He didn't honestly know what he would want with that little patch of green outside but he knew that he had to busy himself. And what better what to keep his hands from raking through his hair and his mind from wandering that pulling out weeds and cutting grass?
He had found another pair of trousers at the supermarket, heavy fabric, the kind builders wore and he wore them when he cleaned, together with a black jumper he had found, which had been on sale and which was only slightly too big and the sleeves were slightly too short. The sun was shining that day, a cold, bright day, and so he put a shirt underneath the jumper and with scissors and a scythe he had found in the cellar, he made his way outside. The cold air hit his lungs mercilessly and his fingers froze on the handle of the scythe but he knew from experience these days, that working and exercise warmed one up immediately.
He couldn't remember ever having used a scythe and so, first, he looked at it, let the thoughts of how it should logically be used invade his brain, made himself think hard about it as he put the scissors down on the ground. After a moment, he swung it — and despite its age and the fact that it had stood in the cellar to rot, it cut through the grass easily. His eyes widened considerably.
He had experienced, in the past few days, what kind of, well, satisfaction it could bring to see a former dirty, dingy bathroom mirror being polished to reflect everything perfectly (and the satisfaction it could bring to afterwards smash it with one's fist), or how one could bring himself into a state of almost contentment at seeing an entire living room stripped of furniture. He understood labour. He had experienced it. The rushing by moments when he knew he had achieved something with his hands.
And this was even better. Where high grass had stood a moment ago, there was now — just a stubble of grass. Easily to walk over and he swung his scythe again. And again. And again. He broke out into a sweat and he rolled up the sleeves of his jumper, then his shirt as he swung the scythe again and again and again.
Until there was no grass left. He could spot the former herb garden of his mother, he could see her in his mind's eye, crouching low and explaining to a little him the properties of Stoneflower which was prohibited to grow. He could recite it in his head, had used it in potions all the time — and then he stopped himself. He couldn't think about this. Leaning on his scythe, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He couldn't think of potions and of his mother and of herb gardens. He wouldn't plant anything. Or, if pressed, he would plant vegetables. Potatoes, peas. No pumpkins. Tomatoes. Anything he could eat raw and didn't have to heat up. But no herbs. No herbs and no plants with magical properties. He couldn't.
He shook his head to himself. He needed to find something to do.
"Want a cup of tea, lad?" he heard suddenly, his head spinning around, whipping around, his eyes unfocused for a moment. Slowly, there was a face. An old face. Grey hair pulled on top of a head, greenish eyes, wrinkles all around her mouth and eyes and — the entire face. A mouth that smiled. A cup of tea in wrinkled, liver-spotted hands. He remembered her. Mrs Callaghan. Next door neighbour. And he had thought everyone had moved out. Had never spotted her before. But maybe, he was too busy in his own mind to see anyone.
"You are Severus, aren't you?" she asked. "You were here last year but we barely got to see each other, right?" she continued. "You like exactly like your mam, may she rest in peace,"said she, "not a bit of your father in there, except for that nose."
Severus cleared his throat. It almost seemed as if he had forgotten how to speak. He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken in a complete sentence. Before he had gone to Azkaban. That much was sure.
"There you go. Drink the tea," said Mrs Callaghan and beckoned him closer with her arthritic finger. "I didn't poison it."
In a daze, surrounded by what felt like thick fog, he lifted his scythe and walked to the small wall that divided his garden from hers. The small wall on which the old woman leaned and where she had put the steaming, hot, mug of tea. It smelled in the clear cold air. Smelled like bergamot and heavenly. He looked at her, and cleared his throat.
"Thank you," he said and didn't immediately recognise his voice. He had not used it for a long time. It was rusty and croaky and old.
The old woman smiled at him, her right, upper canine missing. "I've got it from Aldi. It's their own brand," she continued, with only the slightest Irish lilt to her tone.
He took a sip of the fragrant, warming liquid, staring into the dense fog it created before his eyes. He allowed the memories to flood his brain. Yes, Mrs Callaghan. She had been there for as long as he could remember. She had always been kind to him, always had a kind word for him when he had run out if his parents had argued. And she was still there. Should be close to eighty these days but apparently still quite fit.
"Thank you," he said again because he didn't know what else to say.
"Did you come to stay now?" she asked curiously.
"Yes," he muttered into his tea.
"Ah, that's grand," she smiled again. "And you live by yourself? No wife? Girlfriend?"
He stared at the woman. He didn't remember her as being quite so — nosy. He took another sip of his tea, not exactly knowing how he should reply to this. "By myself," he found himself saying then and, she smiled.
"Poor lad," she said. "I heard noises in the house during the night, and I saw you cleaning windows. Men don't clean windows, dear lad. You should have told me. I have a shelf to put up and you could have done that while I'd've cleaned your windows."
Severus stared. And just took another sip of tea.
.
"Are you sure we're at the right place?" asked Hermione, looking around suspiciously. It was one of those dead, Nothern English towns that nobody seemed to live in anymore. There was a row of houses, and next to it, another row of houses. And another.
"Yes, it's the right address," Harry replied, pulling on her arm. "This is the house," he pointed at the house at the end of the row of houses. "This is where he lives. There's even the smell of the river that Aunt Petunia described. And I think," his voice softened to a whisper, "my mum lived down there."
"If you like, we can go there later," Hermione smiled at him and took his hand in hers and squeezed gently.
He nodded his consent. "Will you, or shall I?" he pointed at the doorbell.
Hermione breathed deeply. Then shook her head. "You do it."
"Listen," Harry said suddenly. "Can you hear that?"
She first wanted to shake her head, but then there was something. A voice. A voice that sounded like, no, two voices. One that sounded like a woman, with a soft, Irish accent, and the other voice was — undoubtedly — Snape. In that moment, Hermione wasn't sure how she felt. She knew they were interfering. They were barging in. They had basically no business there. They had never even gotten along with Snape. But something had made them come. Something had made them both want to see him. Not to gloat — but to help.
However, some part of her brain told her to get away. He would not appreciate seeing them, quite on the contrary, probably...
"You can mow my lawn too, and I'll cook for you," she heard, the Irish stronger now and accentuated by a laugh. "I've been smelling burned beans in thelast days. And you look even thinner than your mam ever looked. You need good food."
She looked at Harry, puzzled but he only nodded and pulled her, quickly, around the house. "Harry, we can't..."
"He will never open the door," hissed Harry.
"I can take care of myself, Mrs Callaghan," they heard a voice that sounded remarkably like Snape. Down to the scathing remark and the mean tone.
There was a soft sigh. "I will bring you something over then."
And there, she saw him. Standing, very thin, in trousers that Hermione had last seen on builders that had fixed her parents' garden and a black sweater that was about three sizes too big for him. His hair was longer than ever — but it seemed cleaner than ever as well. And he leaned on a scythe. With a mug of tea in his hands.
The old women with the Irish accent spotted them first and her smile vanished off her face immediately.
"You never said you had children," she said accusingly and poked her fingers in his too thin ribs. He spun around immediately and his face, gaunt and tired, paled even further. His eyes grew hard upon seeing her and Harry and Hermione wanted nothing more at that moment than to run for her life.
5. Coherence
Coherence:
The key to the concept of coherence is not something which exists in the language, but something which exists in people. It is people who 'make sense' of what they read and hear. They try to arrive at an interpretation which is in line with their experience of the way the wrls is. Indeed, our ability to make sense of what we read is probably only a small part of that general ability we have to make sense of what we perceive or experience in the world. [...] You would necessarily be involved in a process of filling in a lot of 'gaps' which exist in the text. You would have to create meaningful connections which are not actually expressed by the words and sentences. This process is not restricted to trying to understand 'odd' texts. In one way or another, it seems to be involved in our interpretation of all discourse. It is certainly present in the interpretation of casual conversation.
We are continually taking part in conversational interactions where a great deal of what is mean is not actually present in what is said. Perhaps it is the ease with which we ordinarily anticipate each other's intentions that makes this whole complex process seem so unremarkable.
(Yule, 1985)
"They are not my children," Severus Snape found his voice. "I have never seen them before in my life," he added towards Mrs Callaghan, then turned his head to face Potter and Granger. "Get off my land," he snapped.
"But Professor Snape, we came..." Potter took a step forward, but was held back by Granger.
"They seem to know you," Mrs Callaghan chuckled. "Professer, now?"
He didn't know what to do. For the first time since he had left London, since he had come there, he didn't have a plan, he didn't know the next step and that, strangely, unsettled him. He had absolutely no longing to see those two — and he did not know what to tell Mrs Callaghan and so, he took the easy way.
Placing the almost empty mug on the small wall that separated him from Mrs Callaghan and nodding once, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his house. He was no longer part of that world, and he had been able to see Potter's wand sticking out from the back of his jeans.
"Professor Snape!" he heard Granger shout but he merely shut his door tightly, the scythe still in his hand, and kept walking towards the cellar. The scythe back in the cellar and the plans of buying paint had gone out of the window.
Again, memories flooded his brain. Days and nights of observing Potter and his two little friends. The way he — they — wanted to save everyone. The way Granger made things her mission. The way poor little Bod had twitched with his ears and had complained to him that there were clothes all over the castle. He missed the little elf with the sparkling yellow eyes who seemed to like him.
No. He couldn't afford to miss things. He had to get his life on track. He had to get that paint. He had to paint. But maybe he should eat first. Tea, and he still had about three hours until the shops closed. He had no longing to see them. So he would wait. He would heat up a meal and would then check if they were still out there — as far as he could see them. Then he could get his paint. Yes, that was the way he would do it.
.
"Bloody brilliant," Harry muttered sarcastically as they slowly retreated from the piercing gaze of Snape's neighbour.
"Well, what did you expect?" huffed Hermione? "That he'd invite us in, make us a cup of tea and hug us and tell us that he's happy to see us?"
"You agree that it was a good idea to see him," he argued hotly.
"Yes, I agreed but it was a stupid idea. We didn't think it through. And we shouldn't have just barged in like that. I mean we stomped into his garden."
Harry shook his head. "What do we do then?"
"Erm," she replied. "I think we'll leave it for now. Maybe we should have waited another week, give him a little more time to adjust to the situation."
"So we go home?"
Hermione shrugged one shoulder, then nodded slowly. "Yes. It's no use staying here. He won't see us." In all honesty, she had no intention of going home. She disliked her home now — now that it was only her parents house. Now that her parents had only come home once since she had restored their memories, now that they had decided to stay in Australia for the time being, having found friends there, having found brilliant jobs there, liking the weather and the people. But she could not sell the house — not as long as she wasn't sure what to do with her future after taking her NEWTs. She wasn't going back to Hogwarts, she prepared on her own, with the little help of the Headmistress and free access to the library at Hogwarts. Couldn't stand to be there anymore. Didn't know why. But she had work to do, she had a future to plan. And for the time being, her old room in her parents' former house would do. Not that it mattered to anyone if she stayed with Harry, not that anyone cared whether she ate whatever came out of a packet. Not that anyone cared whether she went days without talking to anyone if Harry was busy in his Auror training. It was all fine. She had books and she had work to do.
And now, she had the task of making at least sure, Snape knew that he shouldn't even try to use magic. That was all she wanted. But it would be less conspicuous if she waited for him to come out of his house eventually. She could do it with Disillusionment Charms, Warming Charms and a Disillusioned Thermos with hot tea. She would apparate away with Harry and would then return. Maybe he would leave his house — and if not, she could always return the next day. And one day, he would have to leave his house. And meeting him on the street was infinitely better than to try and get into his house. Politer. More neutral.
She smiled at Harry. "There will be another way," she muttered cheerfully. "Maybe he will accept an owl if you write one?"
He smiled back and hugged her. "Maybe I will do that. I still have to thank him properly. Want to stay the night?"
"No Ginny?" she asked, mockingly.
