Little Swan's protectors

by Rurisorin

Summary:

What if Eileen Prince and Tobias Snape lived a happy life and raised Severus with love and kindness
What if Tobias was a great husband and a father
What if a one night bar meeting turns into love

Notes:

So I am writing this in my phone sorry for mistakes <3
And english isn't my first not even second language so again sorry for mistakes

Chapter 1

London, 1959 — A smoky bar near King’s Cross.
The door slammed open with a clatter.
Heads turned, cigarettes paused mid-air, and conversation died in a heartbeat. The bar wasn't used to this much leg or this much lipstick.
She stood in the doorway like she owned the place tall, slim, and far too beautiful for this part of London. Her glossy dark hair curled just so under a little red beret, and her mini skirt scandalized three old men in the corner. Two massive leather suitcases flanked her sides, like guards.
But she didn’t notice any of them.
Because her eyes had already locked on him.
At the far end of the bar, a man sat nursing a vodka. He was massive — broad-shouldered, tall enough to make ceilings nervous, with thick arms folded under a worn wool coat. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Soviet war novel. His eyes were dark, his jawline sharp, and his hair a mess of black curls.
She walked past the whispers and gawks, heels clicking.
He stared. He couldn’t stop.
His name was Tobias Alexandraviç Snape. He didn’t understand a word of English. But he didn’t need to.
Because when she walked right up to him, leaned her hip against the bar, and gave him the most wicked little smile he’d ever seen, his heart actually stopped.
“Tu veux m’acheter un verre, monsieur?” she purred.
Tobias blinked.
She gestured toward his drink, her long fingers brushing his knuckles.
He understood enough.
He called the bartender over with a rough, accented voice. “Two. Vodka. Da.” He pointed between them.
She laughed a bubbling, inappropriate sound.
“You don’t speak English, hmm?”
“Non.”
“Russian?”
“Da. Very Russian.”
“Perfect.”
She reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a silver cigarette case, and lit one. Smoke curled around her red lips. Then she slid onto the stool beside him, knees brushing his thigh.
They didn’t need words. They talked in looks. She leaned close, told him her name in a low voice: Aveline Louise Prince.
He didn’t say his name until she asked.
“Tobias,” he said. “Snape.” He pointed at his chest, then at her heart. “Tobias… pour Aveline.”
She flushed, eyes twinkling. “Aveline pour Tobias.”
They laughed. The drinks kept coming wine for her, vodka for him. He taught her a Russian toast. She taught him the dirtiest word in French.
At some point, he touched her cheek.
At some point, she kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry. The kind of kiss that made the entire bar pause again but neither of them noticed. Tobias cupped her face with big calloused hands and kissed like he’d found something he never thought he’d deserve.
An hour later, they were stumbling out into the London night, both a little drunk and wildly in love.
Tobias's house outskirts of the city
He carried her suitcases up the stairs like they weighed nothing.
His home was humble but clean: a two-floor house with three bedrooms, a small kitchen, and a firelit living room. No one had ever lived there before — it still smelled like paint.
She threw her coat off the second they walked in.
“You cook?” she asked in broken English.
He nodded. “I cook. Borscht. Bread. Eggs. Anything.”
He made tea. She found the wine in her suitcase.
They sat on the floor with glasses and candles, her legs in his lap, their laughter echoing in a room meant to be a home. They told stories in three languages, filling the silence with gestures and jokes.
By midnight, the glasses were empty.
By one, they were wrapped in each other on the sofa, half-dressed, her lipstick smeared on his throat, his fingers tangled in her curls.
By morning, the world had changed.
Because Tobias Snape had found his reason to stay.
And Aveline Prince had found the one man she'd never have to run from.

The next morning — Tobias’s house, kitchen, 6:45 AM
The sunlight filtered through the dusty curtains, warm and soft over the wooden table.
Tobias was already at the stove, shirtless, wearing only worn pajama pants slung low on his hips. His muscles flexed with every motion cracking eggs, flipping pancakes, stirring thick oatmeal that steamed gently in a battered pot.
The kettle hissed, full of black Russian tea steeped with honey and lemon peel.
Behind him, the sound of slow footsteps on wood.
He turned.
She was standing there like sin.
Eileen in nothing but her black lace underwear and his oversized wool coat, barely tied at the waist. Her dark curls were a beautiful mess, her eyeliner smudged from last night. Her long legs bare, her lips swollen from kissing.
She gave him a sleepy smirk.
“Tu fais toujours ça? Petit-déjeuner pour une fille que t’as embrassée dans un bar?”
(You always do this? Breakfast for a girl you kissed in a bar?)
Tobias grinned. He didn’t understand every word. But her voice, her mouth — he wanted to understand everything.
“Ты… как картина.”
(You… are like a painting.)
She tilted her head. “Say that again?”
He came closer, tea in one hand, the other sliding around her waist. He murmured close to her mouth.
“Ты как картина. Художник не сможет нарисовать лучше.”
(You are like a painting. No artist could do better.)
She melted. “Oh, mon Dieu…”
Their lips collided again hot and slow this time, like the second glass of wine. Her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers in his hair. She stood on tiptoe, body pressed to his as the kiss deepened, long and greedy.
His hand cupped her bare thigh under the coat. Her breath caught.
Then she pulled away with a grin. “I am starving, mon ours russe.”
(My Russian bear.)
At the breakfast table
The pancakes were fluffy, the oatmeal rich with raspberry jam, and the tea perfect. Eileen sat cross-legged on one of the wooden chairs, still wearing just her coat. Her lips were shiny with honey and butter.
Tobias sat across from her, watching her eat like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
“У тебя есть семья?” he asked softly.
(Do you have family?)
She paused. The smile dimmed a little.
“Je les ai quittés,” she said simply. “Ils ont essayé de me marier à un vieux sang-pur. Je suis partie.”
(I left them. They tried to marry me off to some old pureblood. I left.)
“Ты смелая.”
(You are brave.)
“Tu n’as pas de famille, toi?”
(You don’t have family?)
He shook his head, sipping his tea.
“Нет. Сирота. Родителей убила война.”
(No. Orphan. War killed my parents.)
“Je suis désolée…”
(I’m sorry…)
He shrugged, but his eyes were soft. “Жизнь есть жизнь.”
(Life is life.)
She leaned forward, touching his hand.
She looked up at him, something gentle blooming behind the sass.
“Tu sais... je pourrais rester ici quelque temps.”
(You know... I could stay here a while.)
He answered by picking her up chair and all and setting her on the table with a laugh.
“Останься навсегда.”
(Stay forever.)

Chapter 2

Summary:

Eileen makes a new friend

Later that morning – Tobias’s bedroom
Eileen sat cross legged on his bed, sunlight pouring in through the crooked window. Her red-painted toenails wiggled in the warm light as she opened one of her two massive leather suitcases with a dramatic fwoomph.
Scarves. Satin blouses. Stockings. A glittering mess of earrings and delicate gold chains. Perfume bottles shaped like daggers. A few spellbooks from Beauxbatons with flirty notes scribbled in the margins. A cigarette case with velvet lining. Lipsticks in every shade of war. And underneath all that chocolate. Dozens of bars, from France and Belgium. A little enchanted box with her initials glittering on it: A.L.P. Inside were chocolate truffles that never melted and caramel bonbons that sparked when you bit into them.
She opened the second suitcase. More clothes. Her wand. A red silk dress so short it was practically criminal. Tobias knocked on the doorframe, shirt now on, boots half-laced, still smelling faintly of soap and firewood. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her rummage through silk and sweets.
“Ты живешь здесь теперь, да?”
(You live here now, huh?)
She turned, grinning.
“Évidemment.”
(Obviously.)
“Это что?” he asked, pointing to the chocolate box.
(What is that?)
“Ah!” She held it up like a treasure. “Chocolat . Très cher. Très bon.”
(Magical chocolate. Very expensive. Very good.)
She picked out a round caramel bonbon and raised it toward his mouth.
“Go on. Taste it.”
He blinked, then leaned in slightly.
She popped it between his lips, fingers brushing his stubbled chin. The bonbon burst with caramel and it make his eyes widen.
“Это... рай.”
(This is… heaven.)
“Je sais.”
(I know.)
He laughed a deep, warm sound then sat beside her and picked up one of her perfume bottles, sniffing it curiously.
“Научи меня французскому.”
(Teach me French.)
She turned toward him slowly, delighted.
“Tu veux apprendre le français, mon loup?”
(You want to learn French, my wolf?)
He nodded seriously. “Чтобы понять тебя.”
(So I can understand you.)
Her eyes shimmered. She reached out and cupped his cheek.
“D’accord. Première leçon.” She pointed at herself. “Je suis Aveline.”
(Okay. First lesson: I am Aveline.)
“Жё… суи… Авелин.”
(Zheh swee Aveh-leen.)
She clapped. “Parfait! Maintenant toi.”
(Perfect! Now you.)
She pointed at him.
“Tu es Tobias.”
(You are Tobias.)
“Тю э Тобиас.”
(Tu eh Tobias.)
They laughed together, forehead to forehead.
“Un jour,” she whispered, “tu comprendras tout ce que je dis.”
(One day, you’ll understand everything I say.)
Before work
Tobias pulled on his thick coat, buttoning it with strong fingers. He checked the clock. His shift at the wood factory started soon.
Eileen trailed after him in one of his old shirts that barely covered her thighs, holding a tea cup and watching him like a starstruck teenager. He turned to her, holding out a folded bundle of cash several pounds in worn bills.
She blinked. “C’est quoi?”
(What’s this?)
“Для тебя.”
(For you.)
She took it slowly. “Mais pourquoi?”
(But why?)
He shrugged. “Купи себе что-нибудь красивое. Или вкусное. Или смешное. Просто весело.”
(Buy yourself something beautiful. Or tasty. Or silly. Just have fun.)
“Tobias…”
He kissed her forehead.
“Вернусь к ужину.”
(I’ll be back for dinner.)
As he opened the door, she rushed after him barefoot, grabbed his sleeve, and kissed him full on the mouth hard, warm, lingering.
“Je t’aime déjà un peu, tu sais…”
(I already love you a little, you know…)
He kissed her again, holding her waist.
“Я знаю.”
(I know.)
And with one last smile, he was gone, leaving behind the scent of cedarwood and tea, and a very, very smitten French witch standing in his doorway.

 

The cobblestone street was lined with modest brick houses and trimmed hedges, sleepy in the warm sun. A milk cart rattled by. A tabby cat lounged under a gate. Somewhere, a radio hummed soft jazz. And then the click click of heels. Heads turned. Curtains twitched. Eileen Prince strutted down the lane like a woman late to a Paris runway. She wore a powder blue minidress that clung to her in all the right ways sleeveless, high-necked, with a daring slit that revealed long legs and a bit of thigh with every step. Her heels matched, her hair was teased into perfect curls, and a thin silk scarf fluttered around her neck.
She carried Tobias’s money in a glittery clutch and looked like she'd never heard of shame. Half the neighborhood judged her. The other half wanted to be her. Outside a tidy house with rose bushes. A young woman stood on the front step, bouncing a baby in her arms while trying to hang out laundry with one hand. She wore a floral house dress and sensible shoes. Her hair was pinned up simply, her face free of makeup. Her wedding ring caught the sun. The baby —a red-faced newborn — gave a hiccuping squeal. Eileen paused, tilted her head, and approached with a little smile.
“Bonjour.” She gestured to the child. “Bébé?”
The woman blinked at her, startled. “Um… hello. Yes, she’s mine.”
“Elle est magnifique.”
(She’s beautiful.)
Eileen crouched a little, making a soft cooing noise. The baby blinked at her huge eyelinered eyes, hiccupped again, then sneezed. The woman laughed nervously. “I’m Lucy. Lucy Evans. That’s Petunia.”
“Enchantée. Je suis Eileen.” She stood, offering a delicate hand. “Eileen Snape. Enfin… presque.”
(Charmed. I’m Eileen Snape. Well… almost.)
Lucy’s eyes widened at the name not Snape, but Eileen this woman didn’t look or act like anyone on the street.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“France,” Eileen said brightly, slipping easily into English. “Just moved. With my… boyfriend.” She pronounced it like boy-frahnd.
Lucy nodded politely, but her eyes flicked to Eileen’s dress. “You’re very… fashionable.”
“Merci.” Eileen twirled. “This old thing?”
Lucy tried not to stare. “Do you always wear… dresses like that?”
“Of course. What else I wear? Sack?”
Lucy laughed despite herself. “I don’t think I could walk in those shoes for more than five minutes.”
“You could. You just don’t want to. There’s difference.”
She winked and leaned down to tickle Petunia’s chin.
“She has your nose. She will be heartbreaker.”
Lucy smiled proudly. “Do you have children?”
Eileen blinked, then smirked.
“Pas encore.”
(Not yet.)
Lucy glanced down at Eileen’s bare ring finger. “Are you and your boyfriend… married?”
“Non.” A shrug. “But he makes tea. And pancakes. I call this ‘husband enough.’”
Lucy stared. “He cooks?”
“Every day.”
She grinned, then whispered:
“He is very tall. Very strong. Very good in bed.”
Lucy gasped, covering Petunia’s ears.
Eileen laughed, scandalous and musical. “Oh, désolée. Too much?”
Lucy shook her head, trying not to smile. “You’re… different.”
Eileen stepped beside her, helping her pin a sheet to the line with unexpected grace.
“So are you. You have baby. Husband. House. All this.” She gestured around. “You are beautiful.”
Lucy blushed. “Thank you.”
They stood quietly for a moment, sun warming their faces.
“Maybe we be friends,” Eileen said suddenly.
Lucy hesitated. “You… want to be friends with me?”
“You are kind. You have tea? I bring chocolate. French chocolate.”
Lucy smiled slowly. “Deal.”
A few houses down, an old man behind a curtain muttered:
“Bloody foreign girl. Heels at midday. What's next topless?”
And across the street, someone said, “If that’s her morning look, imagine what she wears to bed.”

Notes:

So I translate the Russian and French with ChatGPT and I am so sorry if its wrong