There’s a small fabric store in San Francisco, specifically in the Haight (that’s the Haight-Ashbury district, for non-residents – which, by the way – has the largest percentage of witches and wizards of any American neighborhood.) that I’ve always been partial to, because the owner is likely to hold special items for favorite customers. As a dancer, I often ordered material for my gala dresses from the store, and Fred B, the owner of “Shear” was always happy to put me in contact with a designer who was both magical with thread and needle as well as Magical in another sense. So when Severus Snape invited me to be his companion at a Malfoy ball, I took a long weekend to visit home, and do a little shopping.

The return to the States was also a reason to catch-up with my roommate from the Idyllwild school, a photographer named Janet. We meet at our traditional breakfast spot, a small restaurant on Clement Street where we are seated at the table by the fire, and given a blend of orange and cranberry juice that is perfectly tart and sweet.

Janet and I were friends from the moment we met at Idyllwild’s version of a sorting ceremony, so it was not at all surprising that, once we had hug, squeal, and hug some more, confirm that our travel (mine by means not disclosed) was safe and swift, she takes one appraising look at me, and accuses, “You’re in love.”

It is freeing to be able to speak of it without having to hide. Or at least, not having to hide much. Names, places, those I’ll veil. “I am,” I said, and met her eyes across our table. “I really am.” My smile when I say this lights up the room.

She grinned. “Good. You deserve it. Are you happy then, in moldy old Scotland?”

“It’s not moldy,” I say. “And I’m mostly happy. The coffee’s horrible and my tendon isn’t at full strength yet, and Sev…” I stop myself. “… Stephen…complains about my tea-making skills.” I hate not giving her his real name, but I can’t afford to be overheard.

“You really aren’t great in the kitchen,” Janet reminds me, laughing. “Remember the time you tried to steam rice? It came out as thick as wallpaper paste and twice as gluey. And pink.”

I blush. “I like pink,” I said. “You know, tulle, tutus, tights – pink’s practically my signature color.” But there is tacit agreement that I really shouldn’t ever cook, at least, not the Muggle way.

“Whatever you say, friend of mine.” Our meals arrived then, so we busy ourselves with eating while the salmon spinach scrambles were still hot, then, almost at the same time, push the plates away, and ask for more coffee. “Tell me about him. Is he a dancer, too?”

I shake my head. “No,” I say. “A teacher at my grandfather’s school.” As far as Janet is aware, Hogwarts is an elite boarding school somewhere in Scotland, and my grandfather is a quirky recluse. “Chemistry,” I elaborate when she clearly wants more information. Well, it’s almost true.

“Appropriate,” she teases. “What’s he look like? Blond, athletic, exotic?” The description fits the string of Russian, Slavic, and French dancers I dated while away from Severus. Nothing serious, more companions than suitors, each of them his total opposite.

“Dark,” I say. “Tall, dark, and snarky, actually.” It’s an accurate description. “His students all fear him, and he cultivates the evil professor persona,” I elaborate. “His humor is dry as dust, and twice as gritty. But he says my name as if it means everything, and his eyes. Oh, Janet, I could drown in his eyes.” Again, I find myself blushing.

She sits back in her chair. “So when’s the wedding?” she asks, and for a moment I think she’s serious. Then she cracks a smile. “Sorry, hon,” she relents. “I know you’re not the marrying type. Too artistic.” A look crosses her face, and she changes tack. “How’s your ankle, anyway. I didn’t expect to see you walking so soon.”

“Stiff, especially in the mornings,” I tell her, rotating my foot slightly under the table. “I’m not even close to full strength yet, and I…I won’t be dancing again. Not professionally.” This is the first time I’ve uttered the words aloud. The first time I realize it’s true. “I’m teaching some of the girls, though, at the school. Just started.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and it means everything, the way Severus does when he says my name. There’s dead silence and we both toy with our spoons, then realize what we’re doing, meet each other’s eyes, and laugh. “So,” she says, “tell me what you’re doing with the fabric? I saw you leave Shear earlier.”

“A ball gown,” I say. “Can you imagine? I’m going to a ball.” And then I tell her about the dress, the deep green fabric I’ve chosen, so dark it almost looks black, except that it’s iridescent, the velvet trim, the matching bag that will be made. I show her the swatches and we giggle like schoolgirls.

A healthy hour later, we hug again, at the doorway on Clement Street. Janet’s off to a photo-shoot, and I decide to rent a car, and drive down the coast. There’s a tea-shop in Carmel I need to visit. I’m halfway down the block when Janet comes running up to me. “Elise, wait!”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, searching her face, and then the streets.

“I forgot to give you this.” She hands me a wrapped parcel, which I proceed to open. It’s a black and white picture of me on stage, dancing a modern piece, with my hair loose and flying around me. The expression on my face is one of content, and happiness. “I took it years ago…I meant to give it to you when you found the right person. The person who could put that look on your face. And you have.”

“You won an award for this shot,” I remember. “It was in your first show.”

“I know,” she says. “But I want you to have it, and I want you to give it to him.”

I make up my mind to figure out a way to introduce Janet to Severus. “Thank you,” I say. “I promise to be better about keeping in touch.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Three days later, just as his usual detention period is ending, I arrive at the Potions classroom. Little Freddie Hedges (third year Hufflepuff) is just leaving, and I take a moment to smile at him before I enter. “I’m back,” I say.

“Clearly,” he responds, but I know he means that he’s glad to see me, for I see the sparkle in his dark eyes that is reserved just for me. “Come through to my rooms.” It’s less than a command, but more than an invitation. When we’re behind the thick walls of his private space, he reaches out to brush his hand against my cheek. “Elise,” he says, and I know he’s missed me. “Was your…mission…successful?” he asks after a long moment.

“I’ve secured a dress,” I confirm. “Do you mind if I surprise you with it, on the day?”

“Suit yourself,” he says. He moves to the chairs by the fire, settling into his own, and I offer to make tea.

His assenting nod sends me to the brazier, where water is soon aboil. It’s a ritual we have, making it ourselves rather than calling in a house elf. But I don’t make the usual Lapsang Souchong, instead shaking out leaves from the package I’ve brought with me. As it steeps, I turn back to find him watching me. “Something wrong?” I ask.

“You seem…lighter.”

“I think I am,” I agree. “I brought something back for you.” I hand him Janet’s photograph, watch his long fingers peel back the paper wrapping. “My best friend took this years ago. She said you bring out that same happiness in me.” I meet his eyes. “She’s right.”

But he’s staring at the photograph.

“Severus?”

“Elise.”

I wave my wand and wrap a stasis bubble around the tea. Suddenly kissing Severus is more important than dried leaves and boiled water, and he seems to agree. It is only hours later, in bed, that I remember it, and as we’re both awake, I call it in with a deft “accio” spell.

We sit in his bed, surrounded by pillows, tangled in sheets, and I tell him about Janet, and my trip, about our girlish escapades, and the string of dancers that were never anything, and never him.

Morning is threatening to dawn before we go to sleep, but the last thing he says is, “Tomorrow, you will tell me about the tea you brought home. I’ve never had a Russian blend with so much depth.”

“I love you, too, Severus,” is my sleepy reply.