"It certainly does," Mrs Callaghan replied with a laugh. "I can give you my recipe and your mam, or wife can do it. Or you can do it yerself. I hear that some men have started cooking. Not normal, if you ask me and look at this one there. He would still be dining on burned beans on toast."

Draco threw another startled glance at him and he felt, suddenly, as if he should defend himself. "They were not always burned," he said softly.

She chuckled good naturedly and reached across the table to pat his arm. "You know I didn't mean it."

It was utterly bizarre. Surreal. He had expected many things to happen in his life — but this? This meal there at that table? Never in his wildest dreams.

"It's excellent, Mrs Callaghan," he said a moment later, his plate half-cleared.

The woman positively beamed. "Then eat, eat. There's plenty. And you too, Draco. Draco is your name, yes?"

Draco Malfoy nodded slowly, his mouth full of steak pie, his own plate emptier than Severus's.

"Your parents were ho-bo-hippies then?" she asked curious and Severus, oh Severus was as close to laughter as he hadn't been in years. Not since the old man had...no, he wouldn't spoil that moment by thinking about Albus Dumbledore. There had been hippies, back when he was a child and his memory provided him with the images of their clothing, their hair (Lucius's certainly was long enough) and his imagination provided the rest. His chest constricted and there was a short, tiny bark of laughter.

She paid him no mind, her eyes were fixed on Draco who in turn, looked at Severus for help — but his chest was tight and there was a warm, spreading feeling coming from his stomach. No doubt induced by the steak pie. But he was warm and even though he was still hungry, he didn't feel the eternal starvation he had in the past days.

Instead, he swallowed the rest of the laughter he felt inside of him and cleared his throat. "Draco's mother is rather fond of stars and constellations, and she named him after one of them."

"Oh I see," she smiled. "I bet you had a tough time at school with that name," she nodded towards Severus. "He did, I remember."

Draco still looked around helplessly and the warm feeling inside of Severus seemed to vanish, seemed to ease, seemed to fade.

"He was at one of those schools," he answered instead, his voice taking on the tone he remembered from the time he had been a boy. Children of hippie parents, send to 'wholesome schools'.

"Ah well. And now you've come to visit your godfather? I daresay he could use your help over there. It'll be a long way home from Ikea with all the furniture."

"Ikea?" Draco found his voice again. "Who's Ikea?"

Hermione knocked carefully on the door to the guest room. "Harry?" she asked softly. She had bought cakes and toast and scones and she had made tea. Get something in his stomach.

"Come in," Harry said and she opened the door a crack. He smiled sadly. "There was paper and a pen in the desk and I..."

"You're writing to Ginny?"

He shook his head. "Snape."

"Snape? Oh, right. Erm. Yes. Harry...maybe an owl is not a good idea," she began, unsure how well he would take it if she told him that she had, well, seen Snape. And had talked to him.

"I thought so. I mean my Uncle went bonkers whenever he saw an owl. Even if it was on the telly. He made whoever had the remote switch channels whenever there was one. Even if it was a bloody documentary."

She snorted. "Did you talk to them again?"

"Nah, well, briefly. I mean I had to know where Snape lives and talked to Dudley. He told me all about this girl he met when they were in hiding and he's thinking of moving to Wales to be with her. He was blushing when he talked about her. Uncle Vernon bolted when he saw me and I think my aunt wanted to strangle me."

"How lovely," she replied sarcastically. "But Dudley...that's a different tune."

"I think the girl is a witch," he smirked. "Anyway, since I have the address, I thought it might be better if I mailed it the regular way."

"I think there are stamps in the kitchen somewhere."

Harry nodded slowly, scribbling something else on the piece of paper.

"And?" Hermione asked impatiently. She was curious. Very, very curious.

"And what? I tell him all about the curse and that the Auror Department is sort of working on finding out who is it, that we now know that it couldn't have been Malfoy. Kingsley owled me and told me all three of them had an alibi. I'm just telling him about the curse and that I'm sorry and if there is something I can do..."

"Harry, I didn't mean that," she stopped him.

"Oh, Ginny?"

"Yep, Ginny."

He let out a long, deep sigh. "I feel no different. Honestly, 'Mione. I adored that she adored me. But I came to the conclusion, that I don't adore her enough to spend my life with her. To lie to her. I don't...Hermione, really. I'd hate to lose the Weasleys but haven't you noticed that it's already not the way it used to be?"

"Hm. Since Ron and I didn't work out."

"Yes. And she wants other things in life than I do. And seriously, I know you suggested it to her, but what was the use of making me jealous? Or trying to make me jealous?"

"I never told her that. I told her to go look for other options. Be open to someone else. I never told her to go and make you jealous."

"I know," he sighed. "But I think she saw it that way. I don't want to be looked at as the boy-who-lived for the rest of my life. And she would remind me. She wanted to be the wife-of-the-boy-who-lived. And she failed to notice that I wasn't a boy anymore."

"Harry, aren't you a bit harsh?"

"No, I'm not harsh. I just...want to be out of that. You haven't been there as much as I was, but there were always some talk of me being super-great and of me being a saviour and all that rot. I'm not and you know it. It wasn't blatantly obvious and it wasn't glaring me in the face...but there was always some underlying sort of, well, we have a celebrity in the family thing. And I love the Weasleys. I love Molly and Arthur and they are great people but I don't want to be their son-in-law."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't feel right," he huffed, glaring slightly angrily at her. "I can't help it. We haven't been...dear God, Hermione, do I have to spell it out for you? We haven't had sex in months."

"Is it because you like men more?" she asked, immediately clapping her hands before her mouth, wishing she could take the words back, push them back.

He groaned. "No. Because once I realised that she looked like my mother, I couldn't. Imagine you being with a man who bears a striking resemblance with your father."

"Oh," she nodded. "I see."

"This felt sick. In the end, after Charlie mentioned it, it felt bloody sick to be touching her. I'm not sick. And I'm afraid I was only looking for a..."

"Substitute mother," she nodded again. "Harry, I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's okay. It took me a while to figure it out myself. Now, could I have maybe an envelope and a stamp?"

She nodded, quite aware that he had not — clearly — answered her question about men.

He felt — sated. His stomach was full. He wasn't thirsty. He wasn't cold. Even back in his own home, in front of the fire, with Draco, finally, out of his house (and a promise that he would return should he go to Ikea...Mrs Callaghan had a hard time explaining that one and he had a hard time explaining why Draco hadn't known — not that she noticed that he hadn't known). Mrs Callaghan, who had told him to call her Eleanor as she had put the remaining steak pie in a plastic box for him to take home, had smelled, instinctively, that something had been off and he suspected that she suspected that they had lived in a sort of coven. Some sort of sect. Nothing he couldn't live with, especially when she had offered to show him the book shop and the other supermarket.

Maybe it wasn't too bad altogether to have a neighbour like that. Maybe, he thought, he could get used to her and to the warm, full feeling in his stomach that she had brought on with her steak pie.

He could really get used to it, he thought as he curled into a ball in front of his fire for a food-induced afternoon nap.

9. The Cooperative Principle

The cooperative principle:

We might formulate a rough general principle which participants will be expected (ceteribus paribus) to observe, namely: Make your conversational contribution such as is required, at the stage at which it occurs, by the accepted purpose or direction of the talk exchange in which you are engaged.

(Grice, 1975)

Draco rubbed his eyes. Not because he had slept unwell the night before and due to that, they were gritty, but because he still could not believe what he had just witnessed. Even the breath of fresh air, the rush of fresh air induced by Apparition had not made him believe it more. He had, for all intents and purposes, had lunch, with his godfather and a woman who had introduced herself as Eleanor Callaghan. An Irish woman who spoke with great gentleness and had smoothed his hair down and had run the back of her fingers down his cheek before she had said good bye to him. And oddly enough, he didn't feel repulsed by it. Her hand had been wrinkled but warm. Gentle. Very, very gentle. And the food he had been given, the food he had stuffed himself with had been exceptionally good.

If, Draco thought, he had been introduced to a woman like this, a simple Muggle, he would have never believed anyone superior to her. She hadn't raised her voice, she hadn't threatened, she had merely asked them to eat. She had made Severus say the strangest thing before their meal and then she had told them to eat. Nothing more. And both of them had done it. Had done exactly what she had asked him to do. And when Mrs Callaghan had told him to come see her again soon, and had, at the same time, run the back of her fingers down his cheek, what else could he do but say yes? And he wanted to. He wanted more meals like that, even though he felt he had made a complete an utter fool of himself there.

Ikea was no person but a place where they sold furniture. And since his godfather had no furniture left, Mrs Callaghan had, rightly, drawn the conclusion that they should get some. And he would. He would help him. Even if he had absolutely no money left apart from the fifty galleons in his Gringotts account. And if he had to use those fifty Galleons to help his godfather buy furniture. He would go there again.

But first, he would have to do something else.

The Manor stood, forbidden and gloomy in front of him and he was hesitant to open the doors. How different this was from little house they had shared that meal in. And Severus's house. There had been warmth, and Mrs Callaghan kindness personified. She had never met him before and had invited him to her house for a meal. Him. Had just invited him. Without prejudice. Him, the marked one. Had eaten with her. A Muggle. And his godfather, another marked one. On the same table with a Muggle. Had never thought that would happen. Had never thought that was possible.

But she was kinder, gentler, nicer than anyone else he had ever known in the Wizarding World. She had just accepted him and Severus without any qualms. She had talked to them, had let him talk (not that he had said much), and had let Severus talk. And she had invited him back.

If she knew who he was...but she didn't care. To her, he was just the boy with the strange name. Apparently named by parents who were hippos or hippies or heyppies. He would have to ask his father what that meant — Severus had not been able to answer it. Draco had seen his godfather, for the first time ever, close to laughing out loud. Had never seen him this relaxed, or this content as he had looked when he had eaten the second — and then the third helping of that steak pie.

The recipe was in his pocket. The back pocket of his jeans, uncomfortable though they were. He would try and give this to the remaining, grouchy house elf, aptly named Smiley, but Draco doubted she would cook it. She stuck to her own recipes and her food, compared to that of Mrs Callaghan, tasted like...paper-mâché. He could still taste the pie in his mouth and he found himself running his tongue along his teeth to catch more of it. He wanted to go back. Wanted to find out if she cooked other things. Wanted to know if other things made him this content.

This meal, this simple meal, served on a plate that was a bit chipped, had made him more content than anything else he could remember. He had enjoyed it. He had enjoyed being with Severus and his godfather had even, briefly, smiled at him. That hadn't happened in a while either. He closed his eyes and focused on the memory of his godfather's smile and the taste of the steak pie and opened the door. He would have to talk to his parents.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I've been thinking...

Mum and Dad,

Harry broke up with Ginny...

This house is empty even though Harry stayed overnight. He suggested...

Mum and Dad,

I'm thinking of renting the house but I can't without your consent. It's just that Harry asked me to move in with him and I can't...

I'm lonely.

If I live with Harry, I won't be lonely.

If I don't tell you about renting the house, and you come back, I have a problem. If I tell you about renting the house, you'll ask if I'm with Harry, which I'm not. I don't want to tell you. I don't know you anymore.

Dear Mum and Dad,

London is so much livelier and I could stay with Harry. I want to move in with Harry. He's good company and he's always here for me. I can't stand that silence anymore.

I hate that silence.

Even the bloody postman puts the post in quietly.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I just want to let you know, that I will move in with Harry. No, we're not together but we thought we'd throw our things together and run one household instead of two. It's much more efficient that way and will cost less. I could rent the house, if you like, or could even try and sell it. It's up to you, really, but it's much more practical for me to live at Grimmauld Place. There is a large library and I will find all the books I need for my NEWTs there without having to go to Hogwarts every time. You should know the address, and if not, I've written it on the envelope, as always.

I hope you are well.

Your daughter,

Hermione.

Draco swallowed hard as he stepped into the former drawing room. Now it was the only room in the house that was constantly heated, and the only room in which there was a fire blazing. He didn't quite understand his father's reluctance to sell the property — but on the other hand, he understood that there were still those people who would not appreciate the place as it was. Grand, beautiful on the outside, huge. There were those, he understood, who would want to turn this into a site. This is where the Dark Lord sat. This is where the Dark Lord killed...And then, he could understand his father's reluctance.