"Excuse me," she whispered and left the table as quietly as she could but Harry, her friend, was on her heels immediately. He very possibly felt the same way she did, had not expected this outcome. The very last of the Death Eater trials. The very last verdict and they had both expected a little slap on the fingers for Severus Snape, they had both expected that he would have been hailed, in due time, as the hero he had been. But none of that.
"We have to do something," said Harry, walking slowly next to her, careful not to trod on any garden gnomes.
"I know," replied Hermione tiredly. "But what?"
"I think we should find him first and then we can, I don't know, there must be a way to convince them that this is wrong. Don't they know how many spells he invented? What he did?"
She sighed wearily. "It's the Wizengamot. That Tremlett person was not here when all of this happened. And Kingsley is probably happy to have him away."
"Why should he be?" asked Harry.
"I don't know. But now, they don't have to deal with him. If he had gone free, there would have been the question of how to treat him, how to...oh, forget it Harry, I'm talking rubbish. I don't know. It just seems so unfair," she ran a hand down her face, rubbing her eyes. "Can we do anything?"
"I'll talk to Arthur and to Kingsley. I'll try, Hermione," said Harry slowly. "But..."
"But?" asked Hermione, waving her wand and drying a spot of grass, warming it, too, and sat down.
"I doubt it will work. They've been harsh with the Death Eaters."
"Not with all of them. Malfoy?" she asked with arched eyebrows.
"Malfoy is a ... with more money than the rest of the Wizarding World put together. He doesn't count. He would get off with a slap on the wrist if he killed Merlin himself."
"But..."
"Hermione, it's the way it is. We all thought it would change but apparently, wars don't change the structure of the world. Or not that hugely. It's unfair."
"It is unfair," said Hermione darkly.
Harry shrugged and spelled another patch of grass dry and warm. It was mild for the beginning of December but it had been raining for weeks now. He sat down, wrapped his arm around Hermione's shoulder and let her rest her head against his shoulder. "Speaking of unfair," he began hesitantly, "what about..."
"Oh, don't talk about Ron," Hermione huffed and poked his ribs. "It's not unfair. You know how it went. There was no spark left by the time we could admit to wanting to be together. If he had gotten it together by fourth or fifth year, we might still be together but it was just too late. At least he realised it before I did, it wouldn't have worked."
"Must have been the first time that he realised something before you did," he huffed.
"Harry, really, it's fine..."
"And you're not just saying this and getting all worked up over the unfairness of the thing with Snape because you're at the Burrow for the first time since you almost got together?"
"I'm worked up over the unfairness of the thing with Snape because it's unfair and illogical and just completely, utterly stupid. I mean that was absolutely irrational. Take his wand away, put a tracking spell on him, take away all that's his. I don't think they've ever passed a judgement like that and I don't see why they should now. It just doesn't make any sense to me at all. And it's not about Ron. It was high time he found himself a girl and it's been six months, Harry. And we shared one, well, two kisses. No big deal. You always made it seem bigger than it was..."
"Because you were the only one who cried during the celebrations after the fall of Voldemort."
"We should have all cried. I didn't cry because of Ron and you know it. Stop worrying about me. Six months. Well, seven really. And you don't see me falling to pieces because he brought some girl to dinner with his family."
"Hmph. They will think so after you took off like that."
"I took off like that," she argued, "because I saw the snapping of Snape's wand over and over again. And the way he was led out. It's so disgusting."
"Yep, you're right," replied Harry and put his head gently on Hermione's. "We'll find a way, 'Mione, to help him. Wanna stay over tonight?"
"No Ginny?"
He shook his head. "Nah, not tonight."
"Then I'll stay the night," Hermione replied, smiling softly.
.
Severus stood, his stomach grumbling, in front of his parents' bed. His money was in there. It had been put in there with magic and now he had no wand with which he could get it out again. It was in the mattress and there was no other way to get it out but to slice the mattress open. But then again, he had slept well in his old, ancient bed and he did not fancy sleeping in the bed he had slept in during his last, dreadful days in this house — when Wormtail had slept outside in the coal shed.
It had made so much sense at the time to hide all his money in there — nobody could find it and he had thought, in the event of his demise (which he had taken for granted at the time), that this way, it would definitely not fall into the hands of the Ministry of Magic. He had not wanted them to get his entire fortune and his assets. It had seemed like a good idea — and it still, obviously, was. He was showered, he felt at least a tiny bit refreshed after his three-hour nap and now, he needed a knife. There was no way around it.
Slowly, on aching limbs, Azkaban still in his bones, he traipsed down the stairs, had left his old, scuffed boots upstairs and still the old, worn, wooden stairs creaked at every step. He had ignored the depressive, oppressive, dark atmosphere of the house he had grown up in but now that his eyes were open, now that his head was clearer, now that he had slept off some of the drudge of Azkaban and the trial, he noticed, for the first time in at least twenty-five years how rotten this house was. How dark, how little light came in through the dirty windows and how much light was swallowed by the dark furniture. By the books stacked everywhere. Magical books. Books on magic. Books that would not help him anymore. Books that he did not want to see anymore. Books he would have to take care off.
But his stomach grumbled and he needed money first. He needed his money from the mattress and he needed it soon. It would have been so simple if he had a wand. If he could use magic. If he could only find a knife that was sharp. In the kitchen drawer were knives, yes, and he pulled one out, the one that seemed least blunt and slowly walked back up again, staring, once more, at the greying mattress. Why was everything in this house dark or grey? Everything that he owned now — dark or grey? It didn't matter. Not now. Now mattered the coloured bits of paper inside the mattress and he attacked, viciously, the heavy, stiff material, broke through it, panting, exhausted. He had no strength left after his stay at prison. He stabbed the mattress, he sliced, he cut, he cursed silently. He had to get deeper inside. Had wanted his money safe from Wizarding folk. Had rather wanted it all to be thrown out, or to rot in this mattress and now, he couldn't get to it.
He did, however, get to the stack of bank notes after long, sweaty minutes. There were around £12 540 in there. It would be enough — even though he had no idea how expensive things were in this world. He had not been shopping since 1974. Not in a Muggle shop. But, just to be on the safe side, he took out three fifty Pound notes and stuffed them into his pockets. He knew there was a shop at the end of Lancaster Close. Not far. It was one of those big ones and he would have to walk there. And back. Would be about twenty minutes each way, he supposed. But he needed food. He needed plasters for his hand — which had begun to bleed again during his attack of the mattress. He needed — he wasn't sure. The last time, he had been shopping had been in 1974. With his mother.
Still, he would have to go and he had found an old Mackintosh in the closet. It was large as well and he knew, objectively, that he looked like someone who lived on the streets, but maybe that huge, grand shop had some clothes. He doubted it, but then he would have to go find some clothes. In another shop. After he had something to eat. Food came first. The rest later. Everything else later.
There was a key on the little table in the hall and he took it, and if someone cared to break in through the broken glass in the back, they were welcome to take everything, even the old television set. And all his books. He would burn them later anyway. There was no use having something he could not bear to see every day. There as no use having something he could never use again. And they would make a good fire. It would keep him warm for a while. And after that, he could burn some of the oppressive furniture. Warmth was more important. Winter was just beginning. Food and warmth. Just the basics. He needed those.
.
Hermione sat and talked with Harry over a bottle of elf-made wine. He, like she, couldn't get Severus Snape out of his head. And even there, in the cleaned up, now cosy atmosphere of Grimmauld Place, she shivered when she remembered how he walked out of there. They didn't know where he had gone and how to stop that verdict. Maybe it was no use. Maybe there was a time to give up, like she had given up on S.P.E.W. back then. The Wizengamot was a revered body, their decree was absolute. It was the ultimate decision making instance.
But maybe, they could make his life simpler. Maybe they could find him and help him find his way around. Help him find a job, help him with the daily life.
She sat on the plush carpet, opposite Harry, her eyelids dropping. "We have to find him, Harry," slurred Hermione.
"We will," he slurred back. "More wine?"
"No. But we will have to help him, Harry. He's saved us so many times."
"We will. And he did. He really did."
.
The bright lights had made his eyes hurt and the smells had overwhelmed him and the bags were heavy and he had no way of lightening them. His arms hurt awfully by the time he got home and he had not bought any kind of pain medicine, only plasters and canned foods he knew and a bit of bread, a bit of butter. Surprisingly enough, there had been clothes. Loads of clothes and he had just picked two shirts, a pair of jeans, socks, underwear. White underwear, black socks, blue jeans, blue shirts. He would get through it for the time being. As long as he could figure out how to use the old washing machine. Which, he noticed then, would take another trip to the shop, buying washing powder.
Severus felt like a little child that, for the first time, has to learn how to take care of himself. He had done the washing before — he would just have to remember. And the remembering would begin soon — Occlumency was magic after all and he couldn't push anything back. Already images came rushing back to him, things he had never wanted to remember.
But maybe, if he waded through all the bad memories, he would be able to make himself remember how to work the washing machine and how to cook the basics.
3. Productivity
Productivity:
It is a feature of all languages that novel utterances are continually being created. A child learning language is especially active in forming and producing utterances which he or she has never heard before. With adults, new situations arise or new objects have to be described, so the language-users manipulate their linguistic resources to produce new expressions and new sentences. This property of human language has been termed productivity (or 'creativity', or 'open-endedness'). It is an an aspect of language which is linked to the fact that the potential number of utterances in any human language is infinite.
(Yule, 1985)
Severus Snape stared long and hard at the cold and empty fireplace. He had memories of that fireplace and nothing to hold them back. His mind was swimming in those days in the past when he had sat in front of it to get the chill from his youthful bones after a day of being outside, or when he had sat in front of it when it had been just as cold as it was now. The nook he had hidden in when his parents had argued wasn't far away either. He was sure, if someone would look closely, they could see a permanent dent where his childish body had pressed itself tightly against the wall. He didn't look closely. He was entirely focused on the fireplace, on the rickety chair he had found in the kitchen and the matches he had bought, as well as the stack of books he had carried, after his luxurious meal of lukewarm beans on hard, burned toast, inside the living room. He didn't dare to look at the titles. He didn't want to look at the titles. He did not want to think about the fact that most of his income had been spent on these books. He did not want to think about the treasures that lay hidden in the frail pages. He could not bear to see them, and he could bear even less to think about them. To think about how much they had meant to him, how much solace they had given him, that at times, they had been his sole company. He couldn't.
With his foot in the brand new socks, he kicked the chair and miraculously a leg fell off already. Another kick, and the chair was in pieces. Pieces which he stacked, carefully, in the fireplace. He threw the books in, couldn't truly bring himself to look at them and struck a match against an open page of yet another book, watched how it began to shrink under the heat, how it turned into licking flames, how the book seemed to be consumed by the growing flame. This book, and he caught a glimpse of it, definitely Potionery through the Ages, he put gently in top of the rest in the fireplace, then turned away. He could not watch.
He turned away, walked out of the living room, hoped with all his being that this would all catch fire, that he did not have to relight it, that it would just burn and went to the kitchen. It still smelled like burned toast and lukewarm beans and he felt something bubbling inside himself. Something he had not felt since that first night he had been brought to Azkaban, since the had dragged him off from St Mungo's. It was bubbling, burning, raging. It was a torrent and all he could do was wait for it to end. There was nothing he could do, no Occlumentic technique he could employ. He felt beside himself, felt, almost, as if he was watching himself. Watching himself in the oddly matching, oddly fitting, oddly strange Muggle clothing raging in the kitchen, his feet, his fists, his arms, his legs flailing around, destroying everything in their reach. Another rickety chair lost its legs and flew through the little kitchen, the kitchen table was thrown against the wall, another chair fell against the stove, pots and pans came crashing to the floor, tiles broke underneath them.
