Of Tingles and Tea

The lights in the castle were coming on as dusk crept up on it. The lake lay peaceful, fully visible through the great windows of the upper levels. Laughter rang about the corridors, and the ghosts of botched spells roamed the walls, shadows playing eerily on yellowing stains.

Down one corridor, however, there was no light. There were no windows. There was no laughter. If you were to look very closely, you might just be able to make out a billow of robes and, if you listened, a soft clip of shoes on the ground. But no more. Snape moved quietly.

He opened the door to his office. And then he paused.

There was a small figure sitting behind his desk, shadowed by the murky sunlight coming through his window. He stood there, silhouette blending with the background, watching. It was playing idly with some very potent ingredients on his desk - which had, he realised with a sudden frown, been taken out of his personal store. In his drawer. His locked drawer. In his safe.

He coughed. The figure turned. Even in the fading light he could see that it had hair to give the Weasleys a run for their money, and huge eyes - the colour he couldn't make out, but they were a fairly dark shade. It was dressed in Muggle clothing, a blousy sort of shirt and a skirt.

It was a girl. It smiled.

"Oh, hello. You must be Mr. Snape."

It was American.

Mr Snape. "Yes," he said, ever cautious.

"Oh, good." She nodded earnestly, and then fell silent. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Oh, I mean, it's good to meet you. It's good to see you. I wasn't sure what you'd look like, you know how you go all, like, tingly inside when you're meeting someone for the very first time?"

"No."

"Oh. Well. I was having major tingles. I was wondering what you'd look like."

"I see."

"Mmm-hmm. You look really, really hot." Then she blushed. "I mean - not hot, hot. I mean, you're all sweaty. Like, all the black robes and things are probably really thick. That sort of hot."

His expression didn't change, she thought. He looked like he was either going to bolt out of the room or curse her flying out the window into oblivion or something. She looked around nervously. His black hair contrasted against his skin. He looked really pale, but interestingly so. She grasped at straws.

"Well, gee. You get really nice sun in England." She ventured. "It's all...sunny. Sunny is good. I like sunny. You know, getting a tan and stuff. Not that not having a tan is bad or anything," she added hurriedly, "I mean, being pale is cool, too. Um. Not that you're pale..."

She faltered as he took a step closer to her. She winced as he reached into his robes, then watched in confusion as he whipped out a long, wooden stick and held it at arm's length. He pointed it at her, crouching defensively.

There was a beat. He looked ridiculous, and she was caught somewhere between fear and hilarity.

"What's that?" she asked, just as he said, "Who are you?"

"Oh!" Willow said. "Oh, I'm sorry. Oh. I'm Willow. Willow Rosenberg. Prof- Professor Dumbledore said to wait here. They told me you were expecting me." She bit her lip. "Uh. You are, aren't you?"

Snape still looked wary. Or maybe it was just his face.

"Miss Rosenberg? From Sunnydale?"

"Yeah. Miss Rosenberg." She tried out the name. "From Sunnydale. It's uh, haha - sunny there, too. The dale part needs some work. Um. You can call me Willow. My friends call me Will, if you like." He didn't reply.

"So," she said, brightly, "do I call you Severus?"

Snape walked over to his desk and gathered up his poached ingredients, still silent, as though he didn't quite think her questions merited much in the way of answers. She waited for one anyway.

"Professor Snape." Icily.

"Oh. Well, ok. That makes sense, I guess. I mean, technically I am working under you." She frowned. "I - I mean, working for you."

She blushed, then her frown deepened. She was getting flustered. Snape shot her a very curious look, and then turned his back to her, replacing his store.

"So what was that thing, anyway?"

"What?"

"The long wood thingy. The thing you were pointing at me when you thought I was, like, the Blob or something."

"The Blob?"

"Never mind."

He looked down. His wand was lying on his desk. Then realisation sank in, and he looked back at her, incredulously. "You don't use a wand?"

"No..." Her eyes widened. "Oh, hey! Is that what that is? A wand? Oh, wow. I've read about them in Giles' old books and stuff, I didn't know anyone used them anymore." She was practically gibbering with excitement. "They're really primitive magic, aren't they? They used them in England back when, like, when people still called warlocks warlocks and burnt them and stuff. And when -"

She noticed the look on his face, and shut herself up.

"Primitive, Miss Rosenberg?" Icier.

"No, no, not primitive. More, um - traditional. Like, um," She tried to think of something English; what does Giles like? she thought, panicking, What does Giles like, what does Giles like -

"Tea."

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while. Then Willow made one last effort.

"You've got some pretty awesome stuff there. I didn't recognise all of it, but hey - Leypher's heel. Boomslang Skin. Most of it isn't exactly just hickey curing."

She laughed nervously, waiting for his reaction. There was a long pause before he spoke.

"'Hickey'?"

"Oh, never mind."