," he replied and hugged her and kissed her again.
She had to sigh and snuggled up to him. And she was glad she still could do that. Even at her age.
"I think though, Hermione, that you should maybe go to Ronald's parents. And explain them about Hugo."
She nodded slowly. "I don't think they will believe me either. But I will."
"And if you want, I could come with you. Or you take Mister Snape. I'm sure he'd make an impression."
She pulled back slightly – and saw into the boyishly grinning face of her father. She slapped his arm – then snuggled back against him. Pretending, just for a moment pretending that she wasn't an adult and that Daddy could still solve all her problems.
xx
She was crying. Her face in her hands, her back heaving, her shoulders jerking. She was definitely crying her eyes out. He shook his head and moved the table, the dirty dishes forgotten.
"Missus Kelly," he said as gentle as he could – he didn't want to scare her after all.
"I'm sorry, Master Snape," she looked up – looking dreadful. "I just..."
"No need," he replied and sat next to her, conjuring two cups of tea. He had no idea why he did it. Maybe it was Ophelia's influence. Maybe it was – partly pity. Or – never felt before – sympathy. But that woman – she deserved to talk about it. Whatever it was. And she deserved not having to call him by that dreadful title. She respected him no matter what she called him. Even though – he was younger than her, and it was her place to say anything but – no, not Master Snape. Sounded like she was his house elf. Worse than housekeeper. Worse than anything.
"Not Master Snape," he said – causing her to look at him puzzled. "Severus," he added.
She swallowed and nodded. "Mary," she replied.
"It is," he began very slowly, "very kind of you to care for Ophelia so much. It..."
"Is difficult," she finished the sentence for him and tried a very, very weak, very watery smile, "My daughter-in-law was pregnant when they got...hit. I can't help myself imagining what the child would be now. At Hogwarts, not at Hogwarts. Boy, girl. Nice as your child. Ophelia is a wonderful gift. Don't take her for granted."
"I don't," he shook his head. "I certainly don't."
"She loves you very much. It's the most precious, the most important thing in the world," she choked the last two words – and broke down, crying, sobbing, not being able to breath properly and suddenly, she had moved to his side – and he knew that she wasn't completely thinking any more, the straing, the crying, everything, muddling with her thinking and she had her head on his shoulder and her hand on his arm, clutching it.
Ophelia was to blame, really, he thought, as he turned slightly and let her hug him more fully – and let her cry on his shoulder – his arms, tentatively, carefully, slightly, around her.
Thank you!