Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and her publishers own all that is familiar. I'm merely playing in her sandbox. Elise, however, belongs to me. No infringement is intended; no monies are being exchanged. Please see notes at the end.

Lapsang-Souchong

Spring, 1994

I'd spent the first afternoon of that rainy spring holiday week curled up in an easy chair near the fireplace in the staff room, a stack of muggle novels, and a pot of tea on a trivet, both within fingertips' reach at my side. The chair, I should note, was chintz, and of questionable origin. I suspected it was really a botched transfiguration project from one of the professors' younger days.

Minerva McGonagall, the woman I'd grown up calling "Aunt Min," even though she wasn't any more my relation than the school's headmaster was actually my grandfather, though I'd introduced him that way a few times, strode in just as I was pouring yet another cup of tea. Another cup I would sip from once or twice until my book captured my attention once more, and I forgot its existence. "Elise," she greeted, her voice warm with maternal affection. "Filius says you've been in here all day."

"Not quite," I corrected. "I spent a good hour in the dance studio before I came in here."

"Hogwarts doesn't have a dance studio," she told me absently. "Unless you mean that the Room of Requirement becomes one for you?" I could hear the capitals in her voice when she said it.

"Sometimes it does," I confirmed for her. "Sometimes it's an Olympic-sized swimming pool instead. And once, just once, a Japanese tea-house. Speaking of which, this tea's still hot, if you'd care to join me?" I let my inflection turn the statement into an invitation, smiling slightly as the older woman settled into the chair opposite mine, and served herself a cup of my dark, smoky brew.

She sipped from her mug, then quirked an eyebrow. "Isn't this Severus's blend?"

I hoped that the remnants of my California tan hid my embarrassed blush, as I answered as blandly as I knew how, "He doesn't own the patent on it. Lapsang-Souchong has been popular in Muggle tea-houses for decades. Back in the States, it was the official tea of the beat movement."

"You're calling America 'the States' now, and no longer 'back home'?" Her query, I knew was less innocent than it might seem. "Does that mean you've accepted Albus's offer to stay on, then?"

I shrugged. "I'm still considering…" She remained silent, and I looked away from her bright blue eyes, staring out the window. "He seems to want me to stay."

"Of course he does. He loves you."

Somehow, I knew that she wasn't talking about Albus Dumbledore any more. Probably the same way she had known that I wasn't. "He's been gone since before dinner, yesterday," I told her, even though this was hardly news. "I know he's been doing it for years, but I…worry." The word seemed lame, on my tongue, in my ears. Not strong enough.

"Of course you do, child." Minerva's tone was softer than I'd heard her speak, almost tender. "You love him, after all." She was silent for the span of a heartbeat, and then she added, "Of course, we all worry, but he doesn't let us in. Not even Albus."

I met her eyes again, holding her gaze with mine for a long moment. Then I stretched my hand out for my tea, finding the mug still warm, this time. I cradled it between both my hands for a bit, feeling the heat of it ease into my palms. "I'm afraid if I stay, if I'm here all the time, he'll push me away," I admitted.

She seemed to think about this for a bit. "He might," she finally admitted. "But I think, though I'm sure the overgrown bat would never say it outright, that he likes having someone care about him."

I smiled at her, amused by her affectionate reference to Severus Snape as an overgrown bat – we'd joked, before, that he must secretly practice making his robes billow just to intimidate first-year students – and reassured by her assessment. I opened my mouth to comment when the air in the room seemed to change, and the door opened once more, to admit the very object of our conversation.

He didn't speak to either of us, just collapsed into another of the overstuffed chairs, his posture halfway between reclining and merely slouching. "Is there tea?" he demanded, though there was little volume behind the words. Automatically, I handed him a cup.

Minerva rose, banishing her empty tea cup with a discrete flick of her wand, and favored her colleague with a grudging half-smile that did nothing to belie her relief at his safe return to the castle. "I'll just go tell Albus that you're back," she told him, as she slipped through the door that led from the staff lounge to the Headmaster's office.

Without her calming presence, the silence between Snape and myself became palpable, but knowing his dislike of inanities, I was hesitant to speak. Instead, I sought refuge in the novel I'd been reading, though it seemed as though I re-read the same paragraph several times without comprehending a word of it. I was about to break the silence, after all, when he beat me to it, uttering the dual syllables of my name.

"Elise."

"Severus." I matched his tone.

"The next time you brew Lapsang-Souchong, don't let it steep so long."

From anyone else, it would be a criticism. From him, I knew, it was a left-handed admission that he appreciated my choice of brew, and recognized that I'd been keeping a vigil, of sorts. Satisfied with that, I reduced my stack of books to a size more easily managed, and rose, banishing my own mug with slightly less flair than Aunt Min had shown. As I passed his chair, I paused, then reached out and gave his hand a quick squeeze. "Welcome back," I told him softly.

I had already opened the door when I heard his equally soft reply. "Welcome home, Elise."

Notes: Originally written 8 April 2004, and posted here then. This was a year before Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince was released, which made it only slightly AU. Subsequent books changed that. I'm reposting it today (14 January 2016) at the request of my friend Janet, and in honor of the late Alan Rickman, who was so much more than just Severus Snape.

Lapsang-Souchong (sometimes written without the hyphen, both are technically correct) is a smoky, black tea, and was very popular among beat poets before espresso became the hipster (old school version) drink of choice.