Dumbledore let Severus raise the girl at Hogwarts and allowed him to continue both his roles as a teacher and within the Order. Any gratitude he felt at his generosity was tempered by the constant frustrations with the other staff.
"Oh my!" McGonagall cooed over Hermione. "How old is she?"
"A year," he clasped her to his chest. "Old enough, perhaps, to feel objectified by the constant crooning, I'm sure."
"Oh, come now, Severus," McGonagall scoffed. "She doesn't seem unhappy."
"She's a year old," he reminded her. "She can't really tell you can she?"
"Children are so sensitive to messages from beyond!" Trelawney said. "You should hone her skills while she's still young."
"I thought our energy clouded your third eye?" Severus grumbled.
"But I have to think about what's best for the child!"
"I believe that's my job," he hissed.
Dumbledore chuckled. "I did warn you, Severus."
"I didn't expect a room filled with adults to treat a child like a pet. I thought the point of this was to simply tell them all that Hermione would be living with me."
"Don't blame them for wanting to meet her. They'll be spending the next seventeen years with her, too," Dumbledore noted.
"She's nearly a year old, headmaster," he said. "She's not ready for such a fuss."
"Is it that she's not ready or you?" Dumbledore asked.
To answer for herself, Hermione burrowed her face into Severus's shoulder, shying away from Dumbledore's touch.
"You have a very empathetic little girl," Dumbledore observed.
He didn't know how true that was. She had picked up on her birth parents' stress easily and when he himself was uneasy Hermione would attempt to comfort him. But he was certain right now that she had felt the same way he did about this welcoming.
"Did you say nearly a year?" Sprout asked. "When's her birthday?"
I never asked... He hesitated holding his child closer to him.
"Let's see the child," Trelawney approached the two of them.
Hermione locked eyes with the bug-eyed woman wrapped in shawls before turning to him with teary brown eyes. He noted as Trelawney drew closer Hermione returned to burying her face in his robes.
"There's something of September about this child."
"You're right about something," he said. "She turns one on the first of September. A very busy day indeed, so, unfortunately, your efforts are best placed elsewhere."
Did you just make up a birthday for Hermione so no one would acknowledge her? She'll never know...
"The instructions were on the board, Mr. Duke," Severus groaned.
"Sorry, Professor," the small Gryffindor muttered.
"It's your classmates you should apologize to. This abysmal potion cost them five points."
"Thanks, Daniel!" the class of first years hissed.
"I can make it more, Gryffindors," he responded.
That shut the lot up. He turned to Hermione who sat very still on his desk. He thought this would be a disaster, but the little one fared much better in the classroom than she would in the care of Hagrid or house-elves. Something he was advised to do, but she was fine. Even around the bumbling idiots meant to make sorry excuses for potions.
"I don't think so, little girl," he whispered, picking her up before she got into the inkwell.
Hermione's lips formed a thin line and she looked down. Obviously frustrated to have her plans foiled.
"Mr. Duke will try again and we'll all stay here until he gets it right."
A wave of complaints filled the room. Cries of injustice echoed through the dungeons before the noise bothered Hermione enough to justify her own complaints.
"SILENCE!" he roared.
The lot of them shut up once more and he regarded the twenty first-years staring at him in shock. Hermione, too, fell silent staring up at him with tears in her eyes.
"Fine," he rolled his eyes and pointed to the door."The rest of you may go. I swear there's a dolt like Duke every year."
"This is the third time now?" Severus asked, hovering over the boy. "We're not getting any younger, and I do believe Hermione will be graduated before we're finished here."
The boy picked up the pace. He watched as Duke nervously dumped ingredients to the cauldron and refrained from telling him when he dumped the wrong things in until he grabbed far too much lacewood. "Wait, Duke, don't-"
But it was too late the cauldron combusted and smoke filled the room. His eyes filled with smoke, stinging as he reached for Hermione. His heart leapt to his throat as he heard a thump close to his feet. Reaching through the smoke, blindly he grabbed her and the boy, dragging them out of the room.
"What the hell is wrong with you, boy?" he coughed.
"I- is she bleeding?"
He examined her, finding that she was indeed bleeding, she had hit her forehead off the corner. "Dear God, Hermione!"
She didn't respond. Her eyes closed and body limp. He shook her gently trying to urge her to wake up. Was this it? She was barely a year-old and she was killed by some idiot who was too lazy to measure? He had promised to do better by her. Was she better off with the muggles? "Hermione!" He shook her again, less gently. "Come on, dear, it's time to wake up."
He came to his senses and ran to the hospital wing.
"Severus," Madam Pomfrey gasped.
"Is she okay?!" he shouted, shoving Hermione into her arms.
"Daniel Duke told me about the incident. You need to be examined too. Lie down."
It was a miracle, both he and the stupid boy were absolutely fine. It was Hermione he was worried about. Did she inhale too much smoke? She had her lungs regrown, they should be fine, but where she was so small...He demanded to know what was going on with her.
"She's fine." Pomfrey said, placing her in his arms. "She had a concussion. You shouldn't have panicked."
He eyed her chest rising and falling, her closed eyes, tears caught in her long brown eyelashes. How could she look so peaceful after her injury? He brushed a lock of hair off her forehead, a very tiny scar formed above her right eye. Barely perceptible, but a mark of his own failures of a father. The boy's incompetence was easy to blame, but he shouldn't have had her there.
"I can't tell you if it's from hitting her head or being shaken afterwards. Were you trying to rouse her?"
"Yes, did I..." he stared at his daughter. "Will she be okay?"
"She will," she said. "If anything happens again, bring her here immediately. It could have been much worse."
Could have been much worse... Severus wondered how things might have turned out if he hadn't come to his senses when he did. After everything his own parents put him through, how could he hurt his own child? His little girl could have been seriously hurt, and all because he panicked. Something he was not prone to doing. How could his composure leave him at such a crucial moment? He then thought about every time he was tempted to silence her in that fashion. Sure, he never hurt her, but would he do it now? No, he only shook her to revive her...It was still wrong. He couldn't mess this up. She was all he had.
"Maybe you can send her away until she's older?" she suggested. "This isn't a place for a baby."
"No, I'm all she has," he said. "We'll just have to be more careful."
"Really?" Hermione gasped.
"Libby swears it's true, Miss Hermione!" the house-elf Libby crossed her heart. "They says there's a spider the size of a carriage in the forest! Eats men it does!"
"But that's not as scary as the creature in the chamber of-"
"That's enough stories for today," Severus said, scooping up a flour-covered Hermione. He brushed the flour off her nose and cheeks with his thumb."I don't expect you did any reading or writing today?"
"Yes, I did!" she dug a piece of paper from her pocket before presenting a toothless grin. "I finished Spelling Before Spelling and started writing down stories of the house-elves."
The charcoal smudged, but the messy scrawl was impressive for a four-year-old child. He would go over it with her once they got to their quarters. "I see, but it seems you also did some baking?"
"Maybe..." she said, casting her gaze to the floor.
"Maybe," he sighed. "Well, I hope you enjoyed your break because there's plenty to do this afternoon."
Later that afternoon a now clean Hermione sat on his desk practising her letters with a quill. Severus would look up every now and then to look at her progress before returning to his marking. She had more control with the charcoal, but her tendency to touch her face while in thought made it a poor choice. The quill and inkwell proved as messy an endeavour. Though she was beginning to get the hang of it. Simple words and sentences were legible, that was all he could hope for at this age. He silently noted that before gathering Hermione's hair behind her shoulders.
"Hermione Elizabeth," he said. "You're going to make a mess if you get your hair in the ink."
"Sorry, sir," she replied.
"Just pay more attention," he patted the top of her head.
Minutes passed in silence and Severus had just finished the last of the fourth year papers unimpressed with the Ravenclaws' self-satisfaction in their long bibliographies. For a house meant for the wise, many seemed afraid to state an original idea. Honestly, so many of the students seemed bereft of ideas. He wondered why his students all seemed to put forth only the minimal effort required. His thoughts were interrupted by the snapping of a quill.
"Shit," Hermione whispered, staring at the broken blade.
"Hermione Elizabeth Lilium Snape," he snapped. "You watch your damn language!"
"English...?" she squeaked. Her large brown eyes stared at him as she recoiled backward.
She was four. The desperate doll-like eyes moistened and her olive skin paled, staring at him in fear. It was clear she had no idea what she did wrong.
"The word you just said is a very bad word," he explained.
"But you say it all the time," she cast her eyes at her dangling bare feet.
Well, shit, Severus thought. "And when you're a grown-up you can say whatever you want. Until then you don't get to say that word."
Hermione glanced up at him with her eyes but her head down, her shame seemed to go away, but he could sense the caution in her voice. "When will I be a grown-up?"
Severus couldn't help but smirk at this. He placed his hand on the top of her head leaned inches from her face. "That will be a very, very, very long time from now, my girl."
"Bullocks," she sighed with a dramatic eye roll.
"Are you testing me, little girl?" he forced himself to keep his voice even.
"What?" she asked.
"Okay," he sighed. "New rule! Don't say any word you hear Daddy or any other grown-up say under their breath."
"Yes, sir," she nodded. "What about-"
"Or students!" he added. "Deal?"
"Deal."
Severus waved his wand and repaired Hermione's quill. He then took her little right hand and positioned it around the quill. "Try holding the quill like this. You'll have more control over it and you'll be less likely to break it."
Hermione stared out the window watching the students milling about above her. Younger students played chase and older ones simply sat around in the sunshine talking. She yearned to lay on the grass and loved the idea of soaking up the sunshine. The closest she got was when her father or Hagrid took her out to help harvest plants. Hagrid was nice enough to let her play with his dog, Fang, and watch creatures in the forest. Until her father found out that was.
"Are you kidding me, Hagrid?!" he shouted. "Do you think the forest is even remotely safe for a six-year-old? She could have been hurt...or worse. What the hell were you thinking?!"
And so started Hermione's term in their living quarters. She turned her attention to the book in her lap. She wondered how many times she had read Dumbledore's old copy of Beetle and the Bard. Her attention turned back to the tiny drawing at the top of the title page. A triangle with a circle inside it divided in halves by a vertical line. She felt it meant something, but she didn't know what.
"Do you know what that symbol means?" she asked her father when she first opened it.
"Just a silly doodle the headmaster drew, probably when he was your age." he dismissed. "Why don't you read the first story to me?"
She couldn't deny her father had a gift for diverting her attention. He was an expert at it. She resented it, but had to assume there was a reason for it. Which only made her want to know the meaning behind the symbol more. The books she had access to had said nothing of the symbol. Though most of the books in their living quarters were either children's books or books she was not allowed to touch. When she did, all she found were books on spells, charms and potions. Often with her father's messy scrawl in the margins. Some of them were difficult to read, and it wasn't like she could ask for help in decoding the words. He grew suspicious when she had a nightmare that was eerily close to an illustration in one of those books.
"How the hell did you get in the windowsill?" her father said.
"Dad?" she scrambled to face him and jumped to the floor. "You're early."
"I wanted to check on you," he caught her before she hit the floor. "Thank Merlin for that. Did an eight-foot climb and jump seem safe to you?"
"I do it all the time," she admitted. "I like to watch the students...Maybe if I was allowed outside-"
"If you actually interacted with those students you'd know why I can't have you running around with them," he knelt down to her eye level. "They are incredibly cruel to those who are different and smaller. A six-year-old is both. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," she sighed.
"I know this must be very frustrating," he placed a hand on the top of her head. "But I'm just doing what's best for you. I will always keep you safe. That's a promise."
"From what?" she asked.
"From everything that could ever harm you," he kissed her forehead. "I love you very much, dear."
"I love you too, Dad," she said, hugging him. "But-"
"Ah, ah, but nothing, love," he pressed a finger to her lips. "Father knows best after all."
"Very good, Miss!" Libby exclaimed, hugging Hermione.
Hermione's face flushed and she covered her face with her hair to hide the sheepish smile. "Thanks."
The house-elf stayed with her during the days. She imagined her father chose Libby because she was literate in both English and French from her previous masters' assignments. Libby not only tutored her in French and English, but told her stories of her past. Libby had spent the day going over wizarding history, something she was very good at given her two-hundred years of service. She also secretly taught her Elvish and Goblin, something she was happy to do.
"Libby is very pleased with Miss, indeed!" Libby smiled. "A very good memory for readings!"
"I like reading," she shrugged standing. Hermione now stood a head taller than the tiny big-eyed house-elf. She had vague memories of Libby towering over her. "It's something that I'm good at...it might be the only thing I'm good at."
"Miss Hermione is very good at languages and mathematics!" Libby assured her. "And riddles!"
"You don't need to reassure me, Libby," she sighed, putting her book back on the shelf. "I know about magical contracts...heaping praise on me is beyond what you're asked, and has to be hard for you. I don't want you to feel like you have to pretend you like me."
"But Libby does like Miss Hermione," Libby said, taking her hand. "Miss Hermione is very kind to Libby."
"But you have to tutor me..." she sighed. "Tell me, Libby, if you could do anything in the world, anything at all, what would you do?"
Libby paused a moment, staring at her with wide brown eyes, bat-wing ears dropped to her thin cheeks and before averting her gaze. "Miss has asked Libby a very inappropriate question." she gulped. "Miss shouldn't ask house-elves such questions!"
"I'm sorry, Libby," Hermione pulled her hand back and stared at her feet. "I didn't mean to offend you."
Libby's face relaxed and she smiled. "Miss Hermione should just be more careful of questions she asks."
"Thank you, Libby," her father said, appearing at the table. The man was surprisingly quiet and often seemed to appear from nowhere like an oversized bat. "What did you go over today?"
"Libby reviewed chapter 3 in Magical and Mundane History of the British Isles, did multiplication tables and divisions and food words in French. Miss Hermione did very well when Libby quizzed her," she proudly presented him with the papers.
Why was she so proud? Libby was too smart to play nanny and kitchen maid, and she was too sweet to be enslaved. How could she act like some proud teacher or parent when she had no choice in the matter. Hermione's guilt swallowed her. If Hermione had just stayed put Libby wouldn't have to put up with her.
"Libby will see you tomorrow after breakfast, Miss," she said. "Have a good night."
After Libby vanished from their living quarters her father turned to face her. He leaned over her, black eyes staring through her, his nose centimetres from her face and greasy black hair nearly brushing over her. "I wonder, exactly what inappropriate question did you ask her?"
Hermione shrank in her spot, folding arms around her and bringing her tense shoulders to her ears while letting her hair fall over her body. She wanted to disappear, but found her courage and straightened herself, meeting his gaze. Whatever he would yell at her couldn't be worse than anything poor Libby or any other house-elf had been through.
"I asked her if she could do anything she wanted, what she would do," she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Oh, thank Merlin," he sighed in relief before sitting beside her.
He was always so unpredictable. She was certain she had angered him, but now his expression was calm, if not greatly relieved. Hermione never knew what to expect from him, he was so easy to anger, but he could also be gentle and warm with her. She wondered if she would ever know where she stood with him.
"What did you think I asked her?" she asked.
"That doesn't matter right now," he picked her up and placed her on his knee. "Why did you ask her that?"
It matters to me, she thought. Instead she let it go and turned her head to face him. "I've been reading about the history of wizards and house-elves. I know how magical contracts work. I-" she sighed and looked at her hands.
"You...?" he said, brushing her hair out of her face.
"Libby and all the other house-elves are slaves!" she cried. "Simply because they're house-elves they're forced to work, magically bound to do whatever their masters ask. No one ever asks them what they want. They watched me in the kitchens because they had to, they clean up after everyone without a word of thanks, and poor Libby...She had no say in the matter, you just got to choose a literate house-elf and now she's stuck with me!"
"My silly little girl," he smiled, wiping her cheek with his thumb. "I know it doesn't seem fair, and it isn't. If we lived in a perfect world they would be as free as you or me, but we don't. House-elves are very proud creatures, and asking if they are happy makes them think you don't think they're doing well."
"But that's not what I meant by it!"
"I know, love," he said. "But centuries of servitude-"
"Slavery."
"Don't interrupt grown-ups, Hermione," he warned. "Anyway, they've been in their lot for a very long time, and many of them can't imagine life another way. Sometimes imagining how life could have been is very painful, so they don't. Mattering to their masters is all they can hope for."
"Will that ever change?" she squeaked.
"I hope so," he smiled. "But it won't be in our life-times. It's something they'll have to figure out for themselves."
"But that's not fair!"
"Life's not fair," he sighed. "All we can do is learn to live with it."
"Yes, sir," she sighed. "Dad?"
"Yes?"
"I can do all the work myself," she said. "It's bad enough Libby has to do so much. I'm extra, and I feel bad that she has to pretend to like me."
"She's not pretending, Hermione," he assured her. "I went to the kitchens to look for someone to look after you and Libby volunteered. Don't go getting a big head, but she said that she missed looking after you and would be honoured if I chose her. She said you were always such a sweet girl and she would do anything for you."
"Really?" she asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"If you want you can ask her yourself and command her to be honest. She'll be magically compelled to tell the truth."
"No," she said thinking of Libby. "I don't want to force her to do anything."
"There you are," Severus groaned.
The little girl huddled under the table was barely visible beneath her mass of brown curls and the massive volume in her lap. She closed the book with an eye roll. "I thought you said I was allowed to go about the castle freely?"
"I believe the exact words I used were 'with an adult'," he snarled. "And don't roll your eyes."
"Doesn't Madam Pince count?" she asked.
"She would if she were here," he pointed at the ground. "Hermione Elizabeth Lilium Snape, get out from under there now!"
"Yes, sir," she obliged, looking around at the darkening library. "Where is she?"
"At supper," he examined her, relief and anger warring inside him at her unharmed appearance. "It's the sorting ceremony and the library is closed. Something you might have noticed if you weren't cowering beneath a table."
"But you're the one that said that I-" she protested.
"I've had enough of your cheek, little girl," he yelled. "This is clearly a privilege you aren't ready for! I was worried sick! Well, it's not something I have to worry about anymore, because you, young lady, are grounded!"
He watched the silent solemn child put away the volumes wondering if she even finished the volumes she spent all afternoon and evening reading. Such a voracious reader, yet the habit didn't keep her busy enough to keep from trouble. He wondered what else could keep a bored child from trouble. "We're not getting any younger," he commented as she pushed a chair to a shelf and stacked a number of books on it.
She struggled on her tiptoes, the books shifting beneath her weight. He wondered if one of them might fall off the chair. It was a short fall, but what if she landed on her head again?
"Are you so determined to destroy yourself?" he snapped, lifting her off the precarious perch. He waved his wand and everything was as it once was.
Later that night Severus found Hermione curled up in her bed reading by the dim light of the glow-globe set on her bedside table. Most parents would be proud he imagined their child's nose always stuck in a book. But Hermione buried herself in whatever she could read not just to occupy herself, but to spite him. After everything he had been through it irked him that some little girl's ire upset him so much. He used to be her world and now she gave him the cold shoulder?
"You'll ruin your eyes," he said sitting next to her. "What are you reading anyway?" his eyes scanned the newspaper. "The Daily Prophet?"
"What are Death Eaters?" she asked in a small voice.
A knot formed in his stomach. How to explain that to a child...How much did she know? The headline read Suspected Death Eaters Interrogated. How Many Are Hiding in Your Community? He took the paper and folded it, setting it aside before drawing her closer.
"It's nothing you have to worry about. How does a six-year-old get a hold of the Daily Prophet?" he asked.
"Seven," Hermione muttered.
Shit, you literally chose her birthday and forgot it! He sighed before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Either way, this is not something I want you reading right now. It won't do you any good."
"Yes, sir," she sighed.
"I imagine that article left you with a lot of questions," he said, brushing her hair out of her face. "You're not old enough for the answers to a lot of those questions. Do you understand?"
Hermione nodded, her wide eyes and her two front teeth digging into her bottom lip telegraphed both her concern and her curiosity.
"All you need to know is that you're safe," he said, touching the faint scar on her forehead. "And what did I tell you about keeping you safe?"
"That you will always keep me safe?"
"And I will never let any harm come to you."
Hermione burrowed into his chest and threw her arms around him. "Dad?"
"Yes...?"
"Will you stay with me tonight?"
"Of course, love."
"How old are these books?" Hermione coughed, pulling a dust-covered volume from the shelf. "Some of these are older than me, Dad."
"My dear, every book in this cupboard is older than you," Severus said. "In fact, most of them are older than me."
"Really?" she turned from the ladder in amazement.
"You know what, Hermione?" he sighed. "We can discuss age when you have at least one decade behind you."
"Why do I feel like you'll change that requirement next year?" she called down to him.
"Focus, little girl." he chastised. "It's been a good while since the cupboard's been cleaned out. Some of them may come apart at a touch."
"Yes, sir," she sighed before brandishing a particularly moth-eaten volume. It fell apart at its spine, what pages were left fell to the base of the ladder.
"Will you be careful?" he snapped, gathering the pages. "Last thing I need is for you to fall and destroy the shelves."
"Yessir," she sighed.
Hermione loaded her arms with a stack of books and descended the ladder. She got to the third wrung when a sudden crack came from beneath her foot. She dropped the books and tried to grab the sides. A flash of brown and navy fell, plummeting near ten feet. Severus grabbed his wand and caught her in mid-air. She stared at the ground and gasped before meeting his gaze. He gently lowered her before rushing to her side.
"I believe I told you to be careful," he sighed, cupping her face in his hands. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," she breathed before turning to the cupboard. "Don't think I can say the same for the ladder...or the books."
"I've been meaning to replace that blasted thing," he said, placing a hand on the top of her head. "Only so many times I can repair the rungs before the wood is done."
"Really?" she knelt to the floor and gingerly picked up the books.
"If you only learn one thing from me," he knelt to her level. "Magic can only do so much. Eventually, everything and everyone comes to an end, always."
Hermione's face softened, she tilted her head and took his hand in her own tiny one. "Are you okay, Dad?"
He cleared his throat and lifted her off the ground. "Which is exactly why you need to be careful. I'm not losing you to some ladder mishap."
"Yes, sir," she nodded.
Perhaps nine was young for a lesson in mortality. But wasn't he doing her an even greater disservice if he didn't enlighten her to some of the harsher realities of the world? Sure, he could hide Death Eaters and more specific atrocities from her...but he wondered if she was ready for the world. Nearly eight years he sheltered her from everything he could. But what if she lost everything she ever loved when she grew up? Severus came upon her completely by accident, and if it wasn't for her, he would have nothing but the memory of a dead woman. Hermione was all he had, and he had no clue how to raise her. How often had he wondered if he was doing her justice? The idea that she might have been better off with the muggles gnawed at him daily. He wondered how much longer he could keep her safe without hurting her.
"Dad?"
"Hermione, there's something I need to tell y-"
A quick rapping on the door interrupted him. Unsure if he was relieved or frustrated he set Hermione down and answered the door to find a fuming McGonagall and a red-headed first-year Slytherin boy by the ear.
"What happened here?" he asked, gesturing them inside.
"O'Malley simply thought it would be hilarious if Percy Weasley sprouted ears of corn from his ears!" McGonagall seethed, releasing the boy.
"It was a harmless prank, I swear, professors!" O'Malley begged.
"Harmless?" she scoffed. "The boy's in the hospital wing!"
"And it's hardly your first offence," Severus noted.
"I was provoked-"
"Silence, boy," he warned before turning back to McGonagall. "I'll deal with the boy, thank you."
"Very well."
McGonagall left and he turned his attention to O'Malley. An awkward, thin boy stretched over a tall frame with pale freckled skin and flaming red hair that fell in ringlets passed his shoulders. The boy showed promise but seemed not to put the same efforts into his classwork as he did into his stupid schemes. The awkward boy was a target for bullying the past few months, earning him some pity from him. O'Malley spent the last chance pity bought him.
"You've had a very busy first term. Emmett Jackson and his little gang spent the last month with filthy words written on their foreheads," he counted. "Thomas Cromwell was petrified and covered in rubbish and dragged into the common room. You spiked Trevor Langdon's drink with a love-potion to have him madly pursue the Gryffindor seeker so you and the rest of the school could shout disgusting, homophobic slurs at them. That alone should have earned your expulsion. But then you circulate a pamphlet revealing nasty rumours about everyone in your year. You have spent every weekend in detention and you still found time to curse Matilda Banks's mouth shut. And now you've cursed Percy Weasley. Did I miss anything?"
"That's about it, sir," he said meekly.
"Oh, cheeky are we?" he seethed. "I don't think you understand the position you're in, boy."
"But, sir, I was-"
"Provoked? Do tell me what your excuse is this time! I could buy the rest of them. Your targets were cruel to you and the pamphlet was easy to ignore. But what moronic idea possessed you to attack Percy Weasley? The boy is pretentious to be sure, but hasn't done anything to harm anyone. Or are you telling me the boy is simply so hard to pinch he's never been caught?"
"He said that I-"
"Oh, so the boy had the decency to speak to you and that earned him vegetables sprouting from his ears? It astonishes me you've failed to make any friends with that behaviour!" he laughed. "Has it ever occurred to you that you were the problem? No, you're too wrapped in self-pity to imagine you could possibly be doing anything wrong. You are just like those others you saw fit to punish. I've seen hundreds of boys like you in my time. Cruel and twisted, convinced the world owes them something."
"But, sir," O'Malley started. "They were harmless pranks!"
"Don't you dare interrupt me, boy!" he roared. "And I've seen enough 'harmless pranks' to know that is never what they are! You have caused serious, irreparable damage. But no, certainly you're the victim here. Not the other students you have sent to the hospital! Give me one reason I shouldn't expel you right now. It certainly isn't going to be strength of character or your abysmal academics."
The boy shrank his large blue eyes scanning the room, his face drained of any colour it once had. He was clearly scrambling for a reason. He opened his mouth but no sound escaped his lips. Severus had given the boy every chance now, and he was blowing this one last reprieve. No one would miss the likes of this child, and he would be relieved of the near weekly lectures and calls to action. His favouritism of his own house only went so far, and he was happy to be rid of the boy.
"The wand," he held out his hand. "Hand it over, Mr. O'Malley. You're done here."
The boy stood there dumbfounded, mouth agape. Paralysed, fear etched in his face. O'Malley was so pathetic in that moment that he almost felt sorry for him. He was about to ask for the wand again when he heard something drop. They both turned their attention to the girl they'd forgotten was in the room.
Hermione had dropped the books and simply stared at him. Her already large eyes grew to an even larger size, her mouth agape as she regarded him with disbelief. Eight years of raising her, but not once had she looked at him the way she was now. Was it fear of him or pity for the boy? Both? He couldn't know, but a knot formed in the back of his throat. Could he really expel him in front of her?
When Potter would attend he would get his chance to redeem himself. But Hermione was his second chance at a life worth living. She would never know that she saved him much more than the other way around. Could he strip O'Malley, who, if he were honest, reminded him so much of himself, of the same chance? No, not while his own second chance stared at him pleading for him not to.
"Today's your lucky day, O'Malley!" he snapped. "I've decided to give you another chance. Do not make me regret it, because I promise you will regret it more than I do. Now get the hell out of my office!"
He obliged, disappearing on the other side of the door within seconds. He didn't think he'd ever seen a student so quick to leave his office. Let alone a Slytherin. He hoped he was smart enough to keep his head down for the next six years.
"Are you going to stand there all day?" he sighed.
"No, sir."
"No, hit!" Hermione told George Weasley tugging on his sleeve.
"Fine," George shrugged. "Hit me."
Fred laid a deuce of clubs on George's King of Hearts and Nine of Diamonds. "I guess you win."
"How did you do that, kid?" Lee Jordan asked.
"Kid?" she scoffed. "I'm two years younger than you!"
"Isn't she cute, Fred?" George pinched her cheeks.
Hermione rolled her eyes and grabbed the twins' reclaimed muggle deck. "It's easy, there are 52 cards in the deck right?"
"Yes."
"Then there is a one in fifty-two chance of any card being in the deck. But when four cards are revealed the chances are bigger. Then you remember there are four of each card. So the chances are better for cards that haven't been revealed. For instance, all four two's were in the deck, while two of the sevens were in the discard pile and-"
"Are you little idiots teaching my nine-year-old to count cards?!"
Of course he found her. He told her that she was allowed to roam the courtyard and attempt to socialise with the first and second years on Saturdays. She hadn't had much luck. "Snape's foundling", most avoided her like the plague. The advice and lesson was the closest she'd come all afternoon to social interaction. And as expected, he physically removed her from the circle. She knew her father wasn't the monster others said he was, and she defended most of what he did...at least mentally. However, she resented being picked up like a toddler every time he didn't like where she was. It wasn't fair.
"Actually," Fred began.
"She's teaching us," George finished.
"Is that so?" he raised an eyebrow.
"I like numbers," she mumbled.
"That's wonderful, little girl," his icy voice dripped in sarcasm. "You can work with all the numbers you want when you help me with the inventory. And I'll be deducting five points each from you lot. Gambling is strictly forbidden on school grounds. Hand the cards over."
"That didn't work out," her father said, counting jars in the storeroom. "Maybe we'll try again next year."
It's March! How long would Hermione be relinquished to simply watch life pass her by? Nine years and she had not once been off the school grounds. Just two more years, she told herself. "You only have thirty-two rat spleens left." She jotted it down on her chart. "You'll have to harvest more."
"No protests?" he mused. "I don't know whether to be relieved or concerned."
"Of course not," Hermione rolled her eyes. "You do know best after all."
"I can do without the cheek, young lady," he said. "And I do know best. Never forget that."
"You want to leave for a whole month?" he said, leafing through the proposal. "Are you mad, little girl?"
Outside of the incident with the Weasley twins she had been perfectly well-behaved all year. She had gone above and beyond, his office and their living quarters were spotless, she had always been keen to help him with his work, but now she took initiative. He should have expected something like this...
"Each of them are only four weeks in length, and they're educational," she noted.
Before him she had laid out twelve pamphlets for July summer camps throughout the country. Eleven wizarding camps that claimed to socialise younger children while teaching them something of use. One offered to teach basic arithmetic and literacy, some promised to conduct itself entirely in another language and other useless prattle. The twelfth was a muggle maths camp. She even wrote a two-page proposal and attached testimonials of students for each one. At nine-years-old she had spent almost the entire year gathering information in secret to present him with this in May. He wished he could channel such thorough efforts to something constructive.
"At the rate at which you read books I'm doubtful you need help with literacy and you've already proven yourself to be good enough at maths to count cards," he reminded her. "There's nothing in any of these programs I can't help with. Unless of course, you don't think I'm good enough for your liking. I understand, I only raised you and taught you everything you know."
Hermione stared at him for a moment before folding her arms across her arms and rubbing her shoulders. She knit her eyebrows and took a deep breath before responding. "That's not it at all, Dad," she sighed, backing away from him. "It has nothing to do with you. I just-" she choked.
"You just what?" he said. "Go on, I'm listening."
"I've never met anyone my age. The idea of starting school without any friends..." she took another deep breath before averting her gaze. "It terrifies me."
"Is that what this is all about?" he laughed. "Almost every first year is in the exact same position as you," he approached her and placed a hand on her head. "You're such a silly little girl."
Hermione still stared at her feet, her hair completely covering her face and torso. He couldn't help but imagine that if she could grow it long enough she'd hide her entire body with it. She was so inscrutable. At times the girl was funny, well-spoken and very forward (perhaps often too much so!), but then she would shrink behind her hair, a book or whatever was available. He felt the older she got the less he understood her. What was he supposed to do?
"You should look at people when they're speaking to you, love," he sighed, moving the locks out of her face. "What is all of this about?"
Hermione's face flushed a bright pink and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I told you something terrified me and you laughed!" she squeaked. "I'm not mad to worry about this."
"Did I call you 'mad'?" he replied coolly. "I don't seem to recall doing so..."
"'Are you mad, little girl?'" Hermione said. "Those were your exact words minutes ago."
She was right. Guilt and anger warred within him. The girl was nine, perhaps she was young enough he still had to curate his words. Perhaps he was a tad harsh, but who was she to speak to him in that way? He wasn't some unfeeling monster, but she couldn't be speaking to him like that. He was her father, some respect was due. She was raised better than this.
"Don't you dare speak to me like that again!" he snapped. "How could I have raised such an impetuous child? If you don't apologize right now I will give you something to cry about!"
Merlin, sound familiar? Those words reminded him too much of his own upbringing. Another way he managed to fail her, he hoped his count was more accurate than hers would be. He bit his tongue before drawing out a long breath. He thought in silence before he had the chance to say something else he'd regret if Hermione broke the silence.
"I'm sorry, Dad," she evened her tone. "You're right. This whole thing was stupid-"
"I never said that it was stupid," he evened his own tone. "I simply think you're misguided."
Hermione shrugged and backed up from him. "It doesn't matter. I'm a social retard anyway."
"A what?" he coughed.
Hermione dug her teeth into her lip and wrung her hands. "I don't know how to talk to people...It's like a game I don't know the rules to."
"And you thought being put in a sink-or-swim situation would help with that?"
"Yes, sir," she averted her gaze again. "Stupid, I know."
"Hermione, I-" he began. "Where the hell does a nine-year-old pick up a term like 'social retard'?"
"I've heard it a few times here or there," she shrugged.
"Here or there? How specific," he sighed. "I imagine you think you're protecting someone? Such a naive child. First rule of the real world; don't reward their cruelty with loyalty. They'll only be more cruel in return."
"Yes, sir," she said.
"I want to tell you that things will get better," he said. "But I'm not going to lie to you. You're not like those idiots and they will hurt you if you give them the chance. But they won't all be like that. Choose your friends wisely, love."
"Yes, sir," she nodded.