"Just the usual, female check you have to do once in a while," she smirked at his blush and kissed his cheek. "I'll talk to you soon though. And let me know if you write that owl."

He had seen them disappear behind the corner and then, there was nothing. They had walked away, probably apparated away but Severus Snape had learned one thing from his former life — never trust anything. He needed curtains after he had burned the last ones but the supermarket had none. At least he had found none. And the old place, the town he remembered from when he had grown up there wasn't the same. If worst came to worst, he would have to, well, ask Mrs Callaghan where one could get decent curtains. And maybe a chair or two. That would be sufficient. Or a table so he could eat like a human being, not a brute, a beast, on the floor.

And maybe he could find a book store. He didn't dare to even open one of the others but he missed reading. When he rifled through his memories, when he let them flood his mind again, there were images of him reading those books, reading periodicals, reading in bed, reading on his sofa, reading on the staff table, reading whenever he could, since he had been able to. And maybe finding a few novels or anything, really, could make him forget.

He'd paint — no, first he would see if those two imbecilic Gryffindors had left, then he would go and buy paint. Would paint either that night or the next morning, and then, after more food, he would explore his town. What was left of it. And only if that failed, he would ask Mrs Callaghan. It sounded like a good plan. Sounded like something he could occupy his mind with for the next hour and a half when he just stared at the flames in the fire, his stacks of books maybe now reduced by a third, trying to eat the toast (unburned, this time) with marmalade. This was why he had those bouts of cleaning, he understood now.

He simply had nothing to do but fix the house. He had nothing to occupy his time with. Book. Or a magazine. There had been magazines and some paperbacks in the supermarket, he remembered. And he would buy one or two. And if he had to stop twenty times on the way home because carrying the paint would surely be difficult. He didn't care. A book, any book would do. Or maybe not or he would never start painting.

No — he could pace himself. Paint, then book. But buying both at the same time would save him the trouble of yet another trip to the supermarket.

He sat and stared — heard, for the first time since he had gone back to Spinner's End, Mrs Callaghan's television through the wall. He wondered — had he never paid attention, or had she never watched television before. His own, ancient set was history. It had fallen victim to one of his, well, tempers and he had, he remembered, stuck his foot through it. It seemed so far away, and yet, it had only been a little more than a day ago.

Everything seemed far away now. He closed his eyes briefly, and regretted it immediately.

There were more flashes, more images. Lucius and Draco, both visiting them the evening before the verdict. Lucius first, asking him not to tell Draco, then Draco, asking him not to tell Lucius. Both of them wishing him luck and promising help, whichever way his verdict went. He snorted. Now that he was a lowly Muggle, they would probably come to kill him, rather than help him. No, he was unfair and he knew it. They were both well past the stage of killing Muggles as a sport. Draco had never even played the game. Not willingly. And Lucius, Lucius always did what he considered best for his family. Being friends with a lowly Muggle — someone cast out of society, a leper, an outcast — that was not best for the self-proclaimed noble family of Malfoy.

He would, probably, never see them again anyway. He would never see most of them again anyway. More people, more flashed, more images in his mind. Potter of all people had come to see him. Potter and Granger. Probably to gloat, probably to inflict their help on him. Forcing him. Granger begging for his books.

Oh, he could see her now. Clearly. She would have probably run for the books, would have thrown herself over them before he could feed one more to the flames. And maybe, if he had been in a kind mood, which he never was, he would have given them to her. No, who was he kidding. He needed those books to get the fire started in the morning. He couldn't possibly give them away.

Those people, his former colleagues, his former students, all those in Hogsmeade, all those in Diagon Alley — for them, he was dead. He was more than Kissed. He was just non-existent. And now, it was up for him to decide what to do.

The way he saw it, as he watched the flames dancing, yellow and orange and red and glowing, he had a choice. He could mourn the end of his existence and live as a shadow of his former self, grieving for the fact that he had lost what had defined him almost all his life. Or — he could begin again. He could start new, fresh, with neighbours who didn't quite remember him, in a town that didn't seem to remember him and that he didn't seem to remember and with a new purpose in life. Maybe, he thought, if he should choose that possibility, there were new things to learn. Books to read about subjects that he had never thought about before. Muggle philosophy, religion, medicine. No, not medicine. That could get to close to herbs and remedies and potions. And he wanted to stay away from that. Muggle literature. Maybe he could learn new things. If he should choose that option.

But — he wondered, throwing a leg of the table in the flame — what was the use of redoing this house, painting, cutting the grass, destroying all the furniture, if he intended to live like an empty shell of a man? He could as well have left it the way it was. Could have stopped eating and drinking if he had intended to just ignore that he was now a Muggle. But he was constantly hungry. He was hungry and thirsty and he craved, at that moment, chocolate. Rich, creamy chocolate. Something he hadn't eaten in years. He could buy some when he bought the paint. It would help him with his strength on the way back.

Or maybe he could take one of those carts. But that would make him look even more like a homeless person. He would have to think about that. He would have to think.

She waited, a bit worried that the steam that rose from the plastic mug of tea she had poured from the Thermos could be seen but there was nothing. It had grown dark soon — it was December after all and she was incredibly glad that she could renew her Warming Charms every few minutes and that she had dressed warmly.

There was light inside Snape's house, coming from a naked light bulb on the ceiling and the familiar flickering of a fire burning. He moved around the house. She could see him. The former spy, so careless that he could be seen. She resolved to waiting another half hour when she could spot him slipping into a coat and the light going out.

It was past ten. Past ten and he was now going out? She knew that positioning herself in front of his house until that hour was fruitless — but it turned out, it wasn't. A second later, she had burned her mouth while gulping down the tea and shrinking the Thermos and shoving it in her bag, he came out of the house, looked around carefully and began walking. Quickly. Not as quickly and not as purposeful as he had during his time at Hogwarts, but quickly nevertheless. She followed him — and again, felt completely wrong at following him. What was she doing? It was dark and she was Disillusioned and he did not want to see her.

Oh, but she had to tell him not to try and break that curse on himself. Not to let anyone break that curse.

She pulled together all her courage and shrugged the Disillusionment Charm off, stuffed her wand in her pocket and cancelled the Silencing Charm she had added for good measure.

"Excuse me," she said slowly and he stopped. Stopped and turned — with a groan. Suddenly, his eyes were on her and even though it was quite dark, the street lamp above them flickering, she knew he could see right inside her. That man didn't need Occlumency to make someone else feel that he could see everything that was going on inside. "I know you don't want to see me and I apologise for coming to see you. I know I have no right but there is a curse on you. It's not just the, erm, the ban from the Ministry. You can't do magic..."

"Miss Granger," he said suddenly. "I think I made myself clear this afternoon that I have absolutely no longing to see you nor your friend Mr Potter." He turned around and walked away.

"Professor Snape, this is serious," she rushed to keep up with him. "Someone put a curse on you. It's ancient. If you try to remove it, you'll die."

"And pray tell, Miss Granger," he stopped abruptly and glared at her, "why would that make a difference to you?"

"Because..." he had begun to move again and she followed him quickly. She couldn't name a reason, or she could..."You should know. Because you shouldn't die. You don't deserve to die."

Snape snorted but said nothing, just kept walking.

"Professor Snape..." she cried and he stopped again. Stopped so quickly that she collided with him, ran against his chest, almost could feel his ribs poking her. His finger was between her eyes. "Miss Granger," said Snape and there was threat in his voice. Nothing to mess with, she knew. "Just because I am not allowed to use magic does not mean that I have no other ways of hurting you if you don't leave me alone." His other hand came up and dangerously close to her neck. "It would be no bother, Miss Granger."

She took a step back, slightly, she admitted that to herself, frightened.

"Go, Miss Granger and leave me be."

She swallowed convulsively, nodded and without looking around, she disapparated.

6. Categories

Categories /Prototype Theory I

When describing categories analytically, most traditions of thought have treated category membership as a digital, all-or-none phenomenon. That is, much work in philosophy, psychology, linguistics, and anthropology assumes that the categories are logical bounded entitites, membership in which is defined by an item's possession of a simple set of criterial features, in which all instances possessing the criterial attributes have a full and equal degree of membership. In contrast, it has recently be argued [...] that some natural categories are analog and must be represented logically in a manner which reflects their analog structure

(Rosch and Mervis, 1975)

Eleanor Callaghan had seen plenty of things in her time. Born just after the end of the big war, the war to end all wars (which, of course, proved to be completely false), she had followed her husband to England later. Had born five children, had 14 grandchildren and was expecting her first great-grandchild. She didn't see her children much, had all moved away, in the South, one to Scotland. She missed her family, especially after her husband had died but she was much too practical to mourn the fact. She knew she only had to get on a train and she would be welcome, for a few days, in any of their homes. On the other hand, Christmas was soon and that was the time when all of them descended on her. And that was fine. She had her routine. She went to church regularly, met her friends from church, and now, it seemed, she had another task. The poor lad next door. She wasn't sure where he had been but the two young ones had called him Professor. So maybe, he had been a teacher. Most likely. She would ask. The poor lad.

This was the second night, she had been woken by a feral, animal cry. So loud, so heart-wrenching. It sounded, now for the second time, as if the poor lad was suffering. And she was suffering with him. Truly. She was woken, now, twice, in the middle of the night. A bit past two the night before, and now, as she scrambled for her glasses and switched the light, she saw plainly that it was a bit past three. Not that she got much sleep anyway, she was used to sleeping little, but that scream, well, made her feel — bad. For him. This boy had nobody left, poor mother dead in her grave and father somewhere. The girl he had been friendly with when they had been young had died — she had heard. But that was after the Evanses had died and after her sister, that horse-faced girl, had left.

Everyone had left. And now, Severus had returned and she would make it her task to take care of him.

And that started now. Yes, it was 3:14 am in the morning but nobody could fall asleep that quickly after being roused from sleep by something she considered a dreadful, frightening nightmare. At least, it sounded like that. Couldn't be anything else. He sounded horribly frightened, even through the thin wall. She wrapped her thick, burgundy dressing gown around herself and pushed her feet into her warm slippers. She had to try that, even if it was the middle of the night. As quickly as she could with her aching joints, she descended the stairs and put the kettle on immediately. A cup of tea, that always helped. Even if it was the middle of the night. He wouldn't sleep.

No, he truly didn't sleep. She heard him shuffling around next door and she heard something fall.

She briefly wondered whether she should go through the gardens, knock at his back door but that would mean climbing the small wall and she certainly didn't feel up to it. And so, she grabbed two mugs, put them on a tray, added sugar and milk, and the teapot she had filled. She had to try. And nobody could see her crossing the street at that time anyhow.

He had been woken by his own, piercing scream. He hated that he had not chance to empty his mind before going to bed. And he hated that he had no chance to fall back asleep. He didn't want to sleep and see the snake again. Didn't want to hear Dumbledore's words. Didn't want to see all those things that came back to haunt him during the night. He could push them back during the day when he kept busy. But not when he was vulnerable during sleep. No choice then. He slowly trudged down to the living room where he had already put the paint and all the things he needed to paint. He would have loved a cup of tea at that moment but he had none. Had forgotten it again. But he had a book. He had a magazine and a newspaper. Something to read. But not now. Now he had walls to paint, even if it would have been simpler if he had a cup of tea to go with it.

Astonishing — truly — the way Mrs Callaghan had just given him one. She had talked, without prejudice. And when had been the last time that had happened?

No sense in thinking about it. He didn't want to think. He absently picked up the screw driver he needed to get the paint tin open and it slipped out of his fingers, clattering on the floor. He grumbled to himself and picked it up, opened the paint tin and stared at the glowing white he had picked. Maybe not the best choice, but it seemed so innocent and so new. Like a new start. It fit.