And there was a difference immediately when the paint roller touched the wall for the first time. When there was a small stripe of glowing white between the yellowish-brown the walls had been.
Severus liked it.
What he didn't like was the sound he just heard. It sounded strangely like a knock. And then another knock. A knock on the door.
"Severus?" he heard from outside. "It's Mrs Callaghan."
His eyes widened. Was this a joke? Why should someone be up at almost half past three in the morning? And how did she know that he was up? Oh — the missing curtains and the way the light shone out on the street. He couldn't even deny that he wasn't up. He was up. The entire street could see him painting. Curtains. He needed curtains.
And before he even know what he was doing, he had gone to the hall and had opened the door a crack. It was her. The old woman. His neighbour. It might be, the thought crossed his mind briefly, that this was not Mrs Callaghan. That this was someone impersonating her. Someone who had come to kill him.
And what if, he thought then. It didn't matter. He had no way of fighting, he had no way of defending himself. He was the proverbial helpless Muggle. He was simple to kill. The ideal victim. Hadn't the Dark Lord always laughed about them? The defenceless Muggles?
Well — now, he was one of them and he looked into the smiling face of his next door neighbour.
"I heard you," she said gently, the lilt in her voice a bit more obvious but she wasn't resorting to the strong Irish accent she had used before.
"Obviously," he drawled, then, his eyes fell on the tray she was carrying in her old hands. The dressing gown she was wearing. Her feet in slippers and somehow he opened the door wider. Something made him open his door for the old woman who had lived there, in that street longer than he had.
"I brought you tea," she explained. "Thought we might share a cup."
Severus was lost for words. What did one answer to something like that? It would have been incredibly rude to merely send her away, it would have been almost irresponsible to send her back home without letting her warm up a bit. And a fire, he had begun.
Oh, but there was no furniture. There were only magical books. Magical books he was burning — he couldn't let her see. But this old woman merely pushed her way through.
"You're painting! In the middle of the night!" she exclaimed as she just stormed into the living room. "And there is no furniture. Are you redecorating?"
He didn't know what to say. Of course it was blatantly obvious that he was 'redecorating'. Or getting rid of all the things that had littered this place.
She pushed the tray in his hands and smiled. "I can't bend like I used to. I assume you have a chair left?"
He shook his head after a moment. "I..."
"Well, sometimes you have to have a change," she smiled.
"Yes," he replied and at her pointing, he put the tray down on the floor and before he even realised what he was doing, he poured two mugs of steaming hot, fragrant tea. As soon as the scent hit his nostrils, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Just what he had needed. Just what he had wanted.
"I'm not curious, now. But..."
Severus looked at her from the place where he was crouching on the floor. Looked into her greenish eyes and was catapulted back into his childhood. The times when his mother had let him play outside on a Sunday and when some of the woman had returned from church, Mrs Callaghan amongst them. They had always given him sweets and had always been nice to him. Or had pitied him. He wasn't sure these days but then — it had been nice.
"You're running away from something?" she asked softly, taking one of the mugs from him.
Was he? No, he had been thrown out. He hadn't run away. He had sworn to himself to accept whatever the wise and almighty Wizengamot had in stall for him. And he had. He hadn't run away. But how could he explain to Mrs Callaghan that the people he had fought so hard for, the people he had almost lost his life for to protect, had only seen him as a murderer, as someone who took joy in torturing Muggles and Muggleborns, someone who had let others get away with using a Torture Curse on students, children in their care? He wanted to say something. This old woman had shown him nothing but kindness. This old woman had come over in the middle of the night to bring him tea. This old woman smiled at him like nobody had smiled at him since his mother — and her mind — had gone somewhere else.
In the end, he settled for a half-lie. "I was let go by my employer," he said simply.
"Oh. Well," she replied. "And you were a teacher?"
"How do you know?" he snapped quickly. Too quickly.
"The two young 'uns said so," she smiled and patted, suddenly, his cheek. He was crouching on the floor still while she, tiny woman that she was, stood there — and had the audacity to pat his cheek. How long since...no use thinking about it.
"Yes, I was a teacher," he said voicelessly and it seemed to be enough for her. It just seemed to be enough. She still patted his cheek, then let the back of her fingers run up and down his cheek. Up and down again.
"God's ways are mysterious, lad. Not knowing what he has in store for you or why you've been sacked. But it's good you came home."
He was shocked and startled and trying hard not to lean into the touch. Someone touched him. Of their own, free will. His cheek was stroked and he wanted nothing more, in that moment, than to...he didn't know what he wanted to do. Maybe throw himself in her arms and cry, maybe push her hand away and throw her out. He didn't know. He just didn't know.
"I want you to be over tomorrow by twelve. I'll make a good steak pie. Your mam always said you loved it. And I don't want to hear no, lad. You need food and my shelf needs to be put up," she said sternly. And her hand was still — on his cheek. "And don't paint now," she added, pointing at the one white stripe on the wall. "There's time enough for this in the morning."
Severus found himself nodding. He just nodded, not knowing what had happened and if that was some kind of trick, some wizard who pretended to be Mrs Callaghan, some wizard who had put a spell on him that found his tongue tied. Some wizard who was nice to him now, in the form of Mrs Callaghan and who would be killing him the next day, cold-bloodedly. He wasn't sure. He didn't care.
Steak pie.
"Take the tea up to bed with you. It will help you sleep," she smiled and bent down as she took her hand off his cheek and pressed, gently, softly, surprisingly, a kiss on the cheek. "Eileen would've wanted me to take care of you. And I will," she whispered in his ear, then straightened. "Bring the tea pot over with you tomorrow."
He found himself nod again. Just nod.
.
It was what was expected of her. It was the right thing to do to invite him for lunch. A good lunch. A lunch that would fill his stomach and a lunch that would make him happy. And that, in turn, made her happy.
He had leaned into the touch. He had closed his eyes ever so briefly and he had enjoyed that she had stroked his cheek. He had even sighed softly when she had kissed his stubbly cheek.
Oh, Eleanor Callaghan had seen many things — but a man, this starved for any kind of affection, she had never seen. And she would do her best to fatten him up.
.
Hermione knew she had been silly. Snape would never hurt her. He had had so many opportunities during school and he never even had hexed her. He had never even tried. He had never done anything. She bet on her life that she could have tried to Sectumsempra him and all he would have done was to use an Expelliarmus. Nothing else. He was no monster and yet, she had done what so many other people in the Wizarding World did.
She had seen him as a monster. A monster he wasn't. He had walked, like a normal person would, in warm clothes and with his hands in his pockets. And she had completely misjudged him. Had done so right from the start. He was nobody who wanted help. He wanted to do this on his own.
But she pledged, in that moment that she was still in her bed, in that moment between wanting a cup of tea and not wanting a cup of tea, that she would support him. In any way that she could without being seen — even if it meant contacting Draco Malfoy — or his father. She felt for this man. This poor, lonely, tired, skinny man.
And she would have to tell Harry to send a letter via Muggle Post. Didn't think he would appreciate getting an owl.
.
The living room was brightly glowing. In immaculate white. It looked new, it looked like nobody had lived in it before. It looked like...he would have to get the carpet out. Maybe wooden floors, then it would be perfect.
Of course he hadn't listened to Mrs Callaghan. Of course he had painted, as quietly as he could. Of course he had finished it.
But of course, he would also get over there for lunch. He would eat with that older, nutty woman. He would eat with that person who had made him say things he had never considered telling anyone. He had no other choice.
But he still had time, he thought, as he sat on the floor, eating toast (not burned) and reading the paper he had bought the day before. Apparently Her Majesty the Queen wasn't happy about one thing or another. He would have to catch up but apparently some former daughter-in-law was doing things and she wasn't happy with it. Couldn't have been Diana — that had even seeped into the Wizarding World that she had died. The other one, maybe. Oh but the Queen made a face like thunder. She was prone to do it, he thought. Couldn't remember anything else — even from when he had been little.
Severus took a sip of water when there was another knock on the door and he hoped, despite himself, that it was Mrs Callaghan with a cup of tea.
He didn't think when he got up, didn't think at all and just opened his door. Opened his door to a face he hadn't expected to see. Not Mrs Callaghan. This face definitely did not belong to Mrs Callaghan.
7. Prototypes
Prototypes/ Prototype Theory II:
While the words canary, dove, duck, flamingo, parrot, pelican, robin, swallow and thrush are all equally co-hyponyms of the superordinate bird, they are not all considered to be equally good exemplars of the category 'bird'. For many American English speakers, the best exemplars, or the prototype of 'bird' is the robin. The concept of a prototype helps explain the meaning of certain words, like bird, not in terms of component features (e.g. 'has feathers'. 'has wings'), but in terms of resemblance to the clearest exemplar. Thus, even native speakers of English might wonder if ostrich and penguin should be hyponyms of bird (technically, they are), but have no trouble deciding about sparrow or pigeon. The last two are much closer to the prototype.
Hermione had just finished her tea when the doorbell rang. The newspaper was still spread over the table and she was still in her jammies and a dressing gown. She frowned, but then, when she heard a familiar voice announcing who was there, she smiled and opened the door.
"Hey Harry," she greeted gently and was met by the most horrible, most terrible facial expression ever. He looked almost close to tears. His eyes were red-rimmed and there were dark circles underneath his eyes. There was a vein visible on his temple and he hugged — himself. "Oh dear," she whispered. "Come in." Not even nine in the morning and he looked like he had been spat out by a zombie. Eaten up and spat out.
"Thank you," he replied, chocked up — and before she knew it, her arms were full of Harry. He wasn't crying, but he clung to her closely, his arms almost cracking her ribs and his face buried in her neck.
"What's happened?" asked Hermione in a whisper, rubbing his back.
"Could I have a cup of tea?" he replied instead.
"Sure," she kissed his cheek, "Come in the kitchen."
He nodded but kept one arm closely around her, walked slowly with her, his head on her shoulder. Something bad had happened, otherwise he wouldn't act that way. Something...dreadful. He looked like someone had died. She needed to know. He worried her, the way he clung to her. The way he stayed close to her, even as she put the kettle on again.
"Harry?" she asked slowly. "You worry me a bit."
"I broke up with Ginny," he said suddenly, hugged her fully again and buried his nose in her neck once more.
"What?" she asked — well, shrieked almost.
"I did it," he whispered. Hermione was rendered absolutely speechless. She helped him sit down and a moment later, levitated a mug of tea in front of him.
"I don't...did you have problems?" she asked, knowing in her own mind that it hadn't gone as planned for a while. It wasn't that they were unhappy, but they spent less and less time together. After the war had been no declaration of undying love from Harry, there had been no proposal immediately. They hadn't moved in immediately and sometimes, Hermione had thought, that both of them had wanted it — and none of them ever said so. And then there was the matter of Harry maybe checking out other men.
"Ginny wanted to get married. And I don't know if I love her enough for that. And after seeing Snape yesterday...life's too short to do things you don't want to do, right?"
She sat and stared at her best friend, her mouth agape.
"I mean Ginny's...I like Ginny. But I like you. And then...you know, Charlie said something to me when they came to visit Grimmauld Place. He and that woman of his...what's her name? And he looked at the picture of my parents and remarked how similar my mum was to Ginny. I didn't see it at first, then I did. There were similarities everywhere. And I was scared of that... Then seeing Snape and how quickly they destroyed his life...he was stripped of his magic. And you remember what it was like when nobody believed me that Voldemort had risen again. They are so...turncoats. One day, Snape is the hero, the next he's forced to live as a Muggle. Who tells me that the same thing could not happen to me? They change their mind so quickly. And...do I want to live my life knowing that it's not as good as it could be? That it looks perfect from the outside but that in reality I married a woman who looks like my mother? Only to give the people the dream couple? That I married into the family that I was suppose to marry into? And if I'm suddenly not a hero anymore because people realise that I did not do that much altogether but was merely lucky most of the time? What will happen then? I don't know if you remember but Ginny knew me before she met me. She was in awe of me and I was bloody eleven. I can't be with a woman like that."
He slumped forward and rested his forehead on the table. "And so I went this morning and ended it. I didn't sleep and I couldn't...it was impulsive and she cried and Molly was there and listened to most of the conversation because Ginny insisted I cast no Muffliato. I think she expected a proposal and I finished things with her. And Molly just stared at me when I left and Ginny cried but I couldn't...I don't know. But..."
