She was wearing a dress that should have earned her a Mastery in Charms on principle alone. It was silk, but the only reason he knew it was because he'd danced with her and felt the fabric on her waist. The silk was charmed to look like water, like a river. It flowed around her curves and fell down her legs. When she danced, the skirt was a spray of foamy white and the rest twinkled and caught the light with every movement.

She was astoundingly beautiful.

When she didn't dance, the fabric was calm. It reflected the colors around it, and the man who was her escort was dressed entirely in navy and white—her dress shimmered like the Black Lake in the evening. When she danced with Potter, her dress reflected the jade of his robes and looked like a mossy grove pool. When she danced with George Weasley, the garish orange of his robes was reflected amber and she looked almost nude, body glistening with the first rays of a sunset. When she danced with him, the dress was a pool of midnight darkness.

Her hair was drawn up into a tidy chignon, and he missed it. It was easy to guess that she wanted her hair out of the way to show off the wonderful dress, but her hair defined her in his mind more than any other physical feature. He couldn't miss the slender limbs or the delicate collar bones, the breasts and hips and curve of the waist, but it was the mass of curls that his eyes were drawn to.

"Master Snape," she said, drawing him out of his memory of her hair. If he hadn't spent so much time maintaining an aloof expression he might have jumped; he hadn't heard her approach. "Have you read the latest out of the Cerulean and Byrnes?"

"Drivel." The sneer was automatic, but he had to fight to maintain it when she laughed.

"Cutting-edge drivel," she corrected him after she'd had her laugh. "What do you think of the gene splicing? I meant to attend the presentation of the paper, but I was in Geneva."

He raised an eyebrow but didn't ask her for details. She was an Unspeakable. She dropped little details, names and cities, but told him little else. She did it to drive him mad, and it did (but he'd never let her know it).

"Why don't the two of you ever talk about things everybody else can understand?" Ron Weasley asked, appearing at her elbow. His robes were royal blue brocade, and Hermione's dress shone like the reflection of a summer afternoon sky.

He had a scathing remark on the tip of his tongue, but she beat him to it.

"You'd understand perfectly if you'd just pick up a book."

Weasley frowned and slouched away.

"Sorry about him," Lavender Brown said, taking his place next to Hermione. (The dress deepened to maroon, like a reflecting pool beneath a tree in full fall color.) "His exams are in two days."

"He's going to do just fine," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. Severus didn't know what exams Weasley was taking but he didn't care to ask; they'd talk about it if he asked.

"I know he is." Brown beamed like the proud little fiancée she was. "I have to ask you, Hermione. Where did you get your dress? It's a marvelous trick!"

"Madam Malkin's," she said, then blushed. "I did the charm work myself."

Brown fawned over it, making Hermione blush deeper. The color was flattering. He imagined it carried down beneath the bodice, and that the hints of warmer red and peach tones in the dress were from color below the silk.

"Trouble, Uncle?" Draco asked, intercepting him near the punch bowl. Severus raised an eyebrow and refilled his glass, pretending he hadn't intended to slip out the door beyond the table and escape to the Cauldron and Kettle. "You had the look of a hunted man."

"They'd begun to talk of fashion," he said, spitting the word out like it was distasteful.

Draco laughed, practiced charm oozing from him. It made Severus's skin crawl; it reminded him of Lucius. Draco sobered quickly, probably because he'd reminded himself of his father.

They stood to the side of the drinks table and talked. Severus asked after Draco's mother and Draco asked after his shop. It was all very cordial and boring; they had the same conversation every weekend when Draco visited him. Traditionally, Draco should haven visiting his father for advice and conversation now that he was branching out on his own, but Lucius was in Azkaban.

"Found you," Hermione said, appearing at his side. Her dress was still, the illusion of deep black water in the night enveloping her body. "Are you ready to go?"

She was on Draco's arm for the gala. Most would assume it was a political front, posturing for the papers; it wasn't. They were friends. They'd reconciled at St. Mungo's in the days after the Battle of Hogwarts, and then in the following school year when they were among the only students returning from their level to take their N.E.W.T.s. Draco was a Junior Healer now, and Hermione had taken her Mastery with her to the Department of Mysteries.

"Yes, I'm afraid I am," Draco said, smiling at Severus, shaking his hand. "Will I see you at the weekend?"

"You will."

Draco nodded, held out his arm for Hermione to take, and they were off. Her dress swirled behind her, the silk at her hips foaming like currents that traced down her thighs. He watched them, then went to the oversized window on the edge of the ballroom and watched Draco play the gentleman, giving Hermione a hand into the winged carriage that would take her home. Then the carriage was gone and Draco turned, directing an exaggerated bow to Severus in the window before Disapparating to his own home.

The flat above the Cauldron and Kettle was dark, quiet. The enchanted coat rack took his cloak, but the hall was otherwise still. Severus knew better than to think it was empty, though; the flat above the shop had long since become a home, a warm place like he'd never known before it. Even the comforts of Hogwarts didn't measure to his own shop, his own…

She was in the nursery. It was dark, and so was the water of her dress. The twinkle lights that floated across the ceiling, mixing into galaxies and solar systems while they lit the room just enough to see the infant girl's form beneath the blanket and the shadows of the toy box and rocking chair, reflected in the dress. She looked like she was wearing the stars.

His hand settled on her waist and she leaned easily against him as they looked down at their daughter. Stella—Estelle Monica (for Hermione's mother) Eileen (for Severus's mother) Prince (to match Simon) Snape. She was three months old. Still so small. A miracle unto herself. She and Hermione had both almost died during the birth. It felt like a long time ago, though.

And across the hall, Simon. He was a year and a half now.

Hermione had seen a Muggle doctor throughout her pregnancies and delivered their children in Muggle hospitals. There were Muggle birth certificates to go along with their Muggle marriage license. If any of it ever came out, if the wards on the Cauldron and Kettle were ever breached…

"Severus." Her voice drew him out of his thoughts. She was still pressed to his side, but she'd turned so that she could look up into his face.

"I love you," he told her, and it made her smile.

She tucked the blanket more snuggly around Stella, then followed him to Simon's room so they could both kiss their son goodnight. Her parents had stayed with the children during the gala, put them to bed.

The Grangers hadn't approved of him until Hermione had almost died; he'd been a wreck.

In their bedroom at the end of the hall, the dress was a midnight pool again. He peeled it off her, drawing it off her shoulders and down her legs, letting it whisper to the floor to lie in a puddle that gently glimmered in the moonlight streaming through the window. Her fingers tugged at his buttons, drawing him to her as she helped him out of coat and waistcoat.

The cat-kneazle sat on the dress, purring at the latent heat. The fabric when orange-white like a waterfall of orange soda, which made Hermione laugh when he pointed it out.