"He's not really moping, Aideen," Draco shook his head. "Honestly, he was like this at school. You never knew what he felt or if he felt anything at all. He kept himself in a sort of angry-detached state all the time. He was either angry or he was nothing at all. Seriously. And he's like that."
"I'll go and talk to him again," Eleanor huffed. "He can't go acting like a teenager."
.
Harry had given up Quidditch for good. It was alright to let Teddy stay at the Burrow once in a while but when he had to decide upon playing for another season, he had to say no. Teddy was more important. And if he maybe, eventually, decided to write a book about the war (under a nom de plume, if at all), there would be a lot of money, if he should run out of it — which he doubted. He would be a full-time father for Teddy. Wouldn't leave him with Kreacher, wouldn't even let Kreacher watch over him while he was sleeping. No. Teddy was his responsibility and that was the end of that particular story.
There were other stories in his life — and he would still be going out. He still wanted to find out a few things — about himself. But all that could wait.
He could be a good father, well, godfather, to Teddy, but at the same time, there was still the mystery of Hermione to solve. Usually, it was Hermione who solved all the mysteries. Hermione who knew all the answers. But as Hermione was the mystery herself — she couldn't do it.
For the last few days she had acted strangely. Very, very strangely. She still ate — obediently — most of her meals with them, or at least breakfast before she apparated to Uni and she only ate a quick bite after Uni before she went to her room. And stayed there until the next morning and breakfast.
That, in itself, wasn't mysterious. Hermione liked studying and she liked to do so in silence. But not even joking with Teddy, not even berating Ron for eating like a pig. She just sat and ate quickly, basically wolfed her food down, then darted away. She was quiet and pale and pensive. And if Harry hadn't insisted Kreacher cooked fattening, wholesome, nutritious food, he didn't doubt that Hermione would lose weight as well. Something was wrong with her and he couldn't figure out what it was.
Yes, she talked less about Snape and Malfoy and all those people around them but she had begun talking less about them after he and Ron had to pick her up there with the case of low-blood-sugared-apparition. Somehow she had stopped talking about them. Especially about Snape and he didn't even know if she was still working on the counter-curse. It certainly didn't look like it.
Her room, he thought as he had carried Teddy up there just after she had left for Uni, was clean and the only things lying around were books on maths. Yes, so he felt a little bad about snooping but it was odd, the way she behaved and he wanted to solve that Hermione-mystery without the help of Ron (who was working with his brother) and naturally, without the help of Hermione. He had Teddy with him and maybe the little one could solve this mystery — which had to be solved before he could solve his own, personal mystery.
This was the test-run, so to speak, he decided. If he could find out what was bothering Hermione, he could most certainly figure out where exactly he stood.
Her room, such as it was, didn't give him any clues from just looking around and because it was Thursday and he knew that Hermione had lectures until late, he decided to take an even bigger risk and to take a closer look around.
"You're really getting too heavy to carry around for a long time," he told his godson with a smile, kissed Teddy and put him on the floor. "Go explore," he said gently, "maybe you will help me solve the mystery of Hermione. If you find anything concerning Snape, you yell, alright?" he laughed, then moved closer to her desk, half an eye on his godson.
He made sure to take a good look where everything lay or stood before he touched things on her desk. It was only notes on maths, it was nothing even remotely related to magic. Nothing magical in the slightest. It was only Muggle things. A little black book which he didn't dare to open (might be her diary and he was sure he didn't want to delve quite so deep into the mystery that was Hermione), various cords, her laptop, books. Plenty of books. All related to maths.
This wasn't the desk of a witch. This was the desk of a Muggle mathematics student. He sighed and carefully sat down on her chair, watching Teddy crawl towards the bed, babbling happily.
Maybe that was it just it. Maybe it had something to do with Snape and those people around him — maybe she was weary of magic and come to think of it, she didn't use it all that much. She apparated, yes, but that was it, as far as he could see lately. Maybe Snape had influenced her. Maybe Draco, by going back to the Muggles, had influenced her. Maybe she was just confused about herself and that was why she was strange lately.
"G'daddy look!" Teddy squealed and with a chubby finger, he pointed at a beautifully painted, wooden box which stood under Hermione's bed. This boy was probably better than any bloodhound. Or he just liked the painted box. Harry preferred to actually think the former rather than the latter, especially when he got down on his hands and knees as well and pulled the box out and Teddy traced it reverently with his baby-fingers.
"Do you think we should open it?" Harry asked his godson, then nodded to himself. "It won't hurt to take a look, will it?"
Teddy smiled, a bit of spit gathering at the corner of his mouth which Harry wiped away — automatically — with the sleeve of his jumper before he bent over the box and slowly opened it.
.
"Severus," the woman stood before him, a little hunched over, a hand pressed to her back and he knew that there was something he felt for this woman. There was something but he couldn't make it out. He knew the hand pressed to her back meant something as well.
Ah — the hand meant pain. Yes, he knew that.
"Yes?" he drawled, barely looking up from the book he had read before she had, so rudely, interrupted him.
"I will ask you one last time, what is wrong with you?" she almost shrieked.
"I was reading and you interrupted me," said he.
"This is not you," the woman shook her head. "This is not the boy that's been living..."
"I am no boy," he explained coldly. "And you would do well to remember it."
The woman stared at him truly astonished, then went over to him and pinched his ear between her thumb and finger. "No more excuses. I don't know you anymore. I don't know what's going on and I want to know. I'm not feeding you to have you act like this and behave like this towards me. Is this this Imperius thing? Are you under a spell?" she asked very softly. "Is that it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about and I'd be very much obliged if you could leave me alone," he muttered, bent over the book, his ear hurting from her tight grip.
"I'm not. I'm not going to leave you alone until I know what is happening," she shook her head and the pressure on his ear increased even more.
"Stop manhandling me, woman!"
"You will not call me that. You will not call me woman and get away with it," she shouted loudly and pinched his ear tighter. "You will explain to me what's going on. For heaven's sake, Severus..."
He looked up into her eyes. They were pale green. Pale green and rather moist. Her thin lower lips was pulled between her teeth and she seemed to chew on it. There was something. Something he felt for this woman.
His Occlumency was strong. He had built those walls surrounding his feelings even stronger than those surrounding the rest of his thoughts and he knew there were feelings. For her and for Draco Malfoy and Aideen Callaghan and for Granger. He knew they were there, behind his walls. The walls he had, himself erected. Had spent years strengthening them. There was something.
He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them when there was something like a raindrop on his cheek. He was inside, it couldn't be raining. It couldn't possibly. Indoors. He looked up at her and that woman was crying. The woman had shed a tear on him.
"I..." he closed his eyes again and knew that some of those walls had to go. Those surrounding the feelings for this woman had to go. Immediately. He focused. He concentrated very hard. And there was no getting through. He had built his own fortress and he had locked himself in.
Another tear dropped on his cheek but this time, it didn't surprise him all that much. He couldn't quite fathom why she should be crying. Or pinching his ear.
"You're in there, Severus. I know you are. The boy I love is somewhere there. What have they done to you? What's happened to you?"
"Granger gave me my magic back," he replied automatically, coldly. Detachedly.
"What?" the pain on his ear was gone suddenly.
"Are you hard of hearing," he snapped.
"Yes, I seem to be. Magic, Severus? Is that it? Is that why you're weird? Draco said something about this...he said you...but you can't change that easily. Not like this, Severus. Don't you remember? Have you forgot this? Do you remember that I love you? That I want you to be happy? Have you forgot this?" she almost shouted.
There was something. Like the faint light of a flickering torch inside his mind. A bit of light and he followed it. His thoughts followed the bright light instinctively.
.
Harry seemed to be extraordinarily pale. An unhealthy sort of pale. The sort of pale that Snape always had been. He hadn't been, come to think of it, when they had brought Hermione back home. Poor girl. Ever since that time, she was too embarrassed to do anything more than eat with them. Hell, he would be embarrassed too, if someone had to basically carry him home. Well, apparate him home but the idea behind it was the same.
"What's wrong, mate?" he asked, finding his friend sitting pale and idle at the kitchen table, no food prepared, no Kreacher in sight.
"She really has a crush on Snape," said Harry. "And she's tried to write to him but she didn't..."
"Huh? We knew she had a crush. She told us and the way..."
"Don't interrupt me," snarled Harry. "I found letters she wanted to write to him in her room."
"Why would you find those in her room? What did you have to do in her room?"
"I was bloody worried about her. She's written to him. Or tried to. She loves him. Or thinks she does, what the hell do I know and he probably rejected her and that's why she's like this. The bloody bastard. Rejecting Hermione? Only a bloody idiot would be so stupid."
"Well thanks a lot," Ron replied, hurt. He had been an idiot to let her go, or not to start anything with her but what other chance did he have? He wanted to be happy and he wanted Hermione to be happy. They wouldn't have been happy together as a couple. Instinct had told him and if Hermione was the type of girl to fall for a bloke like Snape, his instincts had probably been correct.
"Ron, I didn't mean it," said Harry. "But we have a problem now, don't you see?"
"No, we go to the greasy git and tell him that he's an idiot for rejecting her," Ron shrugged.
"Do you have a death wish?"
"Sometimes, yes," he grinned, trying to push the hurt of Harry's impulsive comment away.
"No, seriously. We have to cheer her up," said Harry. "Lovesick girls are..."
"Yeah, you tell me. I had to live with Ginny after...oh. Well, sorry, I guess we're even now, eh?"
Harry rolled his eyes, then nodded as silence fell over the two, each of them probably thinking of a way to make their friend feel better.
.
Well it was...not the way she had thought it would be. The boys would be worried about her but if Harry still refused to get a mobile phone or an email address, she couldn't help it. It would have been much too conspicuous to send an owl while, well, being in liplock with a bloke. He did feel wrong. He was too small and his hair was different and he hugged differently. But she had been — desperate. She had wanted to stop thinking about Snape and the hug and the fire and light in his eyes. She had wanted to forget about all that.
Not that she had planned on things ending up in, well, Ian's dorm room. Or, to be more precise, with her skirt bunched up on her blouse and bra undone on his bed. With her knickers...well, somewhere. Not where they should have been.
She had wanted to forget and had failed miserably. All the time, she swore, all the time that he said something or did something, she had immediately thought was Snape would do or say. The way Snape would kiss. The way Snape would move. The way Snape would make certain noises and whether Snape would pull her in his arms afterwards or would just sort of flop down by her side as Ian had done. Whether it would be better with Snape because, quite honestly, if sex was always like this, almost boring, making her long to read at the same time, she had no doubt that she could easily live without it for the rest of her life.
He wasn't Snape. And she had wanted Snape to be her...first. Now, some idiot called Ian (and she didn't even know his surname) had had that privilege. With a weird glint in his eyes when she had told him. Incredulous look. As if he thought her ridiculous that she hadn't...so far.
Hermione blushed and pulled her skirt down to her knees again before she sat up and closed her bra and blouse.
"Oi, where you going?" asked Ian, groggily and she looked at him and was repulsed. By herself, by him. It was all so disgusting. Undignified. Horribly wrong.
"I have to go," she said quickly and ignored that her knickers were still somewhere not on her.
"Will you come back? Will I see you?"
"No," she said quickly. "This was a mistake. Sorry." She blushed again and, with her book bag flung over her shoulder, she left his room and the building and apparated home to her room in Grimmauld Place as soon as she found a quiet spot.
83. Parasitic Gaps
One basic property of parasitic gaps is that they are typically licensed by a wh-trace (or other operator bound trace) in object position but not in subject position as illustrated below, where t is the real gap and e the parasitic gap.
a. what did you file t [before reading e]
b. what did you file t [before you read e]
c. 'who [t met you [before you recognised e]]
The restriction concerning subjext must be qualified, however. A subject can license a parasitic gap that it does not c-command, as noted by Longobardi, who observes that e is more acceptable than d:
d. *a man who [t looks old [whenever I meet e]]
e. man who [whenever I meet e] [t looks old]
(Yule, 1986)
Four, five, six, seven. Seven tears shed on his person. Seven tears while he fought and battled and used all the heavy tools he could think off in his mind. A sledgehammer. A crowbar. A shovel. An excavator.
