Harry cleared his throat, scratched his head and pushed his glasses up his nose. "So what you're saying is that someone took dead Bella's wand, cast the spell and brought it back?"

"Yes," Kingsley Shacklebolt sighed tiredly.

"Do you even protect this bloody building at all?" Hermione exploded. "First the thing with Hestia Jones and Snape and now this? Do you even know what's going on in here?"

"Not at the moment, no," he shook his head and hung it in defeat.

22. Antonyms

Antonyms: Two forms with opposite meanings are called antonyms, and commonly used examples are the pairs quick-slow, big-small, long-short, rich-poor, happy-sad, hot-cold, old-young, male-female, true-false, alive-dead.

Antonyms are usually divided into two main types, those which are 'gradable', and those which are 'non-gradable'. Gradable antonyms, such as the pair big-small, can be used in comparative constructions like bigger than-smaller than. Also, the negative of one member of the gradable pair does not necessarily imply the other. For example, if you say that dog is not old, you do not have to mean that dog is young. With non-gradable antonyms, also called 'complementary pairs', comparative constructions are not normally used (the expressions deader or more dead sound strange), and the negative of one member does not imply the other. For example, that person is not dead does indeed mean that person is alive. So, the pairs, male-female and true-false must also be non-gradable antonyms, whereas the others in the list above are gradable.

(Yule, 1985)

Severus still sat with Eleanor on the couch, her wrapped in her new shawl and leaning slightly against him, just sitting in silence. He couldn't exactly pinpoint what he was feeling but he could feel his lungs fill with more air than usual, he could breath deeper than he could ever remember breathing and her scent was in his nose. Familiar by now, even smelling of freshly baked bread when he knew for a fact that she hadn't made any. Today, it was slightly different, like the meal that was cooking in the kitchen, roast, maybe. Christmas pudding. But she smelled like Eleanor and he liked to have that smell in his nose. He was, for a moment only, tempted to wrap his arm around her like the shawl, the wrap, was wrapped around her shoulders — but he kept back. He couldn't — he shouldn't.

He still sat with her, in silence, when the doorbell rang a few times. She sighed by his side and slowly lifted her head from his shoulder.

"They're all my children and I love every single one of them but I am getting too old to be cooking for this entire family. And to be hosting those events," she whispered consiprationally, and with the hint of a smile and another sigh, got up from the couch. "You stay there and you don't move. Don't even dare to think about escaping. I've told all of them so much about you and they're all dying to meet you."

Severus sat stock still. His back was rigidly straight. He had been comfortable enough with only Eleanor and Draco and the basically invisible Aideen (who, he had to admit, had, despite the almost same colouring little to no resemblance to Lily Evans — not that he wanted to think about her at all) but now, with more people coming...he wasn't sure. He didn't react well to people. He never had. He disliked many people. He disliked having to make conversation, of being looked at, being asked things. He more than disliked it. He detested it, hated it.

And yet, he found himself still sitting. Still sitting when there were voices in the hall, laughter, the sound of hugging (at least he thought he could hear the hugs but he wasn't sure) and a moment later, as he tried hard not to look at the smiling children on the wall, there was someone entering.

"Oh, that must be Severus," a female voice and he tried hard not to look. This woman, and she was about fifty, he suspected, did not look at all like Eleanor. She had dark hair piled on top of her head, blue eyes, pale skin.

"You did come, Mam wasn't sure," another female voice.

"Severus? I remember him. He was a tiny thing. What do you mean, he's here?" a male voice.

"Don't mind them," the first female said and as she stepped towards the sofa he sat on, raised her hand towards him. "I'm Kathleen. Pleasure to finally meet you again. I remember you as a little boy, actually. But I think I left home by the time you were, what? Around two, two and a half?"

Severus felt — he didn't know how he felt. Strange. All those people coming in, or at least half of them, would remember him as a little boy. A boy he couldn't even remember himself. And didn't want to imagine. However, he shook the woman's hand and nodded curtly.

"Children, stop pestering him," Eleanor called from the hall and stuck her head into the room. "Kathleen, Mary, I need your help with the gravy, Stephen, tell Severus about that thing you were studying, Mark, Thomas, you set the table and make sure there are enough chairs, Imogen, Suzie, Chris, Brian, Lizzie, you help. Children? You can go play in the backyard until it's time for dinner. Now off you go."

Severus watched as eight adults and about two dozen children (or so it felt) between the age of about 15 and maybe two, walked out of the living room. This house was so small — and yet, he knew that it had two rooms more than his own — and that Eleanor had lived there with her husband and five children. Had brought up five children in that house. He had difficulties keeping track of all the names but there was a man, and he supposed it was Stephen, sat next to him and a woman, apparently his wife, sat down as well.

"I'm Sarah," she smiled. "Stephen's wife. I think you met Aideen? She's ours. And Brian's ours as well. It can be a bit much, I suppose but it's only for two days a year, really, that we all get together. Usually, it's only a few of us. Stephen and me live down in London but Aideen goes to Uni up here..."

"Sarah," her husband admonished mildly with a smile. "So my mother says you're going to be a mature student?"

Severus felt — very much — like a student already. The man was rather imposing. Tall — with a well-fitting suit, brown hair, and brown eyes. He smiled rather benevolently but he felt like he was being interviewed. That man was about twenty years older than himself. Or maybe not quite. Didn't matter. So this was the man whose books he used. Whose jacket he wore. Was he really that tall himself? He had to be, he thought.

"Yes," he said only.

"That's a good way. And Mother said you're especially interesting in Linguistics?"

"Yes," he said again.

"It's a fascinating subject. Mother did mention that I teach it?"

"No," he shook his head. He hadn't known.

"I do. In London. It really is fascinating and logical. Most of it."

"I thought so," he muttered.

"If you're starting on that again," his wife rolled her eyes and punched his side gently, "I'll go and help your mother."

"She dislikes it," he chuckled mildly when they both looked as she walked away. "And I suppose it must be boring after a while for others not interested. But I take it you are."

"I am," he said, feeling a little more comfortable now that the woman had left and it was only him and the man — and occasionally someone with plates and forks and knifes and spoons and chairs coming in and setting them on — and around the table. A huge table.

"I could send you more books. Those textbooks are usually terribly expensive and I always get the odd copy for free. I'll tell Mam to phone me up when you get your schedule and the list of books you will use and I'll send them up," he smiled again and it was almost his mother's smile. But — what was this? Offering books? For free? His Slytherin side, his spy side paid immediate attention. What was the man getting out of it? He couldn't fathom it. Books, just sending books? To someone he didn't really know?

"Don't worry, as I said, I always get copies for free and most of those books, I own anyway," he waved his too obvious doubts away. "And besides, we are all grateful to you."

"Grateful?" he choked on his own spit. "Why?"

"Mam hasn't been so happy on the phone for quite a while. You give her a new purpose. Aideen is close but she only rarely visits and we were all concerned that she could get lonely and I suppose she was. And now you're here and she's blossoming. She couldn't stop talking about you, you know. And we are grateful. And...I do have one favour. We're a bit worried about her from time to time after that cancer thing two years ago..."

Severus's mouth almost fell open. He was — what? Cancer thing? He must have looked too obvious — again and Stephen Callaghan rolled his eyes.

"She didn't tell you about that, did she? Typical Mam. They found a lump in her breast about two years ago. Doctor said they found it all but...well, none of us are close and we can't always drive up here though we do try to take turns. So, if I could call you once in a while, to hear an unbiased opinion on how she is...?"

Severus could only stare. He wasn't sure what was going on. Too much information all at once. Cancer. Calling. Gratefulness? Expressed gratefulness? Too much to take in. Too much for now.

"Severus? I may call you Severus, you don't mind?"

He caught himself. "No, I don't mind but...I don't have a phone at the moment," something inside of him explained. The rest of his brain was reeling. Cancer. Expressed gratefulness. Those people were grateful that he moved in again. They said so. Eleanor with cancer. Eleanor with cancer. Grateful. He wanted to clear his head, wanted to listen to what the man said but couldn't. He swallowed hard and stood up, as if in trance.

"I, er," he said, "thank you. I will be back in a moment," said Severus and fled from the living room.

"I had Bellatrix Lestrange's wand," Hermione said quickly.

"Yes but we could identify the one she used at the final battle. And that was the one used. The one she had before she stayed in Azkaban was snapped. And then you had hers, and the one she used, was used, to put the Imperius on Lucius Malfoy," explained Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"But how..." asked Harry.

"There is a log and people have to sign when they enter the room where the wands are stored. We keep the snapped ones in there as well. And the log seems to be alright. Not a lot of traffic. And why should anyone go in there? The only ones are a few Aurors which we are checking out at the moment..."

"Wouldn't Malfoy remember who put the curse on him? And if Hestia Jones was acting under the Imperius as well, is she still on it?"

"Technically," Kingsley replied, "she would be. But we tested her and she isn't. So either it's worn off or she hadn't been on its influence, or it's been removed."

"That's a lot of possibilities," Hermione remarked darkly.

"Yes. Indeed. We have basically nothing to go on. All we know is that it seems someone is out there who wants to harm former Death Eaters that got off lightly."

"It makes no sense. Who would be ruthless enough to endanger Muggles and at the same time, wants to harm former Death Eaters? Who would want to do that? It made, more or less sense to strip Snape of his magic — but Malfoy?" Harry argued.

"I agree," Shacklebolt said. "I will keep you informed and Harry, if you could somehow try and contact Draco Malfoy? I think it would be beneficial for him to be here when we lift the curse, as a sort of character witness, explain if there are other underlying curses which we haven't found yet. Doesn't have to be today."

"What do you intend to do about all this then?" Hermione snapped. "Or will this keep happening?"

Kingsley glared at her as if she had put her finger in a deep wound. "We tightened security," he replied shortly.

She arched her eyebrows but nodded and with a last glance at Malfoy, she left the room. She didn't want to be there. It was all a shambles. Someone was torturing Muggles only to bring Death Eaters out of Wizarding Society, someone had taken Snape's magic from him for nothing. And this place didn't know who it was.

It couldn't be Bellatrix Lestrange. That woman was dead — and she believed that she could have never kept quiet all those months. Lestrange was a woman of action. She wanted people to know that she was torturing others, that she was on the prowl, basically. That she was active. Keeping still for such a long time just didn't seem like her style. Besides, she was dead. According to Kingsley, spells had confirmed that. Who else?

She rifled through her mind — who would want that? When now the Wizarding World was pretending everything was well? Oh, well, maybe someone who couldn't stand the thought of their world to just returning to normal? Who? Man? Woman? She would have to sit down at home. Write lists. Find out as much as she could. This was most certainly curious — and would take her mind of her incessant studying.

23. Family Relationships

Family relationships: Looking at the Indo-European family tree, one might ask how it can be determined that these language groups are 'related'. On the face of it, two languages, such as Italian and Hindi would seem to have nothing in common. One way to see the relationships more clearly is by looking at records of an older generation, like Latin and Sanskrit, from which the modern languages developed. For example, if we use familiar letters to write out the words for father and brother in Sanskrit, Latin and Ancient Greek, some common features become apparent:

Sankskrit...Latin .. .Greek...

. ..pitar . . .pater . . .pater...(father)

.bhrathar...frater...phrater...(brother)

It is, however, extremely unlikely that exactly the same forms will regularly turn up, but the fact that close similarities occur (especially in the probably pronunciations of the forms) is good evidence for proposing a family connection.

(Yule, 1985)

As Severus sat outside, having ignored the worried glances of Eleanor, the puppy dog eyes Draco was making at her granddaughter and the curious stares of her family, he was tempted to just use the stepladder that stood against the wall that separated his garden with hers and walk into his back door, up the stairs and put his head underneath his pillow and drown out the noise he would indubitably hear from next door — and ignore Christmas. He wanted to get away from those happily playing children who didn't seem to care about their good clothes, away from those staring people. Away from those that looked at him like was the newest animal in a zoo, like he was a part of a freak show.

But as he sat outside, trying to clear his head from the spinning thoughts, trying to let the cold, more or less clear air was over him, he caught a glimpse of Eleanor in the kitchen, talking to her daughter Kathleen and her daughter Mary and what he thought was her daughter-in-law Imogen and smiled and showed off the shawl she had yet to take off her shoulders. She seemed dreadfully proud of it — even from what he could see in that moment.