She could only stare at him in astonishment. Snape, not Ted. Ted didn't see that she was staring. She couldn't figure him out. Was he the master-Slytherin who wanted her to like him or had he only done this to do her a favour, to make sure they had time together? Had he done it for Ted? Or her? For himself? She didn't know and she didn't dare to ask.
He still looked at her as she dimmed the light and stepped carefully out of the room. Ted had never even asked for his bedtime story and she would have, most certainly, liked to listen to him read. Oh. Yes. She would have liked that.
Shaking her head slightly to herself, she hadn't noticed how he had stepped up behind her and put a hand, rather softly and gingerly, on her right hip.
"If you send the elf to do a chore or another, I could show you how my culinary skills have improved," he whispered so close to her ear. She stiffened and shuddered at the same time and had to slightly lean against him. Her back against his chest and it loosened her lungs or maybe something else and she felt that breathing deeply was so much simpler now. She could smell him. It wasn't any specific spell but she knew it was him and she remembered the way he smelled like and she inhaled deeply, trying to burn that further into her memory.
Truth be told, Hermione still didn't quite believe that it was all as good as it seemed. Snape kissing her just the day before, Snape taking Ted off her hands and Snape putting the child to bed. Snape putting his hand on her body and Snape allowing her to lean against him in the darkened corridor or Grimmauld Place.
She turned her head and saw his eyes glittering at her, and the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into a semi-smile. One of those little, not-quite-smiles that she had grown used to seeing on his face. The kind of expression that made him look young and handsome.
And still, there was something nagging inside of her. "You won't complain about my hair getting in the way?" she asked, turning her head away from him and contemplating stepping away from his hand.
"Not at all," he told her softly and with his free hand, touched her hair. "It's rather nice that way."
Arching her eyebrow, almost convinced that this was still a Slytherin-ploy, quite unable to believe that this was all happening, that Snape was making compliments, she pushed his hand from her hip and turned around to face him fully.
"Don't lie," she said. "I can deal with rudeness and mocking remarks but lies I don't..."
"I don't lie, Hermione," he told her earnestly. "Why should I? There is no reason for it these days."
She couldn't tell if he was actually telling the truth or not but she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that he was telling the truth, that he was paying attention to her without any scathing, hurtful remarks, without lies. She wanted to believe. She sighed.
"Erm, and you will cook?"
"If there is something in this house to cook with, yes," he answered — but she was too perplexed by the soft brushing of his fingers against hers to really notice what he was saying.
Hermione frowned, then, with closed eyes, called for the house elf.
"What can Kreacher do for Mistress Of-Not-At-All-Pure-Blood?"
"Erm, Kreacher, would you be good enough to check this house for all potion-related things?" she asked kindly, "books, cauldrons, ingredients? Bring everything back to the cellar, would you please?"
Kreacher nodded solemnly and popped away.
"What?" Snape asked suddenly, his hand being pulled away.
"I thought...it would give us some time because there are a lot of places he has to look and I thought you might like to have a cauldron and books again. We don't really brew here and I thought...have I misjudged you again?" she asked, biting her lip.
.
"Have I misjudged you again?" she asked quietly and pulled her lower lip between her teeth. "I didn't mean to but I seem to have it in my head...you know, I have you associated with potions. And I thought that maybe..."
"It is a kind thought," he interrupted quickly before she could babble even more nonsense. But — honestly — why did she not understand that he wasn't there for cauldrons and ingredients and books and certainly not to bring children to bed? Why couldn't she understand that he was there because of her? He would have run as fast as possible had it been any other person with a screaming child on their arm, well, no, that wasn't true. He wouldn't have even shown up, more likely. But she...she didn't seem to get it into her thick skull that he wanted to get to know her and not even those little touches he had to test, he had to feel seemed to convince her. He slowly ran out of ideas. Subtlety was probably lost on her but he couldn't do the direct approach. He couldn't tell her straight out that he wanted to get to know her.
"Shall we go down to the kitchen then?" he asked when she just remained silent.
"Erm, yeah. Let's go and we'll see if there is something to eat. If not, we can always get some take away. The chippy around the corner is rather good," she blushed slightly and it made her look so horribly adorable that he only wanted to take her face in his hands and kiss her. But no, he wouldn't do that. He had to hold back for now. Talking. He had to know how she functioned these days. Which thoughts made her angry, which made her happy. He had to ask question and he had to listen. But first, he somehow had to get her to answer his questions honestly and that seemed the hardest part of all.
She had trusted him with almost everything else — but now she obviously believed he was lying to her. Maybe the touching had been too much. Maybe the whisper in her ear had been too much. He had to tone that down for sure.
"Fine," he said and kept his face as neutral as possible. Tried not to show her that he felt the tiniest bit of disappointment inside himself for not being able to just sit down with her and eat.
.
Not so far away from London, in a rather large house, mansion, manor, some called it, a wizard had decided to bit the bullet and with the old ring his grandmother had been given by his grandfather in his hand, he went down on one knee and looked at the woman sitting there, not quite beautifully but prettily enough on the old settee.
"Gwendolyn," he said as calmly as he looked, "I know we haven't been together for long, but I want to ask you — will you consent to being my wife?"
The not quite beautiful young woman stared at him in astonishment, then cleared her throat. "I will consider it, Lucius," she said. "Under one condition."
"A condition?" the man hadn't expected that.
"Yes, a condition."
"Anything, Gwendolyn-mine," he promised pompously.
"It's just explain one thing. Tell me, why did the P.I. I hired to have you checked out for gold-diggery found no birth-certificate of you at all? Why don't you exist? But why is there a young man living up in Manchester who claims to be your son?"
.
In a rather fancy club in London, a young man fled the scene. He hadn't drunk all that much. Certainly not enough to justify what he had done just now. And it wasn't nearly enough to explain why it had felt good to kiss that young man. The young man wondered whether it was okay to be going home or if it was stupid to barge in on his best friend and the future, or current boyfriend but the young man was so out of sorts that he had enjoyed kissing another young man that he didn't think about it twice and only wanted to go home where it was safe and sane and normal.
89. Scripts
When more dynamic types of schemata are considered, they are more often described as scripts. A script is a pre-existing knowledge structure involving event sequences. We use scripts to build interpretations of accounts of what happened. For example, we have scripts for what normally happens in all kinds of events, such as going to a doctor's office, a movie theater, a restaurant, or a grocery store as in the example below:
-I stopped to get some groceries but there weren't any baskets left so by the time I arrived at the check-out counter I must have looked like a juggler having a bad day.
Part of this speaker's normal script for 'getting groceries' obviously involves having a basket and going to the check-out counter. Everything else that happened in this event sequence is assumed to be shared background knowledge (for example, she went through a door to get inside the store and she walked around picking up items from shelves).
The concept of a scripts is simply a way of recognising some expected sequence in an event. Because most of the details of a script are assumed to be known, they are unlikely to be stated.
(Yule, 1997)
He didn't say a word. He knew it was wrong but maybe the books were wrong too and maybe, with a little persuasion, he could work on making his life better without that tiny little experiment. If he flicked his wrist just right, spoke the words with the right intent, and aimed right between her eyes, then petrified her, he would be able to remove her from this place and she would never even remember him. The sex had been good. No doubt. She had the zeal of a younger woman aimed to please and could bend like a Rumanian trapeze artist.
Still, she had found out about his secret and not only about Draco. He wasn't sure what a PI was but if she couldn't even remember talking to some such, the PI would possibly think her insane and let it go. Besides, the Manor would go under the usual enchantments again. It would appear to be just a ruin to everyone.
No matter what, the good sex, the idea that there would be sane, healthy children in the future, it all didn't erase the fact that this woman sitting there, glaring at him didn't even know what defined him deep inside his core.
He raised his wand towards her and, ignoring her stupid questioning and her stupid glares, he flicked his wrist just right. What, he wondered, had he been thinking proposing to that daft bitch? She was nothing like him and their children would be idiots and he would have to lie them, and their mother all the time if he didn't want to reveal the fact that he was a wizard and for some reason, he had never told her and possibly never would. Didn't want to.
Before she could ask where she was, who he was and what was happening, he had aimed his wand at her once more and had her petrified. He would put her under another spell and put her on the golf course during the dead of the night. People would think she had drank too much and had passed out. All fine by him.
Compared to her, Narcissa was an angel. End of story.
.
Harry didn't care that there was talk coming from the kitchen. For all he cared at this moment, Snape could snog Hermione senseless or even shag her on the...no, he wouldn't go so far, but they could do whatever they wanted. He just needed a hot shower now (or better a cold one) and needed to clear his head and decide what to do with the phone number that was laying heavily in his pocket. Scribbled only on a piece of paper but heavier than bricks.
That bloke had been good looking. If he was in any kind of position to judge it. And the kiss (well, plural really. Kisses) had been quite good as well. Oh sod it, extraordinary. Mind-blowing. And that was what confused him. Truly, honesty confused him. He had known there was the possibility that he was, well, not necessarily hunting on this side of the track, but he not quite acknowledged it yet. And now that he had spent the night, or half the night talking with Noel (and the other half of the night snogging with him), it had become so much more of a reality. And Noel was a lovely person. A kind one. A Muggle, yes, but...he" target="_blank">but...he was attentive and sweet and a good listener and didn't judge. From what he had seen that night. And his lips and tongue were...he sighed softly and pushed the door to Teddy's room open.
He didn't doubt that Hermione had brought him to bed just fine and that Snape had stayed but he needed to see the boy for himself. He couldn't begin something as long as Teddy was so small and needed all his love. But Noel...
Teddy slept peacefully and did those painfully cute baby-snored which made Harry want to pick him up and cuddle him within an inch of his life. Better not. Better take the shower and cast a silencing charm on the downstairs (and Hermione's room) and go to bed. Or transfigure something into a place for him to sleep in Teddy's room. Sleep and figure out whether that brick with the number on it in his pocket should be used or not.
.
He should not touch her. Even if her hand lay so invitingly on the table, still a bit greasy from the fish and chips and mushy peas he had brought from the chippy. It had been good to leave her be for the fifteen minutes it had taken him. The fresh air had cleared his mind.
He had to let her know, in small, little, for Gryffindor's comprehensible words, that he liked her. That he was fond of her. He couldn't admit to more yet since there wasn't more but he had to tell her. And if she laughed at him (which he doubted) or if she threw him out (which he doubted), he at least knew for certain that she was not feeling something for him in return (which he doubted). And if that all went belly-up, at least now he could apparate away (but mustn't forget Eleanor's car). He doubted it though and in the chippy, his mood had lightened again. He had, successfully, overcome years of strict Occlumency and he would most certainly not try to pull those walls back up again.
She meant something to him. Which, or what precisely, he didn't know yet but he had to tell her somehow. And make honest conversation with her.
And so he had returned, had put the greasy food on the kitchen table and watched her as she brought plates and cups of tea, and then, after a moment's hesitation, summoned a bottle of wine from the cellar. It was real wine, not elf-made. Some red which made his gums tingle.
"Did you have to wait long?" she asked after having eaten in silence.
"No," he replied. "Not too long."
She sighed and her hand still lay very invitingly on the wooden table. He only had to move his a few inches forward. It wasn't a lot of distance to cross and earlier, she had almost leaned into him before she had pulled away, hadn't she? He would try the subtle way and slowly moved his fingertips towards her, never taking her eyes off her face. Her legs were, lucky for him, hidden by the table but...
"Are your legs cold?" he asked, his eyes on hers, his fingers inching towards hers.
"No," she smiled beatifically. "Harry has constant warming charms on the floor because of Ted. He always crawls on the floor and since his last cold, Harry wants to avoid him getting another one desperately. I mean you should have seen those two fighting over potions and vials. Harry wanted him to take it, Ted hated the taste. We had some interesting times, here," she laughed, blushing slightly.
