It was strange, both of them had thought, how much they had gone through together — and that in the end, nothing had worked out the way they had thought it would. She wasn't with Ron (mutual decision), he wasn't with Ginny (his decision). There had been no happy ever after. There was work to be done, they still tried to find their way. She still tried to find her way and Harry was struggling with Auror training — which would be even weirder now with him and Ginny broken up and Ron in training with him.
And Harry had even mentioned that the night before, after the third Silvergin Martini (one of Harry's inventions. He tried mixing Wizarding Liquor with Muggle Liquor and that made great cocktails in her opinion — but very potent). Had mentioned that he wasn't entirely comfortable with the fact that he had to work with Ron — and knowing his explosive, jealous temper fits.
"I think we should go somewhere else. The zoo, or Oxford Street, get some Muggle clothes, or...the National Gallery. Or somewhere. But the Weasleys? It's too early, if you ask me. I don't think you want to see Ginny like this..."
"I thought so. But how do I tell them nicely? I don't..."
"Write an owl to Arthur. Tell him you had other plans. And we'll go somewhere and take your minds off things. And mine for that matter."
"Well, I do need clothes..." he smiled. "Thanks.
.
He had succumbed rather easily. Eleanor hadn't expected it to be so easy. On one condition that he set himself. And that condition was — not too short. She could do that. And she didn't honestly think that very short sides and longer top would suit him. No, she just cut the long tresses, the too long, untidy looking hair and left it long enough to be nicely ruffled if she felt like it.
And so, her neighbour, the boy she had known since he had been born, basically, but whom she hadn't seen in so many years, the boy who had grown into a sad, lonely man, sat on a chair in her kitchen, one of her towels around his shoulders, holding very still as soon as she was close to his ears, trusting her enough to cut off parts of his hair — in exchange for a leather jacket, a few old jeans, a few old shirts, a heavy winter coat that Stephen had never liked and that Mark had liked even less and that Thomas wouldn't fit into, and a few textbooks that Stephen had left, a few novels that Mary had read, a few of Kathleen's. A box full of things from her children and she felt bad that she gave him those discarded things. He deserved new stuff, new clothes but money was scarce and it was Christmas soon. All the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren wanted at least a little present. And Severus would get something new for Christmas.
But she smiled as she remembered how his eyes had gleamed upon especially the textbooks. How he had almost smiled then. Eileen had been the same. She had been so happy when she was surrounded by books, the little one on her hip, a book in her hand, talking over the wall in the garden. No need to feel sad for long dead people. They were in a better place.
She cut off a little more hair, testing whether it was even and patted his shoulders. "Done. See if you like it," she whispered gently in his ear, kissing his cheek (as she had taken on doing — just because he always seemed to lean into her touch). Eleanor gestured to the mirror in the hall and watched him as he watched himself, incredulously.
He didn't look that much different. His hair was just as dark, his face just as thin (even after the meal they had shared just before the haircut) but his eyes were clearly visible now and they seemed warmer than before, more pronounced. He had Eileen's eyes, truly dark and magnificent and deep. His nose, on the other hand, seemed less prominent with the haircut. Somehow, the tips of his hair didn't seem to point towards the nose anymore — and it wasn't the only thing that show between the curtain of hair that he usually let forward when he was embarrassed or didn't want to be seen.
There — she liked it better this way. That way, people could see his face. And she could see his face all the time.
Eleanor smiled to herself as he touched his hair and seemed to like it. The corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly and his eyes gleamed. This was good — he was getting better.
.
The woman in the green coat looked around herself. Yes. It still looked the way it had done but it seemed a lifetime ago. It seemed that now it made sense that the world would look like this. Now, it made sense that it was dreary and that it smelled slightly and that the houses looked like nobody had taken care of them in a long time. Now, it made sense. Back then, it hadn't.
She grimaced and pushed her fingernails deeper into the fabric of the coat of the man whose arm she was holding onto. Whose free hand covered hers from time to time and whose face said clearly that he was — happy — not to live under such circumstances. Happy that he had taken a risk, happy that he was not forced to be there, happy that...well. There was no point now. It was how it was.
She had cried enough tears. The man she was clinging to was right — they had a debt to repay. They had things to do. Time for crying could be later. Now was the time to make things even.
.
Semantics is the study of the meaning of words, phrases and sentences. In semantic analysis, there is always an attempt to focus on what the words conventionally mean, rather than on what a speaker might want the words to mean on a particular occasion. This technical approach to meaning emphasizes the objective and the general. It avoids the subjective and the local. Linguistic semantics deals with the conventional meaning conveyed by the use of words and sentences of a language.
That much, he could understand and as he sat in front of his fire, as he sat reading through one of the textbooks (because he wasn't quite desperate enough for a romance novel), he found it increasingly interesting. Linguistics, it was simply called. And he hadn't been aware of how much time had passed since he had begun, first skimming through, then reading thoroughly. He hadn't quite realised that it was interesting. Had forgotten about his shorter hair that resembled Potter's hairstyle just a little. He was just reading — and he forgot to be grateful to Mrs Callaghan's second son, Stephen, for having gone to college. He forgot to turn on the lights and read in the flickering flames of the fire. Absorbed it. All of it.
Barely heard the knock on the door, and only got up when it became insistent. Still hadn't bought tea for Eleanor. He would have to, in the morning.
"I'm quite..." he said as he opened the door and his mouth fell open. He swallowed hard, blinked, swallowed again, blinked again.
"Hello Severus," the woman said.
"Hello Severus," the man, clinging to her arm said.
He blinked. Draco's visit had been a shock but this was positively — alien. "Narcissa. Lucius," he managed to choke out, stepping aside and letting them in.
11. Presupposition
Presupposition:
When a speaker uses referring expressions like this, he or Shakespeare, in normal circumstances, she is working with an assumption that the hearer knows which referent is intended. In a more general way, speakers continually design their linguistic messages on the basis of assumptions about what their hearers already know. These assumptions may be mistaken, of course, but they underlie much of what we say in the everyday use of language. What a speaker assumes is true or is known by the hearer can be described as a presupposition. If someone tells you Your brother is waiting outside for you, there is an obvious presupposition that you have a brother. If you are asked Why did you arrive late?, there is a presupposition that you did arrive late.
(Yule, 1985)
Hermione grinned at Harry as he unpacked the bags they had brought from their little shopping spree at Oxford Street. Topman, Primark, huge bags. A suit, a few jeans, shirts, t-shirts, new socks and underwear even (which she had seen and which were, in her opinion, inconclusive. Boxers — plain ones and some with wacky, supposedly funny prints). He dumped all of the contents on the floor around him, sat in the middle of it, grinning like a little boy at Christmas, looking at everything three times at least.
It was sweet and endearing to see him like this — and at the same time sad. She knew he had never received clothes of his own before he had gone and bought them for himself. And those Christmas jumpers Mrs Weasley knitted regularly. Those were the only exceptions. And now, he sat literally, in the midst of heaps of clothes, fingering the fabrics as if it was the most wonderful thing in the world.
Her grin turned into a smile and she unpacked her own clothes, not as much as he had bought, but enough to get by and she was glad that her parents had left her a considerable sum of money in England. And she, as Harry and Ron and so many others, had received money from the Ministry. The unfairness, once more, struck her and it made her shove her new little black dress back in the bag.
"Harry," she said, choked, a tear escaping her and running down her cheek.
"Hermione, what's wrong?" he asked immediately, jumping to his feet and enveloping her in her arms. "What's wrong? You were smiling a minute ago."
She felt the tears running into her eyes, out of her eyes. "It's just," she stuttered. "I just..."
"What?" he asked, hugging her tightly.
"I bought all this stuff with money from the Ministry," sobbed Hermione. She was unable to stop now. The unfairness of what had happened, of what was still happening, of how much Severus Snape had done and where he lived now, how he dressed, what he did, how he did it, it was all bubbling up inside of her, it hurt her. It hurt her terribly and so far, she hadn't cried for him — and now, in the midst of a pile of clothing and plenty of bags, it had hit her and she did. The tears spilled over on Harry's jumper and she nestled her head as closely as she could, into the crook of his neck. "I bought all this stuff with money from the Ministry," she repeated, "And Snape who's done so much more has to live in that hovel," she sobbed again and buried her face deeper into his neck.
She felt Harry stroke her back and pat her but he couldn't say anything either. It was just too depressing.
.
Severus stared wide-eyed as those two people walked into his house, through his hall, into his living room. There were no noses in the air, no weepy falling on knees. It was just two people casually, more or less, walking into the living room. Lucius was without his walking stick.
"You really don't have any furniture," said the blonde man suddenly, spinning around to face him.
"News travel fast," snapped Severus, trying — and succeeding — to plant a sneer on his face. He didn't owe those people anything and those people didn't owe him anything. He wanted nothing to do with them. He wanted them out of his house — or be killed quickly.
"Severus," Narcissa came up to him and put her hand on his arm. His marked arm. He pulled it back quickly, as if her touch was burning him — and his arm tingled. He knew it was nonsense, he knew it couldn't possibly tingle, the Mark was almost gone and only pinkish scar tissue remained, and the Dark Lord was gone but he did not feel comfortable. The woman sighed and even though he had taken a step back, she took another step forward. "Severus, we came because..."
"To gloat?" he hissed. "Couldn't believe what Draco told you and were so overjoyed that you had to see this for yourself?"
"No, Severus," said Lucius. "We came for you. Because of you. You can't possibly live like that. And what are you doing with those books over there? You're not...you're not burning them, are you?"
"Take them!" he continued hissing — didn't want Mrs Callaghan to hear them again this time. "Take it all. Take what you find, it's not much."
"Severus," Narcissa tried to put her hand on him somewhere again but he was quicker. He still had his reflexes, "we could help you. We have furniture and well, we don't have money at the moment but we could..."
"Confound Muggle people to give you money," Lucius interrupted.
"Still torturing Muggles?" spat Severus. "Well, here I am. I'm unarmed. Do what you came to do and leave again. I don't want you here."
.
She had calmed somewhat, had let herself be helped sitting down, had let herself be bribed with a cup of strong tea and her tears had slowly subsided. In the end, she hadn't know what she had cried about. Her own loss of family, her own loss of friends, her own loss of innocent, all those lost their lives — or Severus Snape. Maybe all of those reasons. Maybe it had just overwhelmed her, realising how lucky she had been, that she could walk around London, could shop on Oxford Street and could enjoy the things she had bought while others were dead — or struggled. Others who deserved it just as much — if not more — than she did. But she had calmed and she knew those thoughts would indubitably pull her into another valley of tears and she had so improved since the end of the way. Didn't cry at every turn, wasn't so easily shaken. But this had been just enough. And poor Harry still didn't quite know how to handle her.
She hung her head low over the cup of tea she was having, her hair obscuring her face, the hot steam rising in her face and she took a deep breath, when her own calming further was interrupted by the tapping of an owl against the window. She only looked up quickly and watched as Harry untied a scroll from the leg of the tawny owl and read.
"Harry?" she asked when he read, with his finger, tracing the things that were written.
"Do you feel up to going to the Ministry?" he asked cautiously.
"Did something happen?" asked Hermione anxiously.
"Well, they...Kingsley wrote. He wanted to inform us that they have found who cast the curse on Snape," he said seriously.
"And?"
"Take your wand and come with me," he answered seriously.
.
"We don't want to hex you," said Narcissa. "And what Lucius means is that...we have informed us and we are aware that it can be difficult to obtain money in the Muggle World and we want to help. We understand there are rather a lot of forms involved and...
"How do you know that?" he cut in, sharply.
"We have our ways of knowing, Severus. You know that," Lucius answered with an honest smile. The first honest smile that man had bestowed on him since the birth of his son — probably.
"I don't want your help," he put the sneer firmly back on his face, "And the way I understand, you have enough on your plate as it is."
Narcissa sighed softly. "It hasn't been easy."
"Well then, take care of that," he sneered and lifted his finger to point it at the door. "I get along nicely, thank you very much."
