"I need a job," Severus found himself saying, realising for the first time that this much was true. He had to earn his living. He had to get a job — and with no references, no other places where he had worked before, no diploma, no nothing, his chances were — next to none, probably. Unskilled labour. He remembered the term from his father. Said with a sneer, said with an air of finality. Said in the voice of — doom.

"Stuff and nonsense," interrupted Mrs Callaghan. "There are scholarships for mature students. Stephen ought to know. And in addition to that, you'll get money from the social and you'll be fine. Now, get up and I'll teach you how to make decent scrambled eggs."

Hermione apparated home — well Grimmauld Place — eager to share her news with Harry, or to rant at Draco who had, despite twitching curtains and curious neighbours, shouted at her on the street. And what could she have done? Plied Snape with something? Blackmail him into taking the money? Sometimes even Slytherins needed to understand the power of brute force. And no single Slytherin could be as stupid as to burn money. Not even his pride could be that hurt — at least — well, she hadn't been very smart about it. She had had no plan — again. And if she should have been taught anything in the past seven or so years, it should have been not to proceed without a plan. And there she was now — about ten thousand Pounds lying on the floor in that unfurnished (or not quite furnished) living room and she had almost hit Draco Malfoy, or had almost been hexed by the very same.

Godfather. How truly strange. Draco Malfoy, godson of Severus Snape, pureblood par excellence, had worn jeans and a shirt. A plain, grey shirt, blue jeans. It was almost too much for Hermione's overexcited, overworking brain to get it to process the fact of Malfoy wearing Muggle clothing.

"Harry?" she shouted, had to tell the news.

"In the library," he shouted back. "Come on up!"

Well, Hermione thought, obviously the world was upside down that day. Malfoy in Muggle clothes, Harry in the library — next she would discover pigs could fly or that...her thoughts were interrupted rudely when she pushed the door to the library open and registered Harry sitting there with — Malfoy.

"How did you get here?" she asked, frowning.

"Same as you, I suppose," he drawled. "I figured Potter was behind all this. He and you and probably the entire noble house of Gryffindor."

"And he came here to...I don't know, why did you come here, Malfoy?" asked Harry and Hermione was surprised and stunned that he would, well, talk so civilly to him. Seemed more than one thing had changed since the end of the war. A Potter and a Malfoy, talking rather peacefully (despite the snarling and sarcasm she anticipated returning at any moment) in the house of a Black. Astonishing and since her mind was still busy processing Snape and Malfoy's Muggle clothes, this one came a bit short. Potter and Malfoy in that house. Together.

"Tactics, Potter," he drawled. "You go in and want to save the world but you have absolutely no idea how to do it. And since there is obviously rather a lot of money for my godfather invol..."

"Godfather?" Harry frowned. "Who's your godfather?"

"Snape," Hermione explained quietly. "And no, I didn't know either."

"This is not the point," Malfoy continued, trying to sound bored. At least it sounded like that to Hermione. "The point is that you have obviously rather a lot of money which is probably even rightfully my godfather's."

"Well, the Ministry has agreed on compensation," Hermione nodded.

"Interesting. And about time to," Malfoy nodded barely perceptibly. "Be that as it may, if you storm in and shove the money down his throat, he'll choke it up and won't keep it. You can't just go barrelling in there, expecting multitudes of gratefulness."

"And you get involved why?" asked Harry, curiously. "And why with us, not the Minister?"

"Think, Potter, though that never was your strong point, was it? Granger here was there and delivered the money, I knew where you lived since Aunt Bella could spill the beans and remembered. It was the simplest solution instead of waiting about four months to get an appointment with the Minister. I bet you, Potter, can just waltz in there, not like us normal people."

"Normal people," Hermione snorted ironically. "Who's normal?"

Malfoy sighed long-sufferingly. "Why don't you, next time you're thinking of bombarding Snape with money, owl me and I will make him take it. If that's what you need for your Gryffindor redemption."

"Gry..." Harry was beginning to get angry. It was clearly visible on his temple and his ears. Veins and pink. Hermione stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I know one thing though, Malfoy," she said carefully. "Slytherins don't do anything without getting something in return. What is it that you get out of this?"

He looked at her and there was a flicker of something in his eyes, an ancient expression, something that showed her, again, a more human Malfoy. Or maybe a not quite soulless Malfoy, but as she wanted to focus on the flicker, it was gone, replaced by the cold, arrogant expression.

"And they say you're smart," he sneered. "Think about it and contact me if you need..."

"You want to keep the money yourself," snapped Harry suddenly. "Everyone says your family's skint."

Again, Draco looked up. He curled his upper lip in disgust and without another word, turned on his heel and left.

"That wasn't very smart," said Hermione.

"No. But neither were you, going to Snape like that," he glowered at her.

"It was worth a shot," she shrugged.

"Let's hope he doesn't burn it though. And neither should he burn the letter I wrote. He hasn't..."

"Hasn't said anything. Suppose it hasn't arrived yet," she was glad that he steered the conversation in another direction and she leaned slightly against him. "Dinner?"

"You cook?"

"Hm," she shook her head after a moment. "Pizza?"

"Pizza."

16. Agent and Theme

Agent and Theme:

The boy kicked the ball.

In our example sentence, one role is taken by the noun phrase The boy as 'the entity that performs the action,' technically known as the agent. Another role is taken by the ball as 'the entity that is involved in or affected by the action,' which is called the theme (or sometimes the 'patient''). The theme can also be an entity (The ball) that is simply being described (i.e. not performing an action), as in The ball was red. Agents and themes are the most common semantic roles. Although agents are typically human (The boy), they can also be non-human entities that cause actions, as in noun phrases denoting a natural force (The wind), a machine (A car), or a creature (The dog), all of which affect the ball as theme.

The boy kicked the ball.

The wind blew the ball away.A car ran over the ball.

A dog caught the bal.

The theme is typically non-human, but can be human (the boy), as in The dog chased the boy. In fact the same physical entity can appear in two different semantic roles in a sentence, as in The boy cut himself. Here, The boy is agent and himself is theme.

(Yule, 1985)

What a weird noise, he thought, sitting hunched over his tea. The chairs stood all on four, solid legs, the table stood on four, solid legs. He had done it all by himself, even though Mrs Callaghan had stayed there. With her presence and the tea she brewed, it was not that difficult anymore. Or maybe he just wasn't distracted by his godson. Whatever it had been, he had learned to make scrambled eggs, not that it was very difficult, he had thought, had eaten them with Eleanor and then she had told him to finish the furniture. And he had. With her present. So he could eat, or rather drink, his breakfast at a table, even though half of it was already littered with the notes he had written about the linguistics book. Maybe he would really have to think about this idea of going to university. Or college. Or whichever way it was in this world. Eleanor Callaghan had even — formally — issued an invitation for Christmas. Well, it hadn't been an invitation, really, more like an order. More like 'If you don't come of your own free will, I'll drag you in for Christmas lunch.' He hadn't said anything — and honestly, what could he have said? Her warmth was overwhelming, the acceptance she showed was unmatched. He felt like Mrs Eleanor Callaghan had been put there to show him what he had never had. What he had never deserved. And he doubted that he deserved her and her — affection — now.

The taking away of his magic had been meant as a punishment. And there he was, being almost mothered by a stranger. It wasn't meant to be like that. It was meant to be a punishment. Having Eleanor was as far from punishment as he could imagine.

Still, there had been that odd noise but it wasn't the noise per se that made it peculiar but the fact that he knew what the noise was and that it couldn't be. The postbox. There had been a letter thrown into the postbox. Which made absolutely no sense at all. There had been no letter before, not even that kind of junkmail that Mrs Callaghan complained about. And now, he had heard that noise. Very, very clearly. He took a strengthening sip of tea before he got up and walked on his new, black socks towards the door. He still hadn't tackled the washing machine — he thought at that moment — but he had built furniture. Washing machines couldn't be so bad.

And there, on his brownish carpet in the hall lay a letter. The envelope a sort of beige-dirty-white, with its back up. It didn't look like junkmail. It didn't even look like a cheap envelope.

Severus bit his lip and slowly bent down. His back hurt from putting the furniture together and he had a blister on his finger from using the screwdriver too enthusiastically. But there, there — he knew that handwriting. He knew that handwriting and he wanted to rip the envelope apart, tear it into tiny little pieces, throw it into the fire, or better yet, being it back to the person who send it and make him eat it. Or do other things with it.

But — Severus Snape was a curious person and he decided to read, then rip it apart, tear it into tiny little pieces and throw it into the fire. Or put it into another envelope and send it back. To Twelve Grimmauld Place. So Potter had truly taken up residency there. The old Blacks were certainly spinning in their graves. With an almost overwhelming anger, Severus opened the envelope and pulled the sheet of paper (he had not used parchment, he noticed immediately) roughly out.

Professor Snape, it read and Severus growled. He wasn't Professor anymore.

I know I should apologise in person to you and if you give me a chance, I will. Let me say though that, I regret not having been so sure of your allegiance as I should have been and as Headmaster Dumbledore always told me to be. I want to apologise for not having trusted you and I tried to show it by speaking in front of the Wizengamot. I was shocked to hear what they have done and I want to warn you that there has been a curse put upon you. We do not know yet who cast it but Minister Shacklebolt is working to find out. The nature of the curse is that you cannot remove it, or have it removed and that it disables you to do magic. If you try to get rid of it (by trying to do curse-breaking on yourself or if someone else tries), you die. Nothing happens if you get hexed or if you try to use any other kind of magic. I thought you should know. And I hope you don't mind if I contact you if we find out a way, nevertheless, to break this curse. But from what I hear, this is near impossible so I shouldn't get your hopes up. Please know that there are a lot of people here who want you back and who are fighting for you and your rights.

Yours sincerely,

Harry Potter

How many people — he wondered — would inform him of that curse? Didn't they understand that he did not care? And how — if he couldn't use magic at all, should he be able (even if that was a question, which it wasn't) to remove a curse on himself? Not that it mattered because he didn't care. Didn't they understand...

Didn't they understand that he was building a new life there? A life which included a neighbour who was nosy but didn't press? A neighbour who touched him voluntarily and who gave up her free time to be with him? That he had more now than he had ever had with magic?

They couldn't possibly understand — and maybe, Severus thought, he didn't understand it himself.

Hermione sat quietly, sipping her tea, reading the paper. Neither she nor Harry were in the mood to pretend to be anything that morning. She knew Harry was thinking about that visit of Draco Malfoy's and the same thing — and her visit to Snape was on her mind as well. He had looked a bit better. Bit more colour in his cheeks, bit more meat on him as well. The clothes were better as well. He was still skinny, but not only skin and bones anymore. She remembered the way he smelled. Clean and like tea and sandwiches and Ikea furniture. She just couldn't get the image out of her head — seeing him sitting on the floor with a screwdriver in his hand. Not holding it like a wand. Holding it like a screwdriver should be held. Weird, that.

"Fire's going," Harry mumbled, his mouth full of Weetabix.

"Hm?" Hermione asked back.

"There's someone coming through the fire," repeated her friend and stood up slowly, wiping a bit of his breakfast off his chin. "I'll go and look."

"Didn't you ward it?" Hermione asked, drawing her wand.

"I did, so I suppose it's a Weasley," he whispered and grimaced. Hermione grimaced back — but a Weasley, any Weasley, was better than an unwarded Floo. Except, well, she wasn't sure she wanted to face Ginny at the moment. Or Mrs Weasley. Wasn't sure she wanted to see any of them. Especially at breakfast — the wrong conclusions would be drawn from basically anyone. She sat there, after all, in her pyjamas and was having breakfast. She would draw the wrong conclusions as well. Anyone would — really. But making a dash upstairs now would be just as wrong and the pop from Disapparition would be heard as well. She would have to explain to whatever Weasley would come through the door that she lived there now. Innocently. Not because of what people believed. She and Harry were a ridiculous idea to begin with but she didn't put it past anyone to not see it that way.

Hermione breathed deeply, found herself sucking on her lower lip and staring at the paper intently. She would act normally and calmly. Nothing special. She was having breakfast at home. That was all. And as soon as her parents received her letter, would probably call with their decision, she could make serious plans. Not that she considered moving out. She liked living with Harry, having the company. Having breakfast with someone. Not having to care what she looked like in the morning or if there was a stain on her pyjama top from the tea she had spilled on it.