The usual disclaimers apply.
xx
He had, as a precaution, looked the door to the coal shed. He did trust Mary – he did not trust her addiction. It had been – no...
He had never seen someone crying that much. Crying so hard. Sobbing. And fragments of words. Of sentences. Names. Joe, her husband, obviously. In bed one morning. Cold. His face in a mask of terror – even in death, his eyes wide open.
He could understand her addiction. He didn't trust him. But he could understand.
James, her son – Magda, her daughter, Simone, her pregnant daughter-in-law. Basically decapitated by a lorry somewhere on the M4. The lorry driver, drunk and losing control and the three of them – innocent. And still, it had killed them. Their car underneath the lorry.
She had not seen them. Had not been allowed to see her children after the accident. Understandable.
He had not thought that someone could even bear so much tragedy. That someone could actually survive this. No one probably should and even he had been close to going down to the pub and buying the rest of the Silvergin they had there. And drinking it all.
He could understand that. He wouldn't want to be confronted with this. But she was still alive. She was still a kind woman, she was obviously very concerned that he would throw her out after her emotional outburst.
He might be English – but he would not throw anyone out just because they displayed an almost Mediterranean bout of grief. She deserved it in any case.
She was entitled. Definitely.
He didn't even want to imagine – Ophelia. No. Better not go there.
So – he had locked her in. Simply because he had been tempted to drown the horrors she had told him in incomplete sentences and over a long span of time. By the time he had brought her to the coal flat, by the time he had made sure that Ophelia was safely asleep and breathing evenly, by the time he had changed into this nightclothes, then out again, by the time he had taken a shower because he needed to scour (if such a thing was possible) himself from those pictures that his active imagination had brought him, by the time he had knelt down on the floor next to Ophelia's bed, by the time he had decided that he was, after all, a wizard, and could easily enlarge her bed, by the time he had decided to just lie down in her bed, by that time – it had been early morning and almost time to wake up.
But the little body snuggling to him, holding him, that little body soothed him.
And Severus Snape knew – that after that night, nothing would ever be the same. And it had changed him. And he had already an idea.
xx
Usually, she woke up slowly. She liked waking up slowly – opening the eyes just a little bit and realising where she was, that she was either in her bed or in Daddy's bed, discovering whether Daddy was there or if Mary Kelly was already making breakfast. Today though, her eyes snapped open.
She was in her own bed. But Daddy was there. She immediately noticed the arms holding her tightly and the very Daddy-smell that he always had when he bathed or showered the night before. Smelled like his soap and shampoo.
But why was Daddy in her bed? Wasn't he feeling well? Did he have a nightmare? Was he alright?
Ophelia sat up quickly and shook him. This was not the time to play silly games until he woke up. Certainly not. He had to wake up. Right now!
"Daddy!" she cried worriedly and he blinked.
Oh – he blinked. He was okay. He was fine.
"Daddy, why are you here?" she asked – throwing herself at him, on his chest, hugging him. She had been worried about him in her bed. He was never in her bed. Never. Only when he read her stories before she went to sleep. He had never, never slept in her bed before.
"Ophelia," he groaned but his arms, somehow, had sneaked around her and held her there on his chest, "why are you so awake this morning?"
"I'm always awake in the morning," she argued and tried to glare at him. "Why are you in my bed?"
He seemed to think for a moment, then, instead of answering, sat up a little and pulled her with him. "Because, little witch, your bed, I found this morning, is a lot more comfortable than mine."
"It isn't," she shook her head. "Your bed is more comfortabler."
"More comfortable, Ophelia, not more comfortabler," he corrected her and he grimaced when she squeaked into his ear. She didn't just squeak. Daddy always said she squeaked without a reason but she never did. But if he suddenly got up and stood up and she was suddenly in the air, she had good reason to squeak, didn't she?
"Is today Sunday, Daddy?"
"No, today is Friday, Ophelia. And do not try to tell me that you absolutely have to see that Hugo Weasley boy today, because..."
"I promised, Daddy," she rolled her eyes. "I will eat every vegetable and I will be nice and kind and be good and I will not beg to see Hugo until Sunday."
"Yes," he said slowly and carried her into the kitchen, in her nightclothes. But how -
"Did you bring me to bed last night?" she asked curiously.
"Indeed. After you have fallen asleep at the table, and you know what I think about that," he replied and sat her on the counter next to the cooker.
"Where's Mary, Daddy?"
"Still sleeping," he said and looked at her. "Ophelia, there are a few more rules now and we have to talk about them."
xx
"Harry?" Hermione knocked carefully on the door to his office and stepped inside.
"Hermione," he grinned and stood up immediately, hugging her.
She had made up her mind. She would not go to the Weasleys alone. Strength in numbers. No, she would, and she had talked to her parents about it how had agreed during breakfast, invite them to her parents house. Or maybe the annexe they wanted to build (yes, magically – but she would have to get planning permission before they could do anything). Either way, she had decided not to go to the Burrow to tell them. She needed to be in her setting now. And she couldn't possibly be crowded by too many Weasleys when she told them. She would probably be hexed within an inch of her life – or maybe not.
And Harry – he was the way to do it.
Besides, she had thought about it, long. Well, she thought she had thought about it for a long time but it had turned out that she had fallen asleep in her father's arms late that night. So – well, no, she had thought about it.
Severus Snape was the right person to be there with her. It would signify something. It would most certainly signify that she had an ally – that being the mother of someone who had a squib wasn't the end of the world. On the contrary. It was the beginning of something wonderful for Hugo. That way – he would not be in the shadow of his bookworm-sister. That way, he could be himself. Without any pressure.
But, no, having him there, with the reputation of not even letting Muggleborns into his apothecary (which was, of course, nonsense), the reputation that he was still harbouring despise towards Muggles and Muggleborns (which was, of course, nonsense as well – the mother of his child had been a Muggle after all, wasn't she?), it would show the Weasleys that they were hypocrites who never had a Muggle in their house. Oh yes. And Severus Snape would more easily agree to coming to their house than going to the Burrow. If he did at all.
No, she would not trick him. She would be honest. To a certain extent.
But he still needed Harry to agree to let the Weasleys know she wanted to see them. An owl of hers would most likely be ignored these days. At least from Ron. And who knew what Ron would say to his parents.
"Harry, I need to talk to you for a moment," she said and wriggled out of his arms.
"Did something happen?" he asked and gestured towards a chair. She nodded and sat down.
"I need to see – and talk to – the Weasleys," she said honestly.
"Why?"
"There is a matter of some importance and I'm sure..."
"Oh, the fact that Ron thinks you're playing dirty and pretend that Hugo's a Squib?"
"What?" she asked.
"Ron turned up last night and was ranting that you're trying to steal the children and that you're using such idiotic ideas like Hugo is a Squib."
"Hugo is a Squib," she said coldly. "Even though I decided that I prefer the term Muggle. My son Hugo is a Muggle. He cannot do magic."
Harry chuckled. "That can't be, Hermione. You're very powerful and Ron's powerful. I don't know what you're trying to achieve but this isn't working."
She shook her head. "Harry, I'm not trying to achieve anything. Go upstairs, check the file – see for yourself. Hugo is not a wizard," she said slowly – slowly enough for a three-year-old to understand.
"You're not serious," he seemed pale and – odd.
"Why does everyone – everyone – think I'm joking? And why does everyone think it's the end of the world? Why does everyone still believe that not being a wizard is a bad thing for my son?"
He seemed to think for a moment – and remained silent. Pale and silent.
"Why is it such a problem for all of you?" she cried.
"It's not a problem," he shook his head after a moment, "it's just very, erm, surprising."
"Surprising, yes, your the tone of your skin tells me at the moment, that you think it's the end of the world. That it's something horrible," she shook her head. "I don't get it."
"No," he sighed. "It's not the end of the world but – it's just very, very surprising."
She shrugged. "It doesn't matter, does it? Does it change Hugo? He's still the same."
"No, he's not the same," he looked at her. "He's not able to live in our world, Hermione."
She almost choked on her own spit. On the words that were on her tongue. "I can't believe you, Harry. I know it's a shock but it's not as if he's a dark wizard threatening to change your life forever. He's a child who wants to be a dentist. And maybe he'll want to be a lorry driver, or a teacher, or a social worker, or a I don't know, vet, surgeon, clown. And he'll be one of those things. But he will not be someone slaving away in this bloody Ministry. And that's bad?
"I'm shocked, Hermione. Nothing more, nothing less, it's just the thought that he..."
"Tell the Weasleys I want to invite them for a meal in the near future," she said angrily and stood up. "I can't believe that even Snape was more accepting that you were," she muttered and walked away.
Pretending not to hear him when he said "Why does Snape know about this?"
Awful. This was the reaction she would get. From everyone. Shocked and not knowing how to deal with it.
Except, really, Snape had been different. He had just accepted it. Had sent his daughter to play with her son. Had just done it.
So atypically Snape – or was it?
Truth be told, she was looking forward to that lunch on Sunday. And if she had a chance, she would get him to help her with the Weasleys. And she hoped he would do it. It would certainly have an effect.
And why was she thinking so much about Snape anyway, she thought – just as she made her way upstairs. She needed a certified copy of the file. Otherwise nobody would ever believe her.
xx
"It's dangerous, really, Daddy?" she asked again and stared at Mary Kelly, who had come up some time when Daddy had explained why she could not bring them somewhere again any more. Not until she was almost grown up (and that was really silly. She would never run away from Daddy – but he seemed to think so. Poor Daddy. No, she had to hug him then because he really thought she would run away from the best Daddy anyone could ever have? How stupid was Daddy sometimes?). And well, it wasn't so bad – as long as Daddy allowed her to see her friend Hugo. And she had the strange feeling he would.
Just because, well, he had said that Hugo could not do magic. And well, magic was nice but when Hugo was with her, she could do it. And Daddy had said, that maybe, only maybe, Hugo's Daddy would not like it that Hugo could not do magic (how silly was that) and that Hugo's Mummy (well, he had actually said 'Hermione Granger, that Hugo Weasley boy's mother) would probably need help. Though help with what – he had not explain. Silly Daddy. He never really said things without complaining – but he had looked up at the ceiling and had stopped immediately when he had noticed he had talked about Hugo's Mummy. And that was really, really strange.
And the letters – and the owls – she didn't know why people would want to do something ugly to her – but Daddy had said that it was dangerous and that in the future, there was a new rule that she had to alert him if there were owls and he would check them first. It was okay. Nobody but Hugo wrote her anyway and Daddy was almost always around anyway. She could do that – easily. As long as she knew she wasn't supposed to do it.
"But we will still go to them on Sunday?" she asked suddenly.
"Do I look like someone who breaks his promises?" he asked back – and, oddly enough, produced a vial from the pocket of his robes and put it in front of Mary.
"No," Ophelia shook her head but neither of the adults seemed to listen to her.
"Is that...?" Mary asked, her eyes really, really large and wide.
"Finished this morning," he nodded. "You might experience dizziness so you should better move to the sofa. Did you drink in the last 24 hours?" he asked and seemed to look deeply into Mary's eyes.
Oh – oh – oh.
Was that the potion that Daddy tried to make for Mary that she never had to drink again? Was that finished? It would be absolutely awesome. Really. She stood up slowly.
"I haven't drunk any alcohol, no. Not in the past 72 hours," she said soberly and sat on the sofa. Ophelia knew there something of great importance going on – and she could see that Mary was scared. She shot her father, who had gotten up as well, a look and quickly ran to Mary's side.
"You don't have to be afraid," she whispered with a smile, took her hand and held it between her own two hands, tightly.
"I'm not afraid, sweetheart," she said, but her smile seemed odd.
"There," Daddy said and he handed Mary the vial. "You should lie down if you feel faint. Ophelia, you have to get up when she wants to lay down, understood?"
Ophelia nodded instantly and clutched Mary's hand tighter when she breathed deeply – and gulped it all in one go.
She went pale – and her mouth opened and the vial clattered to the floor.
And Ophelia was suddenly very scared.
Thank you!