Tea

Undying gratitude to JK Rowling for everything. Undying gratitude to my beta, Leigh-Anne, for everything else.

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23. TEA

"Wait."

She was halfway to the bathroom with the tea tray following behind. She stopped and turned so quickly, she almost collided with it.

He whisked it aside and approached her and took her hand in his again, scowling.

This time, the reaction was less severe. Even so, she felt tingles of reaction and wanted to pull her hand away.

"It's better, then."

She nodded.

He leaned over her hand and studied her fingertips; his hair brushed her wrist. "When did you realize your magical strength had returned?"

She tried to remember. "It wasn't before we went to Hagrid's. I barely made it there."

"But by the time you returned to Hogwarts, you were flinging hexes from your fingertips." He dropped her hand and focused his attention on her face, still scowling at her. "What happened that restored your strength?"

A thought flickered through her mind. Not that she thought it possibly could explain her magic, but...

"Our photographs. Where are they?"

Professor Snape blinked. "Weasley had them."

Panic clutched at her throat and she forced out the words. "I want them."

He studied her more closely, a tight frown creasing his eyes.

"I want them back now." She whirled, ready to go get them herself...but he stopped her with a touch of his hand on her shoulder.

He snatched up a parchment and scratched a few words on it, then sealed it and tossed it into the Floo with a sharp, "Gryffindor Common Room."

And the penny dropped.

"Professor, why did you tell Ron to grab me, to make me feel safe..." The words were ludicrous, even more now than when she'd first heard them. "Why, if you're so convinced that I'd...I'd..."

"You were out of control," he snapped. "I couldn't expect the Weasley girl to handle you."

She studied him through narrowed eyes. "You've been in my mind. You know I have no feelings for him, none at all. You knew that."

"So, you think that's all that is of consequence?"

"What else?"

"He has feelings for you, damn it!"

"He doesn't," she said. "Or at least not those kinds of feelings. He only wants me to be happy."

The professor glared at her. "Are you blind?"

She looked at him. Simply looked at him. "Are you?"

He dragged one trembling hand through his hair and turned away. "I'm going out to wait for Weasley."

"Please. Don't be hard on him."

"Miss Granger, if you knew the irony of that request...." he snapped in disgust.

With a finger flick, he opened the wards and walked into the corridor, leaving her to stare at the wall as it reappeared, separating them.

XX

Fucking hell!

He strode to the Potions classroom, his blood boiling. Had she no sense at all when it came to teenaged wizards? She honestly thought she could cling to the boy that way, sob on his shoulder, and not have him respond?

He shoved away the memories, memories he thought he'd buried.

He rounded the corner in the corridor and saw the flash of red hair.

Weasley was waiting, slumped against the classroom door, the stack of photographs in his hand. He looked up, saw who was coming, and disappointment flashed across his too-easy-to-read features. He stood straighter, his brows lowering.

"Thank you," Snape said, his tones glacial. "I hope I didn't interrupt a scintillating conversation."

Weasley just sighed and held out the photos.

Severus reached for them, but when his fingers closed over them Weasley didn't let go.

"Sir, there are so many extras..." His blue eyes flashed up, and Severus had a mind to dive in, but they flickered away immediately, and his cheeks flushed. "Do you think it would be all right if I kept one?"

He felt his lip twist into a sneer. Felt the ice creep through him. Felt the need to toss off a hex of his own. Instead, he forced one word through his lips, a word that was threat and challenge both. "Why?"

Weasley still looked down at the picture, at the kiss that repeated over and over and over.

"I just kind of wanted something to remind myself that she's happy," he said softly.

Not trusting himself to speak, Severus yanked the photos out of his hand. He flipped through them, finding one with a bent corner, and presented it to the boy before he could think better of it.

"Thank you, sir."

As he watched the tousled mop of red hair disappear up the stairs, he already was thinking better of it.

XX

She stood in the bathroom with the Brown Betty in her hands, swirling the boiling water to heat it. The actions of brewing tea were as comforting to her as the drinking of it.

"Tell me about your tea," he said from behind her, and his words went through her like electricity. She had no idea he was back. She hadn't heard him.

"Tell me what makes it different." And then he lifted her hair off her back and twisted it into the now-familiar knot on the back of her head.

Was this his effort at apology? She forced herself to continue as if his presence behind her didn't fill her with a sad ache and deep longing. As if...

"It takes time and patience," she said, struggling for composure. "Every step is important."

She felt him step closer to watch over her shoulder.

"The teapot must be round," she said firmly. "No silly, little, fancy teapots, but good, sturdy, round ones are required. And you must warm it thoroughly...." She raised the teapot in her hands to demonstrate. "To prepare it."

"Of course," he said, as if this were all familiar to him. Which, of course, it probably was to a Potions master.

The teakettle began its soft whistling, the precursor to its all-out shriek. "Will you fetch the water please?" It was with regret that she felt him step away from her as she emptied the hot water from the teapot into the sink.

She spooned the loose tea in, and an extra spoon for the pot, and then set it down in the sink and stepped back as he returned. "There, if you'd just pour in the water...hold it high, yes, like that--and let it splash a little as it hits. But not enough to make a mess or burn yourself."

He arched an eyebrow in question, but did as she said. She followed his eyes as he watched the interior of the teapot, and she knew what he saw, having watched in fascination so many times herself...the burst of motion as the water hit and the swirling, churning tossing of the leaves. She knew what he was so clearly inhaling, the sharp fragrance of tea oils released into the air. She smiled at the expression on his face as he took in a deep draught of scented steam, then she efficiently removed its source as she placed the lid on the teapot.

He cocked his head. "That's it?"

"Difficult because it's so simple. It's easy to take shortcuts because, after all, it's just tea. Hot water and a teabag, right? But each little shortcut takes its toll," she said primly. "You need to take the water just before it comes to a boil, and never when it has boiled too long. Boiling releases the oxygen from the water, and without oxygen, the tea tastes flat. That's why you pour the water in the way you do. It gets more oxygen mixed in as it spills down to the pot."

He leaned against the bathroom's stone wall, watching her every move.

She eased the old tea cozy over the pot to hold the heat in. She raised her eyes to his. "And then, when the water hits the tea leaves, they burst and release their oils. It's almost... violent, in a way. You want the water to swirl and roil..."

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully, watching her through hooded eyes. "Preparing... bursting... releasing ..."

His voice sent a tremor through her, and she couldn't imagine why.

She swallowed. "And swirling. The round teapot." She picked up the teapot and gently swirled the liquid within. "The leaves don't explode if they don't have room, or if the water isn't hot enough when it hits them. If you use a teabag or, heaven forbid, put it in cold water and then pop it into the microwave..." She shuddered.

He shoved away from the wall and smirked. "And your grandmother the witch taught you this."

"My grandmother was not a witch, and she taught me this." She carried the teapot in and put it on the table by the bed and Summoned the tray. "Of course, I do have an unfair advantage over the kitchens, even if they didn't use magic to brew tea," she said with a half-grin. "This was her teapot, and these are her teacups and her teaspoons. She said she brewed love into her tea because she only brewed tea for the people she loved. Anyone else got tea from the kitch...the cook."

What had she just said?

She forced herself to continue blithely, "It's just the silly kind of thing grandmothers say to little girls."

She braced herself for his response, cursed herself for speaking without thinking.

"And so you give up your secrets this easily?" he taunted her, sinking into the chair.

She avoided his eyes as she poured his cup. She finally glanced up from beneath her lashes, allowing the ghost of a wicked grin to form on her lips. "I didn't tell you how much tea."

He acknowledged her from behind his curtain of hair. "Witch."

"Yes." Two sugars. Milk. Three clockwise stirs, one anticlockwise. She handed him his rose-spangled cup and let her grin spread.

"You think I can't figure it out?"

She watched his face as he took the first sip and felt the sweet warmth spread through her body as surely as it spread through his. "Perhaps... but I think you like having me make it for you even more."

His startled eyes met hers, and she broke the connection, lowering her gaze to pour her own cup.

"And you still haven't had my grandmother's teacakes."

"Nor have I sampled the largesse of the second finest wine cellar in the South of England." He smirked. "Tell me, have you decided what to wear to Narcissa's tea?"

Narcissa. "We need to visit The Grange." And my mother's closet because I certainly don't have anything suitable!

"Indeed," he responded. "Tomorrow."

XX

He didn't miss the chill that rippled through her at the name Narcissa.

Good. She needed to be wary. He had much to tell her about this tea, about the Dark Lord, about... things he didn't want to tell her, but must for her own safety.

But he would wait. The less time she had to fret over it, the better.

When they'd finished their tea, he'd said, "Allow me," and had Scourgified the tea things other than the ridiculous teacups, which Miss Granger would insist had to be washed and dried by hand. Muggles were so odd. Why use something that had to be coddled so?

Now, she was stretched across the bed on her stomach, chewing on the feather-end of her quill as she searched for a word.... Even without Legilimency, he saw her straining...then suddenly she returned to writing, her graceful, loopy scrawl spreading across the parchment.

Two days before she would have been in his shirt, her bare legs waving in the air. Just remembering brought a tightness to his groin. Now she was in her blue jeans, and while her dainty feet, their insteps so curved and toes tipped with a pearly peach shade of Muggle color, were quite entertaining to watch, he missed his shirt.

On her.

He wondered if he had another like it.

He crossed to the armoire and opened it, then stopped. He looked back at her, at the hand clutching the quill.

He found himself sitting down beside her on the bed.

She looked up, startled. "I'm sorry. I only have four more inches, but if you want here..."

He took her hand, delicately removed the quill and put it safely aside on the table. He stroked her fingertips and felt no echo of magic there. He raised his brows to her.

She shook her head, relieved. "It's gone."

"For now," he said. But she'd watched their kiss, watched it wistfully, hungrily, desperately. It was difficult to imagine, but it was either watching the kiss or rolling on the floor with Hagrid's hound, and if that was what had returned her magic...he shuddered.

She stared at him, stared at his mouth.

"What happens if we... " He leaned over her and captured her lips with his and felt the charge go through him, the same charge that he'd first felt that awkward moment in the classroom when she'd given him that fast, off-center kiss to Seal them, and had felt ever since.

And where their fingertips touched, he felt it even more strongly. A flicker of magic that leapt from her to him and raced straight to his core.

He felt her lips part under his in a gasp, then she joined him, her lips softly moving beneath his, her fingertips dancing across his, setting off sparks.

He inhaled deeply... searched the air for even a hint, a mere trace... but there was none.

She set him on fire. She seemed to feel something, too.

But there was no scent of arousal.

No scent of her body needing his...

The way a woman needed a man.

There was magic. Magic he didn't understand.

But it wasn't enough.

He gently closed her hand.

Her disappointment was tangible.

But that wasn't enough, either.

He stared down at her moist, parted lips and wanted nothing more than to capture them again.

She had said he was patient with his potions.

Oh, yes. He was.

No less so, then, with her.

"Miss Granger," he said, tugging a strand of hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear, watching her respond to his voice, his touch. "I hope you have no plans for Friday evening."

She shook her head, avoiding his eyes, watching her hand flex and close, flex and close, instead.

"Good. We have some brewing to do. A special potion that takes a lot of ... " He let his voice drift away and waited for her to raise her eyes to his, and he settled for the word, "...patience."

"Wonderful," she breathed, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

He felt his own surge of anticipation in an entirely different portion of his anatomy.

He was willing to take all the time in the world to brew this very special potion.

Preparing.

Indeed.