Draco nodded, not letting his face betray that he liked Mrs Callaghan acting like a grandmother — a grandmother he never had like this — talking to him, distracting him, making him tea and, even though he would never admit that he liked it, fingers stroking hair.
He sighed and sat up straight the way he had been taught and took a sip of the tea Mrs Callaghan had put before him the moment he had returned from work. His mug between his hands. His mug.
Yes, it was odd that he felt absolutely no longing to see his father or even less longing to see his mother. Not that his mother, according to his sources, even resided in Europe per se anymore. No, it had been her choice, according to his sources, to tour the world and was, currently, somewhere on the Crimea, whatever she wanted there, he wasn't sure. Oh yes, there was an ancient great-great-great-aunt or something which lived there. No doubt, he was blasted off the family-tree by now. Didn't matter, he had all the family he needed right there, if only Aideen would finally arrive.
.
"Severus!" he heard behind him and for a moment, hesitated. He remembered that voice and truly didn't want to turn around. He had managed, apart from one quick email, telling him that he had very successfully passed all his exams and had received the best possible grades on his papers, not heard from anyone at University. Not even from Dr Deveney. And that was her voice. Behind him. And he had so hoped that he could buy some of the pads, the new pens, ink, all the other things he needed for the upcoming term, in peace. Without running into someone — not that he knew many people — but some of Eleanor's friends from church had taken to greeting him, even though he, contrary to Draco, never went to church with her. And those old biddies were annoying but now — Dr Deveney? Any of the old biddies would be welcome for a nosy chat now. Had not yet figured out what that woman had wanted, and why she screamed through the entire shop now so that nobody could have possibly missed his name.
He rolled his eyes and turned around slowly. He could not avoid talking to her, really. And, much as he was loath to admit it, he had to take her class. If he wanted to further his studies, he would have to and her class had been alright. He had learned things.
"Dr Deveney," he replied curtly.
"Annie," she rolled her eyes and smiled — happily? Happily. Her eyes sparkled. They bloody sparkled. If he didn't know it better, he would have said, that, in his experience, someone had hit her with a Confundus Charm. And maybe she had been, maybe someone was using her to get to him. But, no, this was ridiculous. He was no threat to the Wizarding World. He was, for all intents and purposes, a Muggle and had no contact to any wizards, apart from his godson. Plus, nobody truly knew what he was doing — even though, of course, he wouldn't know if the Ministry kept their sneaky eyes on him.
He nodded shortly.
"I, erm, wanted to contact you but after you didn't react when I wrote that email..." she blushed a little and looked on the ground.
Blushing. Not looking at him. Despite the fact that he was a Muggle now, he couldn't forget his years training as a spy. His years of observing other people and of reading them, and priding himself on the fact that he used to be quite good at reading them, of knowing what they wanted to say without them actually saying it. Blushing, her inability to look him in the eye, her shouting his name and that happy smile, it only added up to one thing. And that one thing was as likely as him deciding to become a nun. Including the sex-change and the sudden belief in God.
She couldn't possibly see something more in him than a student.
And yet, this was what her entire behaviour, and that coffee before the summer holidays, added up to. It couldn't be though. It couldn't possibly be. Someone fancying him? Severus Snape? Ugly git? Not possible. And still, that thought, in that quick moment in which he stood there, looking at the top of her head, wouldn't leave him and he, because his natural curiosity returned after being cast away from his known life, decided to put his theory to the test. Not obviously but subtly. Slowly. Cautiously.
"I wanted to," he said silkily, "but I was away for the most part of the holidays and without a computer," he lied and, oddly enough, her head shot up and she beamed. If it hadn't been so unlikely, her fancying him, this would have been quite clear. But as it was so unlikely, he needed more proof.
Maybe she was too vain to wear glasses and couldn't see him decently. Maybe this was why she beamed. It was bizarre.
"Oh, somewhere nice?" she asked, her smile still very visible on her face.
He took a moment to answer and arched his eyebrows. "London," he replied then, letting his voice drop a bit. Her eyes, in the moment when he uttered the word, widened a fraction, her smile grew just a tad softer and her eyes sparkled more, she twirled a strand of hair around her finger and her tongue darted out to lick her lips.
Unmistakable. But so unlikely.
"Will I see you in class then? I haven't received my lists yet since I was on holiday as well."
"Somewhere nice?" he mimicked.
"Bermuda," she grinned. "My aunt emigrated when she was a young woman and she finally invited me after oh-so-many years."
He nodded, then cleared his throat. "And yes, I decided to attend your class, but you will have to excuse me, now, my neighbour's granddaughter is due to arrive and I promised to be there to greet her," he nodded once more and slowly, just to see how she would react, just because he was extraordinarily curious and because he still couldn't believe his own theory, he raised his hands towards her and barely half a second passed before she grasped it, not tightly, not limply, gently, really, a woman's touch and her hand lingered in his for a moment before she let her fingers drag along his hand instead of just letting go.
He tried hard not to arch his eyebrows further, not to let his thoughts show on his face as he turned with a quick good-bye to pay and leave. He had things to think about and a good meal to eat while he pondered over those things. Not to mention the fact that he had the chance of, once more, empirically witness how a woman in love, or fancying someone, looked like.
And Draco would be much more bearable and less pouting as soon as Aideen returned.
.
Hermione closed the book with an air of self-satisfaction and stretched the sore muscles in her neck and in her back. She liked that kind of feeling, being hunched over a new book for too long and then feeling her vertebrae crack slowly back into place, sitting straighter for a while then she usually did. Harry had returned home a little while ago and his first way had, of course, not led him into the library but into the kitchen where he stored what leftovers Molly Weasley had so generously given him. She wasn't stupid — and ate whatever he brought back (always enough for her as well), even if she, so far, had not gone back to the Burrow.
It was just that she had never been quite as close to the Weasleys as Harry had been, she had never the need for a surrogate family as he had. But apparently Ron and Arthur Weasley and the rest had asked after her and it was like a truce, or maybe like an apology, she wasn't sure, that Molly Weasley always gave Harry enough food for two. Well, soon. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Before Uni started. Sometime that week, she would go with him. Probably. Most likely.
"Hermione?" said Harry softly.
"Hey," she smiled.
"Erm, the Weasleys say hi," he continued.
"Say hi back," she nodded, seeing, from years of knowing him, that there was something else he wanted to tell her and he couldn't, or didn't know how to.
There was a rather long and awkward pause, then: "So what you've been doing all day long?"
"Is there something you want to tell me, Harry?" she smirked, pulling the pen she had stuck in her hair to keep it up, out and letting her still new and manageable hair tumbling down.
"I like your hair this way," he said in a strange voice.
"Okay, seriously, this is...did someone say something? You usually can't stop telling me what you did at the Weasleys and you usually try to persuade me to go with you the next time and now you're really weird. What?"
"Ron and George fight all the time and he doesn't want to live with his parents anymore and Iinvitedhimtoliveherewithus," he said rushedly.
Hermione frowned slightly, then smiled. Well, yes, it would be weird but it wasn't like she and Ron had parted with a huge fight — on the contrary. They had both been hurt and they had both wanted to get a bit of distance between them, but they had, in the end, went their separate ways as sort of friends. And they had lived sort of together before. She would be away more often than not and Aideen had already invited her to spend some weekends with her in Manchester. So, if he worked and she went to Uni and had studying to do at night, he would avoid the library, he would probably be away most nights as well, and they would hardly cross paths. The house was big enough — oh but it had been cute to see Harry so flustered. Especially since it was his house. She wasn't even paying rent, really. Only bought food and other things for the daily life once in a while.
"And?" she laughed.
"I thought that you...and I mean...maybe you would have...not wanted it and I mean, I don't want you to move out," he stammered.
"I won't," she smiled and got up to embrace him tightly. "I haven't seen Ron in a while but...it could be fine."
Harry pushed her away slightly and stared at her. "Really?"
"Really," she still laughed. To make such a fuss. Only because she didn't see the Weasleys regularly, but no, so far, she had nothing against Ron moving in. Not that she had the right to complain.
.
By the time the roast beef (Aideen's favourite meal) was done, Eleanor began to have that slightly uncomfortable, fluttering feeling in her stomach. Severus had been on time and had explained how teenage girls at Hogwarts (she knew that had been their school) behaved on the first day back after the holidays. Well, not explained, more sneered about, made fun of. But Draco had begun pacing and had, when she had to take the roast beef from the oven, picked up the phone and from his memory, had called her mobile phone.
And that was when the feeling in her stomach had not been slightly uncomfortable and fluttering anymore, but stabbing and very, very uncomfortable. That had been when she knew that her eyes had shown worry. It wasn't, she knew, like Aideen to not answer her mobile. She was glued to that thing. And now — no answer. Nothing. Just ringing. The first time Draco called, the second time she called and the third time Draco called again.
This wasn't like Aideen. This wasn't like her at all.
She shook her head to herself, then caught Severus's gaze. He seemed to chew on the inside of his cheek, then cleared his throat.
"Call her parents," he said and his voice sounded, or was probably supposed to sound, calm. "Maybe she missed the train and left her mobile somewhere."
It was a logical explanation. But one which didn't fit Aideen at all. Yes, she was sometimes late and didn't call before but she wouldn't miss the train and not call. That wasn't like her at all. Draco nodded, and she could see him trembling ever so slightly when he punched in the number of Aideen's parents in London.
.
This was — worrying. Severus had no other word for it. Draco had definitely no words for it, for he currently slumped in a chair, paler than usual, his hair a mess since he had run his fingers through it so often. Eleanor had definitely no words for it, fr she was only shaking almost violently and he had to take the knife from her when she had wanted to cut the roast beef.
Aideen was missing. She did not answer her mobile, her parents had put her on the train on time and didn't know where she was either. Maybe, he tried to reason, the battery on her mobile had run low or she was in one of those noisy cafés and didn't hear her mobile. But that was exactly what worried him. It wasn't like Aideen to have her battery run low. It wasn't like her to get on the train and not to have arrived where she was meant to be three or four hours later. Not that he knew her well but he knew her well enough to know that this was uncharacteristic.
"Someone has to go to town and check on her flat," he said suddenly, and knew, looking at those two being even more worried than he was, that it would have to be him.
43. Explicature
The term explicature arose within relevance theory, as a partner to the more familiar implicature. Although it is related to the Gricean notion of 'what is said,' it also departs significantly from it. While the Gricean notion is often thought of as a semantic construct, explicature plainly is not. It belongs to a theory of communication and interpretation, and it is distinguished from most uses of the term 'what is said,' in that it involves a considerable component of pragmatically derived meaning, in addition to linguistically encoded meaning. A key feature in the derivation of an explicature is that it may require 'free' enrichment: this is, the incorporation of conceptual material that is wholly pragmatically inferred, on the basis of considerations of rational communicative behaviour, as these are conceived of on the relevance-theoretic account of human cognitive functioning.
(Carston, 2004)
"You can stop screaming now," a voice said. It was a neutral voice, much like those used on answering machines if you didn't record your own message, or those on other machines. It was a female voice, yes, but sounded like a thousands she had heard before. Nothing significant about the voice, clear, standard, BBC English, a little less posh than HMQ's, a little more posh than EastEnders. Just like any other voice. No Manc accent, no Scouse, no Geordie, no Welsh, no Irish lilt, no Scottish brogue. It was just...normal. And reverberated on the bare walls.
Aideen pushed herself closer in the one corner she had been able to find when a bit of light fell into that — room — she was sat in. The light fell on the damp, wet flagstones and a shadow was cast by a figure. Probably the figure who had spoken but she couldn't see. She felt first a bit blinded by the little light that fell in, and then, when she thought she could make out shapes again, and see clearer, the figure turned out to be a person, that much was clear, in a long coat or a cloak with a hood drawn over their eyes. Average height, average figure, nothing distinguished. Everything seemed so nondescript or maybe it was her, being locked in that dark, damp — room — and everything which wasn't dark was average.
