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The young woman sits studiously at a table deep within the stacks of the library. It was her mother’s favorite spot, all those years ago, tucked under one of the ornate stained-glass windows. Her inky curls are piled atop her head, just visible over the impressive stacks of books surrounding her. She does not look up when the headmaster approaches though her quill hesitates when he picks up the small leatherbound book.
"Well, now that is interesting,” he says flipping through the first few pages. "It appears this book chooses its readers, and I am not amongst them."
“It’s a personal text,” she responds evenly.
“Obviously,” Severus drawls.
“Are we no longer allowed to have private things, Headmaster?”
He arches a brow. “Mind your tone, Miss Snape.”
His daughter leans back in her chair, crossing her arms defiantly across her chest. It is an odd juxtaposition to see his wife’s caramel eyes burn with his intensity; Neither parent will claim themselves as the source of her stubbornness—both claiming themselves to be simply tenacious—and perhaps therein lies the problem. Despite her exemplary genetics, it is Severus’ experience with withstanding the Dark Lord that prevails; she averts her eyes with a huff.
“Mum knows about it.”
“How much does she know about it?”
A noncommittal shrug.
“Beatrice.”
“She was there when I received it.”
Severus’ mind whirls. It was a gift then. Her birthday was last month. They had done a small celebration as a family since Severus was needed at the castle. Hermione had then taken Beatrice and their son, Sebastian, to the Burrow to celebrate with the Weasleys and the Potters.
The Potters.
No.
James sodding Potter had given his daughter a gift.
This heavily warded gift.
Beatrice rips the journal from his grasp and clutches it protectively against her chest.
“You will not burn it.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Please you were practically shouting it.” She gestures to her temple. Bloody natural legilimens, why was he ever proud of that fact? Horribly inconvenient. Beatrice smirks.
“Beatrice? Are you still here? You stopped responding so I—”
James Potter stops speaking the moment he rounds the stacks. His eyes widen briefly as he takes in the sight of father and daughter squaring off. Severus sees the moment he wants to run, and the moment he decides to stay. Completely ignoring Beatrice’s warning look, James sets his shoulders and strides confidently down the aisle.
“Good evening, Headmaster.”
“Tell me, Potter, what year are you?”
His steps falter, sensing the trap but not knowing the outcome. “I’m a fifth-year, Sir.”
“And in that time have you ever been permitted food or drink in the library?”
“No, Sir.”
“Dad.”
Severus ignores his daughter. The old scripts come readily back to him. “Do you think the rules do not apply to you, Potter? That you get special privileges because my wife is friendly with your father?”
“No, Sir.” The boy’s neck has gone red as his uncle’s before him, but his tone is perfectly polite.
Severus moves to vanish the food items but then he smells the steam of the open cup. He looks closely at the carefully wrapped food. Then he looks back up at the boy.
“You brought this for her.”
“She didn’t ask me to,” James says quickly. “She always yells at me for it, but I need to make sure she’s eating.”
“You’re not eating?”
Beatrice glares at James who, to his credit, doesn’t falter. “I may have missed a few meals this week because I was studying. It’s not a big deal. He’s just a worrier.”
Her rumbling stomach betrays her dismissive tone. They had talked about this. Hermione had warned him to watch her. He had watched her. Yet somehow, he still missed it. But the boy… the boy had not.
“Curfew is in five minutes. Beatrice, I expect you to be in Ravenclaw tower when it starts. Potter, come with me.”
“But—”
“Now.”
With a wave of his wand, Severus wordlessly reshelves the books. Beatrice stomps off towards her dormitory while James walks just a half-step behind him. The boy wisely does not try to speak on the way. Nor does he break the silence when they enter the room. Severus sits at his desk and steeples his fingers.
“You have my gratitude.”
James blinks at him. “What?”
Severus sighs and leans back. “My daughter, like her mother before her, tends to be consumed by her studies. I failed to notice. You did not.”
“You have other things to focus on,” James offers charitably.
“I believe you have the same exams to study for, do you not?”
His cheeks turn pink. “We usually study together.”
“I see.” Severus lets the silence extend a moment. “What is the secret of the journal she had?”
“It’s a paired journal.” He withdraws his own and opens to an innocuous page. “We can write to each other this way. She doesn’t write me back during lessons, of course.”
Beatrice could spend entire class periods waxing poetic in the bloody notebook and it would not impede her performance. Still his ready defense of his daughter is noted.
“Why can I read yours?”
“Anything I’d write down I’m willing to say in company,” he says with a shrug. “Bea likes her privacy so I warded hers.”
“Which spells did you use?”
“I, er, I made them, Sir.”
The boy is intelligent. He makes his daughter laugh. He takes care of her. His parents are upright people if also annoyingly Gryffindor. Salazar save him.
“I’ve invented several spells in my own time,” Severus puts forth conversationally.
“What is their purpose?”
“So long as you don’t break my daughter’s heart, you need never know. Return to your dormitory at once.”
The door closes with a snap.
“Well, that went better than expected.”
Severus whips around to find his wife standing in the doorway of his chambers.
“What are you doing here?”
“Need I a reason to see my husband,” she asks as she saunters across the room.
Severus pushes back from his desk and turns his chair. As he hoped, she straddles his lap. He reaches up to brush her hair from her face.
“Not at all,” he says warmly. “However, I somehow doubt you had innocent intentions.”
“Perhaps not,” she says with a smirk. “Our daughter was quite worried you were going to murder her boyfriend.”
“I was weighing my options.”
“I think he could be good for her.”
“No one is good enough for her.”
“She’s not our little girl anymore, Sev.”
“She might not be mine at all,” he deadpans. “I mean a Potter, really?”
Hermione snickers. “You like Harry well enough now.”
“Yes, well I have long suspected I’m going senile. “
She rolls her eyes. “I think we’ll be alright.”
Severus slides his hands up to her waist. “I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time a scoundrel ended up with a saint.”