True to form, Severus was waiting for me at the main doors, though I didn’t immediately turn my attention to him. I was busy analyzing the conversation Septima and I had just finished, and puzzling over some of the whisperings I’d heard from students on my less-than-graceful descent to the entryway.
“Good afternoon, Elise,” he greeted in a voice so soft only I could hear it.
“Severus,” I replied, looking up into his eyes. He looked paler than I remembered, and weary. “If you’d rather not do this…” I began.
“Escort you, or attend the tournament?”
“Either,” I answered. “Both.”
“Attendance, unfortunately is a requirement of my position. Escorting you may make the event tolerable. How is your leg?”
From anyone else, such a question would be casual, from Severus Snape a personal query was a rare intimacy. “About the same. I’ve got Muggle painkillers, and charms to lighten the weight of the cast.”
“Be certain to tell Madam Pomfrey exactly what you are taking for the pain. She’ll need to make sure nothing she gives you is contraindicated. I will try to make time to be there if you like.”
“For a price, no doubt?” I teased.
“There is always a price, Elise. In this case, dinner. My rooms. Tonight. There is much of our world you are likely unaware of, and your uncle will not have told you.”
I nodded. “It happens I’m free,” I said.
He opened the main doors, and then came back to me. “Can you walk at all without those sticks?”
“They’re crutches,” I said. “And I can, yes, but I get a bit wobbly. If you take my arm, I can probably manage with one.”
“That will do.”
He arranged my arm through his own, and we slowly made our way across to the Quidditch grounds, which had been transfigured into an arena of a different sort. A few times we were swarmed by groups of students, but Severus merely straightened his stance and arched a brow or started a sneer, and they quickly dispersed. Finally, we arrived at the staff box, and he ushered me to a seat just behind Uncle Albus and Professor McGonagall and next to a blond man I recognized all too well.
Lucius Malfoy turned as I took my seat, and stared at me with his cool blue eyes. “Miss Foster. I wasn’t aware you’d returned to us.”
His tone was on the cool side of neutral, and though I was out of practice when it came to pureblood politics, I matched it with my own, “When I heard about the Tri-Wizard tournament, I couldn’t stay away, Mr. Malfoy. I’m just sorry Hogwarts isn’t represented by our own house.”
“I’d forgotten you were Slytherin, Miss Foster. Do call me Lucius. Tell me, are you still dancing? Narcissa and I attend the Idyllwild Nutcracker tour with our son Draco every year.”
“Sadly, an injury in front of a largely Muggle audience has ended my public career,” I answered, lifting the hem of my skirt to show my cast, “but I’m glad to know you and your wife are supporting the arts. Dance has a power beyond even our mere magic, don’t you think?”
“Too true,” he answered crisply. “I’m relieved you’ve returned here for treatment. A talent such as yours should not be wasted. Does it cause you much difficulty moving?”
“Only a little, and Severus has been gracious about chivvying me around. As has your son, in fact. I met him this morning, and we had a lovely chat.” On the other side of me, I felt Severus touch my hand, so I knew he was listening to everything. I turned my hand beneath his, and squeezed gently, so that he would know all would be explained at dinner. “He’s quite an engaging young man.”
“So he is.” Malfoy took a breath and then asked, ingenuously, “Narcissa would love to hear your opinion of American fashion. Miss – ah – I can’t recall your first name.”
“It’s Elise,” I said.
“Elise, then. I’ll have her invite you for tea while you’re with us. How long did you say that would be?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “And in truth, I’m not sure. But I would never refuse such an invitation.” I wasn’t lying, exactly. While I didn’t particularly like Lucius Malfoy, I’d met Narcissa on a few occasions, and she was never other than gracious.
“Very well, then. Ah, they’re starting.”
We all turned our attention to the center of the arena, which was tricked out with rocks and cliff faces that seemed to double back on one another, as a fanfare sounded around us. Uncle Albus cast Sonorus and introduced the champions – Victor Krum, the Quidditch star was competing for Durmstrang. “A ringer?” I muttered to Severus.
“Returned for seventh year,” he answered.
Next out was Fleur Delacour, representing Beauxbatons. She was pale and delicate, and exuded something that had every male in the vicinity staring at her. “It is rumored she is part Veela,” Severus breathed into my ear, and I nodded.
And then there were two more champions introduced, Cedric Diggory, the favorite, and a scrawny black-haired boy who was also from Hogwarts, and if his presence as a fourth competitor alone wasn’t enough to make me lean closer to Severus and ask for an explanation, his name, once announced, caused me to exclaim in a shocked tone, “That child is Harry Potter?”
“Leaves much to be desired in a prophesied savior, don’t you think?” came the silken tones I knew so well.
“Somewhat,” I agreed softly.
When they next explained the challenge – steal a golden egg from a dragon’s protection, I was unable to keep a Muggle folk tune I’d heard at a Renaissance Festival I’d attended as a student in America from wandering through my head, and leaning close to my black-clad escort, I sang very softly,
“Do virgins taste better than those who are not?
Are they salty, or sweeter, more juicy or what?
Do you savor them slowly? Gulp them down on the spot?
Do virgins taste better than those who are not?”
He did not laugh, of course, merely said, “Elise…” in a warning tone, but I suspected he would be asking to hear the complete tune at some point in the future.
People always ask how I met my husband. Well, first they ask if they’ve heard his name correctly and where it comes from, and we generally confirm the spelling and remark that his family comes from an island somewhere in the North Atlantic. Friends in the know understand we are referring to England, but strangers think we mean some exotic locale.
After we clear up the inevitable “Severus, huh? Unusual name,” conversation, then they ask how we met, and this is when I get to say, “Oh we’ve known each other forever. We met when I was nine and moved in together when I was eleven.”
This, of course, while technically true, is an exaggeration of the facts calculated to make busybodies duck and cover - or flee very swiftly. Either way, it reduces the amount of time it takes to explain why the famous choreographer and former ballerina is married to someone so dour, and so old.
In truth, Severus only has six years on me, though the circumstances of his life have made the years weigh heavily upon him. But that’s another story.
I really was only nine years old when I met Severus, however.
I lived, for the first nine years of my life, with my parents in a small town at the head of the Carquinas Straights. It was a funky town, populated by leftover hippies who had given up their tie-dye and patchouli but kept their love of hand-made art. We were blessed with fair weather, most of the time, and a society of musicians, writers, and craftspeople who had no problem including a small number of witches and wizards among their number. Decades later, our town would be held up as the model of an integrated Muggle/Magical society, but for me, it was just home. It was safe enough for us kids to walk home from school, ride our bikes until the last rays of light were truly extinguished, and hang out at the homes of our teachers on weekends, with nary a thought that this might be inappropriate.
Of course, those of us from Magical families had a couple hours a week of extra classes, but it wasn’t enough to set us apart, really. In fact, only the subject matter made us any different from the kids who went to gymnastics or Hebrew school a couple of days a week.
By the time I was nine, my parents’ marriage was well on its way to dissolving into nothingness as often happens when people marry young without tasting the world. (They’d met, I’d been told, when my mother was on vacation in England, visiting her great-aunt, a formidable witch who lived next door to my father’s family. He’d served as her tour guide of Wizard London, and you can guess what happened next.) When the vitriol between them got so thick that I was releasing wild magic as a stress reaction, my father called an old friend of the family, took a job as the Professor of Ancient Runes at his alma mater, and packed me off to rural Scotland.
We arrived the day after Christmas, and we’d been there for less than a week, when I bumped into Severus. And I do mean bumped. I was late for lunch in the Great Hall, and was running down the corridor when I ran into a wall of unyielding black and landed on my backside on the cold flagstone floor.
“Watch where you’re going,” came the sullen grumble from above me. “That’s five points for running in the halls, and another five for crashing into a prefect.”
“Sorry,” I said from my position on the floor. “But…I don’t think you can take points from me.”
“Five more points for being annoying,” he said, and turned his head toward the four hourglasses full of colored gems, one for each house, where absolutely nothing happened. “Bloody first years. What’d you and your friends do to the glasses?”
“Nothing,” I said. “You just can’t take points from me.”
“Yes,” he said. “I can. Which House are you in?”
I looked down at my red and blue striped shirt that was just like the ones the kids on ZOOM wore, and then back up at him. “I’m not.” I said. “I just live here. My father teaches Ancient Runes.”
He blinked at me. One long slow blink that gave him time to process everything. “You’re Professor Foster’s daughter?”
“Yes,” I said. “Most people call me Elise.” I accented the first two words, as a hint, but he didn’t take it.
He stretched out his hand to haul me back to my feet and I took it. “Thank you,” I said. I looked at his badge, with the serpent on it. “You’re in Slytherin House?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “why?”
“I’m going to be in Slytherin someday. Dad says his Slytherin students are the most interesting, and I want to be interesting.”
“Your father was a Ravenclaw,” the boy told me.
“Yes,” I agreed. “Does that matter?”
“Sometimes.”
I opened my mouth to ask another question, but my father, apparently sensing my knack for getting into trouble, was approaching us from the other direction. “Elise,” he said, “you’re late.”
“So are you,” I pointed out.
My father laughed at me, “Yes, I suppose I am. Who’s your new friend?”
Severus turned to my father than, and introduced himself, “Severus Snape, sir. Slytherin, fifth year, prefect. Your daughter ran into me and fell. I was helping her up.”
I didn’t know why the boy was lying - well, he wasn’t really, but he wasn’t telling the truth entirely, either - but I know enough to understand than when it comes to adult vs. kid, kids have to stick together. Even if the adult is your father.
“I shouldn’t have been running,” I agreed amiably.
“No, Elise” my father said, “you shouldn’t. If classes were in session you could have run into a lot of people. He opened the door to the great hall and we followed him inside. “Did you apologize to Mr. Snape.”
“Yes.”
“All right then. No more running in the halls.” He patted my hair, and I knew there wouldn’t be trouble.
By the time we three made it to the table, there were only three seats left, and Uncle Albus was beckoning my father to the seat nearest him. I ended up between him and Severus, who, desperate not to talk to the groundskeeper who was in the next chair, asked me softly, “Why Slytherin?”
“Ravenclaw’s are smart,” I said, “but snooty. Gryffindors are all ‘rah rah, we’re so cool.’ Slytherins are kind of scary sometimes,” I met his eyes then so he knew I meant him, “but never boring. And I’d rather be scared than bored any day.”
What about Hufflepuff?” he asked me, as he passed the candied yams. “What about them?”
I thought about it, and finally said, “Harmless. I guess.”
He didn’t answer with words, but he did smile a little at my assessment, and even though my father then commanded my attention, I remembered that conversation for years, because it was the first time I saw Severus Snape smile.
I knew when I woke up on the morning after my return to Hogwarts that either my uncle or Severus had dosed my tea the night before, because even the cradling effect of the mattress and the thick, soft pillows could not have granted me a whole night’s sleep while my left foot was still encased in plaster.
With the help of Mallow, who had been my dresser at the ballet company before my injury, I dressed in a black turtleneck and green wool skirt, and added a silver chain belt around my waist as an accent. We had to charm one of the legs off my pair of black tights, and I could only wear one boot, but with a deep green cloak over everything I was witchy enough to suit even the most conservative member of our society, and still comfortable, and able to move in my cast, the way I would not have been in traditional robes. My hair was pulled into a single braid, which I left hanging down my back, and the earrings I chose were the pair Severus had given me when I’d graduated from college in California, another lifetime ago, it seemed. Nothing flashy, green jade drops on silver French hooks.
As I made my way to the door I noticed a note on the desk instructing me to stop in and see Professor Vector for tea before I meet Severus. I sent Mallow ahead to warn of my impending arrival, shoved my wand into my cast, and grabbed my crutches, heading out to get my bearings. I was expecting to be near the Snake Pit – the Slytherin common room. Instead, I’ve been placed in an obscure corridor that has only one other door at this end, the entrance to Snape’s own rooms. I rolled my eyes heavenward at the Headmaster’s not-so-subtle attempts at getting us back together, and then repeated the gesture when I turned around to set the wards at my door. My entrance was marked by a portrait of a Degas dancer I used to fancy as a child.
I was halfway to the main corridor when a blond student appeared ahead, startling me. One of my crutches skittered out of easy reach, and the noise made him freeze. “Professor Snape?” a young male voice called out.
“Be thankful it’s not,” I answered. “As I suspect you’re not supposed to be down here.”
“Who’re you?” came the response, the tone mixing equal measures of arrogance and fear.
“Hand me that crutch and I’ll tell you,” I said. “Tell me who you are and why you’re here, and I’ll consider not telling your Head of House you were out of bounds.”
The boy collected my crutch and brought it back to me. “Draco Malfoy,” he said. “Fourth year, Slytherin.”
“Elise Foster,” I countered, reclaiming the crutch. “Also Slytherin, though not for many years. Now, why are you in this hallway?”
He was still innocent enough to blush. “Looking for you, actually. Well. Sort of.”
“Oh?”
“We’d heard Professor Snape’s old girlfriend was back. Wanted to get a look. Why is your leg wrapped in that stuff?”
“Take a look, then, Mr. Malfoy, and report that you met an ordinary blond woman who didn’t even draw her wand on you when you strayed into her path.”
His own wand was out, but I wasn’t worried. “Lumnos.” He uttered the spell to make wandlight, and did, indeed, take an appraising look at me. “Are we related?” he asked after a minute or so. “We look a lot alike.”
“It’s possible,” I allowed, which was technically true. If you go back far enough all wizards are related in some fashion. “But probably distant. Now, as I am injured pending the return of Madam Pomfrey, earn the right to secrecy by escorting me to Professor Vector’s offices. I wouldn’t want another stray student to make me slip.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He turned back toward the main corridor extinguishing the wandlight with a hushed “Nox,” and we made our way up the two levels of stairs to the main entry, and then up two more to where the Arithmancy professor kept her office. To his credit, young Draco made sure any passing students gave me a wide berth, and even knocked on Vector’s door for me, before securing his dismissal.
I made a mental note to keep an eye on him then entered the presence of one of my dearest friends.
“Elise Foster, what is that contraption on your leg?” Septima asked me as I entered. “Does it hurt? Is it permanent?”
“A cast. No, but it itches. And no, hopefully Madam Pomfrey will be able to do something about it when she’s back at work,” I said, taking the questions in order. “May I sit?” She’d never been the huggy type, so it didn’t surprise me when she remained seated.
“Please do.” She pointed her wand at one of the many chairs littered with scraps of parchment and cleared it for me. “There will be tea in a moment,” she said. “Unless you’d prefer something stronger?”
In truth, what I wanted was a mug of coffee, but tea would do. “Do you have those pumpkin pinwheel cookies,” I asked as I settled myself into the chair she’d cleared. “I slept through breakfast, and Severus implied there would be a meal after the competition.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. The tea came soon after, and the cookies with it. I took a bite of one, and was instantly back home.
“I love these,” I said with my mouth full, like a child. “I’m sorry, but you can’t get them at ho –” I started to say at home and cut myself off. “In America,” I corrected, after chewing and swallowing. “So how are…things?”
Septima ran long delicate fingers through her wispy blonde hair. When we go out to restaurants, people mistake us for sisters, or, less commonly, for mother and daughter, and we really do look alike: slender, lanky honey blondes with large eyes, but decidedly olive complexions despite being relatively fair. We are blondes who tan easily, and we both tend to spend as much time as possible enjoying the outdoors. “Things are…interesting. I suppose you know Harry Potter is here at Hogwarts.”
“Even in the States we’ve known that for years,” I confirmed. “Isn’t he supposed to be the wizarding messiah or some such?”
“Some think so,” Septima told me. “Myself, I think he’s just a boy with too much on his frail shoulders. Not that I know the child.”
“He’s not Arithmantically inclined?” I sipped some tea while she answered.
“According to Severus, he’s not educationally inclined, though admittedly the old bat seems to have a personal dislike of the boy. And speaking of Snape, are you two getting back together? He was bad enough when you were dating, and then when you stopped writing…I’m sorry Elise, but if you’re not taking him back, you should leave, before his hopes rise. I love you like a sister, but I have to work with him.”
I swallowed the bite of cookie in my mouth before responding, “I don’t know. I - he seems so much darker than I remember, Septima, and yet there’s still something.”
“And you haven’t been dating any of those attractive young men in tights you surround yourself with?” Her tone was teasing, but I knew she meant the question.
“Most of those young men are only interested in other young men, to be honest. And even if they weren’t…”
“Mercy, child, you still love the man.”
She made it a declaration, and I didn’t have to confirm, but I did. “I don’t know. I think so. But then I think I’m still competing with Lily, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
She opened her mouth to answer me, but a knock at the door interrupted her, followed by the sound of a student’s voice asking for input on a project. “You’re going to love this,” she whispered to me, before inviting the youngster in.
The door opened to reveal a small Gryffindor –garbed girl with masses of the bushiest hair I’d ever seen. “Professor, I’m so sorry to interrupt but there’s only an hour left before the tri-wizard challenge and – .”
“Breathe, Miss Granger,” suggested my friend, and the girl closed her mouth, apparently taking the advice.
“I should go,” I said, as I used one crutch to hoist myself up. “Thank you for the tea, Septima. We should have lunch soon.”
Septima nodded, and turned her attention to the Granger girl, but the child was now staring at me.
“You’re Elise Foster,” she announced, as if I was uncertain of that fact. “I’ve seen you dance Giselle, but I didn’t know you were a witch.”
“Well,” I said, trying to remain pleasant. “Now you do.” And I left the room as gracefully as I could.
People say I’m too picky about public restrooms. I suppose they must be right because even as a small child going to lunch at the Officer’s Club with my grandparents, I would have to inspect every stall, and find the cleanest one, and once I did, my grandmother would remind me, “Don’t forget to put paper on the seat.” This was before the tissue seat-liners were in common use.
My husband finds my bathroom squeamishness both endearing and annoying. At home, I have walked out of restaurants with my face turning green if the restrooms weren’t clean enough, skipping postprandial shopping trips in exchange for the comfort of my gleaming porcelain throne at home. We are not at home, however, but in Baja California Sur, Mexico. When you’re in a foreign country, you put up with restroom conditions you would run away from, screaming in terror, at home.
It is my grandmother’s reminder about tissue that is ringing in my head as I approach the toothless old man guarding the cash-box in the parking lot where we’ve left my parents’ old Jeep. His smile turns into a leer when he notices what I’m wearing. It is December, and though the thermometer in the car read 76 when we parked, the breeze off the water is cool enough to make me shiver in my touristy sundress. All the natives are in sweaters and jeans.
“Do you have a restroom?” I ask, in Spanish half-remembered from a high school class decades before, in which I spent more time flirting than actually paying attention. The department store restroom had one working stall, thirty women in line, and no toilet paper. The cafe where we had dessert didn’t have working restrooms at all. I’ve had two mochas and a bottle of water and I am desperate.
He bobs his head and points toward a weathered door attached to the mud-splattered cement building. I open the door, and find myself in a dark cement closet with a dirt floor. Something scurries away from the light cast by the open door. To my left, there is a black nothingness, from which chittering sounds emanate; to my right is another weathered door, this one louvered. I think it must be the missing shutter from the bar down the street because it’s painted the same green. Or it was once, anyway.
The toilet sits with the lid and seat both raised and a plunger in the back corner of the closet (it’s too small to be a room). There is no light switch, but a bulb and cord dangle above my head. I return to the first doorway, and poke my head out to Sr. Toothless, for help with the light. A thought crosses my head and I ask for toilet paper as well.
He comes running over, moving faster than his bony frame would seem to allow, his scuffed work boots kicking dust into the rolled up cuffs of his chinos. He hands me the toilet paper roll and then reaches up to plug in the light. I almost wish he hadn’t, because now I can see that the water in the toilet is brown. He leaves me there in the flickering light of the swaying bulb.
I use my foot to lower the seat, and skip the bit about wrapping it in tissue because I don’t want to touch it. Instead, I squat over it, and do my business as quickly as possible, while trying not to look at the floor or the walls (Especially not the walls.) I tuck the toilet paper roll beneath my chin as I rearrange my underwear and skirt, flush, and escape into the fresh air and slanted afternoon sunshine.
My husband is waiting outside with my purse. “Are you okay, Love?” he asks, responding to the mixed signs of relief and disgust on my face.
I nod. “I’m alive,” I say.
We leave the parking lot and return to the streets, walking through the alley to the waterfront. I know that on the ride home I will embellish the tale of the cement bathroom, make the creatures visible and dangerous. By the time I’m back in the States, the toothless parking attendant will be a muscular young man who flirts with me when my husband isn’t looking.
People say I’m too picky about public restrooms.
Sometimes I’m not picky enough.
Originally published at The Novelette, as part of their first-quarter writing contest. Please visit their site.
Hogsmeade Station was busier than I had ever seen it when I got off the train there, on that June day, but it shouldn’t have surprised me. After all, my arrival coincided with the opening challenge of the Tri-Wizard contest, an event which I did not fully understand, but seemed to be the only news in the Daily Prophet.
Honestly, I would have preferred my return to Hogwarts, and Wizarding Britain, to be a quieter one, but at least the fanatical attention to the competition drew the attention away from me, and my crutches. Well, mostly. Witches and wizards are so accustomed to healing injuries and ailments with a dose of potion or a well-placed swish and flick – sometimes both together – that the sight of a woman hobbling on crutches with her lower leg and foot in a cast was bound to draw some interest.
Still, most people merely arched their brows, or looked pointedly away, and at least my injury caused me to be so slow that by the time I had collected my luggage, with no small thanks to Mallow the house-elf, the platform had emptied.
Almost emptied.
For a moment, when I saw the tall, lean figure waiting silently at the end of the wooden walkway, I thought it must be some other wizard, but the very air seemed tense around him, and a stray movement caused his robes to swirl in a way that was achingly familiar. Stopping in front of him, I looked up into his dark eyes. “Severus.” I made his name both an identification and a greeting, not sure what my reception would be, but I did not reach out – could not, actually, as I was holding tightly to my crutches.
“The Headmaster sent me to meet you,” he informed me, his voice betraying no hint of his thoughts. “I’ve a dose of Pepper-Up if you are tired,” he continued, and though his tone remained neutral, I could see a slight softening of his eyes. “He neglected to share that you are injured. What happened?”
“Snapped my Achilles tendon during a show, and the Muggle press had the story before I had a chance to have the troupe Healer look at it,” I answered, pulling my gaze from his. “Pepper-Up would be helpful,” I admitted a second later.
He nodded once. “In the carriage.” I nodded, then inched toward it, hearing him instruct Mallow to move my things to the back. The house elf handled everything smoothly, and then snapped his fingers, Disapparating. I knew he would be seen a second later, walking through the castle gates, only to Apparate again once inside. I lifted my crutches onto the carriage seat, and reached for my wand, only to have Severus stop me. “Let me,” he said, and cast a slight levitation spell. He guided me into the carriage, and then joined me, tapping on the ceiling to signal the thestral pulling it, to move. It occurred to me that he could see the winged horses, though I could not, and I looked away long enough for him to reach his hand inside his robes and pull out a green glass bottle. “Drink it all,” he told me.
Obediently, I swallowed the liquid within, and almost immediately I felt its warming effect spreading through me, as if I was being hugged from inside. I smiled to myself – Severus Snape would never have actually hugged me in public, but this was almost the same. His head was tilted slightly, and he was watching me with unasked questions in his dark eyes, but I just offered a more obvious smile, and said, “Thank you, Severus, for meeting me, as well as for the potion.”
“I could not let you arrive on your lonesome,” he stated, a hint of softness in his clipped tones. “I would have preferred that you let me know you were coming.” There was regret in his voice, and an admonishment as well.
“I should have,” I admitted. “To be honest, I’m surprised my uncle didn’t tell you sooner. He can be an awful busybody when he’s not pretending to be a doddering old – ” Severus arched a single black eyebrow at me and I cut myself off before the Muggle epithet left my lips. ” – wizard.”
“Indeed.”
“The castle must be crawling with guests with the contest going on,” I ventured, more to keep the silence at bay than because I truly cared.
“Full to brimming,” he confirmed in a tone that left no room to doubt what he thought of the situation.. There was a beat of silence, and the mood in our carriage shifted slightly. “You stopped writing to me, Elise,” he stated, his flat tone conveying no hint of hurt, though I knew him well enough to see it in his eyes.
“You’d stopped replying, and I thought you wanted silence.” It sounded petty even to my own ears. “If it matters, there hasn’t been anyone else.” He bowed his head in response, and I took it to mean that he’d accepted my left-handed apology. I reached for his hand, touched it gently then pulled back.
He started at the brief contact, seemed to think over a million possible outcomes then crossed both arms across his chest, in a gesture that would have been intimidated had he been standing. Here in the carriage, however, it seemed protective, as if he was guarding himself.
We sat in silence for the rest of the ride, up the road, through the gates, and under the main portico, and I wondered if he was reliving old memories of our relationship, or just devising new ways to torture potions students. I didn’t ask, of course, but the way he gripped my hand as he helped me out of the carriage revealed more than he probably intended, and while it was neither the time, nor the place to question his intent, I took it as a positive sign.
Severus stayed by my side as I used my Muggle crutches to navigate the stairs, drawing slightly away when we entered, and found Albus Dumbledore waiting. “Ah, Severus. Thank you for bringing home our injured bird. I’m afraid Madame Pomfrey won’t be able to tend to you until Monday, Miss Foster.”
“I’ve gotten quite accustomed to the crutches,” I confessed. “But I can’t deny that I’d prefer to walk like a normal person.” I paused, then added, “Thank you for having me back Uncle Albus.”
“You are always welcome here, child,” he responded, stepping forward to enfold me in a gentle hug, in which I felt how slight and frail he really was. “You are family after all.”
I shivered then, either from the slight draft that was always present in the hallways of the old castle, or because I suddenly realized just how old Albus Dumbledore had become, and he pulled away to speak in a voice that included Snape as well. “You must be hungry after your journey, and I know Severus skipped dinner. Come along both of you and we’ll have tea and something warm to eat before I prevail upon Professor Snape to escort you to your rooms. You won’t mind if they’re in the dungeons, I trust?”
Our meal was a simple one of fruit, cheese, hearty bread and strong tea, and our conversation was equally basic. Uncle Albus quizzed me about my life – would I dance again once my ankle had been magically healed, had I been seeing anyone (this served as proof that he was not, in fact, omniscient, since I’d already told Severus I had not been dating). Finally, however, even the Pepper-Up Potion I’d taken in the carriage could no longer keep me from yawning.
“Headmaster, if I may, I believe Elise should get some rest.”
And with that we were dismissed although not without being asked, “Lemon drop, to see you off?”
Back in the corridor, Severus kept close to me since he could not take my arm. “Thank you,” I said softly. “For staying for tea, for escorting me…”
“You will need an escort to the event tomorrow, as well. Be ready half an hour before time, and I will accompany you.” He looked me up and down, and added with characteristic sarcasm that utterly failed to detract from the glint in his dark eyes, “And do remember which house you were in, when you choose your attire.”
I glanced down at my burgundy sweater made a chagrined face. “The house of vert et argent will not be disappointed in me,” I promised. “Nor will its Head of House.”
I stare at the night sky, white stars suspended against an indigo background. Geordi has just informed me that people who’ve never been on starship bridges - like me - think this is what they see on the main view screen, as if they’re all looking out a giant window.
“It’s not?” I ask.
“No. It’s all reversed. Space is white and planets and stars are dark masses. Like a map on paper.”
“Can you change the view - see what is really there?” The idea of a map intrigues me a little, but seems cold and sterile, too. Space travel has become so commonplace. We take off for Centauri or Vulcan and treat it as if we’re walking down to the corner store for milk. As a reporter, I’ve done my share of travel, as a writer, I’ve always fought against the blasé tone we all take. I shake my head, clearing those thoughts. I’m not a reporter any more, at least for now. I turn my attention back to my…friend. Lover. Geordi. I watch the lights glint on the metal of his visor, listen to the warmth of his voice…
“Oh, we do, if we’re in orbit around a planet, especially if it’s a familiar place, or home for any of the crew. Right now, for example, there’s no question that the view-screen on the bridge is showing a real-time view of Earth.”
I’m leaning on the cold metal rail of the balcony, and he is behind me, his arms reaching around to brace there, too. I feel the heat of his body, look down at his hands - I love his hands - and notice that he’s back in uniform. “The Earth from space has been a compelling image since the late twentieth century,” I note. “Art, science and wonder, all tied up in a neat package.” I hesitate then add, “Your leave is over.” It’s not a question.
“Yeah,” he says, and the word is like a sigh, but rougher. “Kat…”
I hear in his voice all the things he doesn’t have words for yet. I want to turn around, but I don’t. Instead, I move my hand to cover his on the railing. “You know, I’ve done my share of leaving, after an assignment. It’s kind of new being the one left.”
“I’m not leaving you. Not that way…”
“I know,” I say. “You’re not. And yet you are.” We’ve been friends forever, so we don’t have the luxury of the polite lie to cushion such things. No breezy goodbyes followed by instant forgetfulness. “Call me, when you can.”
“You know I will.” He pauses, and I hear him swallow hard. “You could visit the ship, you know. Next time we’re at a starbase.”
I open my mouth to protest, and then realize that since I’m ’suspended indefinitely’ from work, I actually can take time for such a trip. My lips curl into a smile he can’t see, “I’d like that,” I say. What I really mean is I love you, but I don’t have the words yet, either.
It’s a sunny morning, and we’re sitting in my breakfast nook, each of us with a cobalt blue mug of coffee. His is black, mine liberally laced with milk and sugar. “Not cream?” he asked, as he was bringing the mugs to the table. “You loved cream as a kid.”
“Whipped cream, yes,” I corrected. “Blue whipped cream, the way my dads did it at their restaurant, remember?”
He grins, and I can tell he’s caught the same memory trail that I have, and that we’re both thinking of the first time I brought him home, introduced him to my father and his partner, showed him what it was like to step from the vault-sized cold-storage unit to the hot sun outside and watch the condensation steaming off your skin in the sunlight.
“You were nervous about me meeting your father,” he says, and I shake my head.
“No,” I say. “I was nervous about you meeting Ben. I mean, he and my father have been together for ever, but Mars Colony was pretty conservative, and some people get freaky. Besides, you were a fleet brat.”
“So were you,” he points out, waggling a spoon at me.
I stick out my tongue at him, because I’m oh-so-mature. He doesn’t expect it, and it makes him laugh. I love his laugh. I love the way it makes his face glow. I love the way his fingers flex when he’s happy. I love…. “My mother was on a science scout ship. It’s different. They’re way more relaxed than you big starship types.” I’m teasing him now, to deflect my own feelings. “Y’all are stuffy.”
“Stuffy?” he puts so much feeling into one word: amusement, irritation, disbelief. “Stuffy? I’ll give you stuffy.” And before I know it he’s found the canister of whipped cream I keep in the stasis unit for ice cream emergencies, and he’s aiming it at me.
“Don’t you dare!” I abandon my mug on the table and get up to try and grab the container before he can press the button that will spew blue cream everywhere.
But he’s hit the trigger, and because I grabbed his wrist we’re both covered in the stuff.
An hour later, we’re both dressed in fresh clothes, sitting on the sofa and watching the FNN headline news. Border skirmishes along the Neutral Zone, political races on four worlds on the outer rim, and a proposed ban on press presence at the next Congressional Assembly are the topics of the morning.
“Does it bother you?” he asks, referring to the broadcast. “You’re suspended - but you don’t seem upset.”
“I haven’t really had time to wrap my head around it,” I confess. “Been sort of absorbed by other matters. It’ll hit me about an hour after your ship breaks orbit and I’m forced to return to the real world. ”
He covers my hand with his, and I feel the tension in his grip. “This is the real world, Kat,” he says. “You and me…” he trails off, and I turn my hand beneath his, and twine our fingers together.
“I know,” I say, my voice low. “It’s real. We’re real. And I’m - can we not talk it to death just yet? Can we just enjoy it for a little longer.”
He gives me the sort of look that would be truly devastating without the visor masking his expression, but is still pretty pointed even with it, and even though he hasn’t moved, doesn’t move, I feel him withdraw a little.
I move closer. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You’ve been my best friend forever. My brain hasn’t caught up with my heart yet, is all.”
He leans forward, silently, and I can tell he’s about to kiss me, but I see a flash of white near his ear, and I move my head past his, dart out my tongue, capture the errant cream.
“Problem?” he asks, amusement and affection tied together in the word.
“Nope,” I say. “Just missed a spot, when you were cleaning up.” My voice sounds smug, even to me. It should. I’m the Kat who got the cream.
I’m not sure if I am already awake because my bladder is insisting I empty it, or if it’s the erratic, half-mumbled speech tumbling from Geordi’s mouth, but either way I sit up in bed, and stare into the pixilated darkness of my bedroom. I squint more out of habit than need and the soft green light across the room resolves itself into a time display. Two am. Oh-two hundred. Whatever. Either way it’s late, and he’s dreaming.
At a loss – do I let his dream play out, or do I wake him? – I ease myself from the bed. Practicality kicks in: first, empty bladder, then deal with boyfriend’s nightmare. My mind races in circles, talking to itself. Myself. Boyfriend? Is that what he is? I mean, I’ve known him since we were ten, but this is only the second time we’ve slept together. I don’t close the bathroom door, choosing to keep an ear out, in case something changes. From this perspective I can’t see the clock, but I see another pair of twin green lights just above the foot of the bed. Perry, my Chihuahua, named after the fictional editor of a fictional newspaper from a twentieth-century comic book, is also awake. Typically, he’s staring at me, and won’t leave his spot on the bed unless there’s the prospect of food or a walk. Can’t say as I blame him.
I finish attending to nature’s demands, and wash my hands with cool water, splashing my face as well. My apartment has a sonic shower, which is great on mornings when there isn’t time for hair to dry, but water always feels cleaner somehow. The sinks are all water. I like it that way. I pause near the end of the bed and scratch Perry behind the ears. “Go back to sleep, little man,” I tell him. He emits a doggie sigh and lowers his head back to his paws.
Blinking red diodes on Geordi’s temples catch my attention. Normally, I don’t notice them, either because I’m just used to them, or because I don’t generally stare at him in the darkness. I look past him, to the nightstand on his side (it’s already his side) of the bed, see the blinking green lights of the matching connections on the VISOR he takes off to sleep. Memory flashes, and I remember sleepovers of a different kind, when we would each be in a sleeping bag on my father’s living room floor, or his father’s, or in an old-style tent pitched in the back yard, when I would see those same blinking lights, the same gleaming metal reflecting them. I slide back under the covers, and realize he’s still muttering.
“I can’t see, I can’t see,” I can discern the words now, and I freeze, horrified. “Romulan, Human, what does it matter if we die down here. Work with me, man.” The reporter part of my brain wonders if there is a story here, and then my conscience and heart remind me of who I am, who he is, who we are together, and I reach out, touch his shoulder, and shake him gently.
“Geordi,” I say. “Geordi, wake up. You’re dreaming.” I keep my voice pitched soft, let warmth infuse it.
“You’re bleeding,” he says, and I rub two fingers together, and then realize he’s still caught in his nightmare’s web. “Or I am. Can’t tell. Even if I could see, couldn’t tell. Blood’s blood with this thing. Doesn’t matter if it’s red or green.”
I gasp at that, shake him a little harder. “Geordi, wake up, please?” The stress invades my tone; his words seem creepy to me in the dark. I could turn a light on, but I don’t. “Geordi, its Kat…”
Hearing my name seems to help, because he sits up, and rubs his eyes, then puts his hands to his temples, and massages them. “Kat?”
“Right here,” I say, and I move so I’m sitting right against him. I raise my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them. He’s sitting cross-legged now, fully awake. “You were dreaming,” I say. “Something about red and green blood and not being able to see.” I lift one arm, and stroke his face softly with fingers that are still damp. “If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.”
I hear the sound of metal clunking against the nightstand. He’s reached for his VISOR, but it’s taken two attempts to pick it up. I see the ghostly outline of his hands as he raises it to his face, and hear the soft click as it settles into position. Only now does he turn to me. “I was dreaming.”
I laugh softly, stroke his back, and feel the warmth of his skin beneath the green t-shirt he wore to bed. “Yes,” I confirm. “You were.”
“It was last year,” he begins. “We were on a planet with violent ion storms…”
He settles his arm around me, and we sit together in the middle of the bed, with Perry the Chihuahua sleeping at our feet, and I listen to his soft voice as he spins the tale. It’s an hour before we go back to sleep, and even then I keep waking up, looking up, and finding comfort in the soft green glow of the clock.
is a somewhat disappointing fact that San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge is actually orange. Specifically, the color is “international orange.” I know this because one of my first local news reports for FNN was for the annual repainting of the bridge. I remember standing at the base of one of the towers with the wind whipping my hair. Tonight, though, I am not expounding upon the color, or complaining about the wind.
“I’ve always wanted to do this – walk across the bridge at night,” Geordi tells me, as we buzz through the pedestrian walkway and begin walking toward Marin. “We talked about it all the time at the Academy, but we never managed to do it.”
The subject had some up during the ball. It was one of the lulls while the band – a live band – took a break, and the Enterprise officers had been reminiscing about their Academy days. The reporter part of my brain observed that, for all they may be galactic heroes now, these officers had fairly typical college experiences. Good to know they’re mortal, I guess. But now I was trying not to shiver – my red dress got the expected, even hoped for, reaction from my companion, but strapless ball gowns don’t keep away the chill – as I answer, “It’s easy to put things off, take them for granted, when you see them all the time. I mean, I live in this city, but I hardly ever play tourist.”
My attempt at keeping the shiver out of my voice must have failed, because Geordi stops walking and stares at me. Well, not stares. But I can tell he’s not seeing my dress right now, but something else. “You’re cold,” he states.
“I didn’t bring a jacket,” I explain. “It’s warm in the flitter, and I knew we’d be dancing.” I pause then add, a little shyly. “I enjoyed dancing with you. I liked meeting your friends.”
He doesn’t answer right away because he’s unfastening the jacket of his dress uniform and shrugging it off. “Wear this, Kat,” he says, and helps me into it, holding it so I can slide my arms into the sleeves. “Better.” It’s not a question. I know he’s seen heat patterns on my skin, or some such.
“Thank you,” I say. We continue our walk toward the middle of the bridge, side by side, our hands brushing, almost connecting then moving apart. I can feel the slight upward slope of the arch, as we pass the first tower, and the wind is stronger.
He stops at a point equidistant between the two towers. I wonder if the Visor let him measure the distance, but I don’t ask. “We’re here,” he says.
“So we are,” I say, and then I add, “Moon’s out.”
“What does it look like to you?” he asks quietly.
I look at him, startled by the question. “Moonlight? Or Moonlight on the water?”
“Either. Both.”
“Mmm.” I am quiet, composing my description, and the nearness of him is distracting. I can feel his warmth. “Most people describe moonlight in cool colors. Silver and white,” I begin. “But to me it’s always felt like soft warmth. Not silver, but the finest, palest gold, spun out like floss. And when it strikes the water, there’s almost – almost – a sheen to the waves, but it’s so dark that they’re really just shapes. Indistinct.” I stop there. And then I say: “Tell me what it looks like to you.”
And he does. “It’s more like textures and temperatures,” he says. “Solids are dense, and deep, the ocean has movement, but it’s warmer, not a lot, but a hint, where the light strikes it, and the intensity lessens. Moonlight is thin. Sunlight…sunlight’s all heat. Moonlight’s an echo of that heat.” He pauses, and in that pause I slip my hand into his. His fingers lace themselves with mine, as he laughs softly, and apologizes, “It loses a lot in translation.”
“Try something different,” I say. “Tell me how it tastes.” It’s a game we played as kids. Using a sense we both had to better communicate different ways of seeing.
“Kat!” He laughs, but his hand stays twined with mine. “You first.”
I close my eyes, breathe in. “Salty, wet, something sweet, just a hint of sweetness. A dash of something floral, but it comes and goes so fast.” I open my eyes, and find his gaze directed at me again. “Your turn.”
He doesn’t speak. He ducks his head, and hesitates, and I look out at the dark expanse of ocean, black and alive, and faintly lit when the moon strikes the waves. I speak his name, and his head comes up, and while I can’t read an expression, I can tell that he’s come to a decision. His other hand comes up to caress my face, and I lean into it, into his warmth, and the strength of his fingers. He does speak, then, just one word, “Kat…” and I squeeze his hand.
“Yes,” I say.
It seems to be the permission he needs, for he bends his head just a little, and his lips find mine. We’ve kissed before, but it’s been casual. This kiss holds meaning, and goes deeper. I lean into it, kissing him back, and then our tongues are dancing, much as our bodies had in the ballroom, earlier.
The need to breathe separates us, and I step into his arms. We stand there in the wind, on the orange-painted bridge, bathed in moonlight for a long moment. When the silence is broken, it’s Geordi who speaks. “I’m on leave for the next three days.”
“I’m sort of…suspended…” I admit. “Which means I’m free.”
There’s an unspoken agreement that he’s coming home with me tonight. And I’m fine with that. Mostly. He kisses me again, and breathes my name against my neck.
I laugh softly. “Geordi,” I say. “Let’s go someplace warmer.”
I don’t remember the walk back to my flitter. I don’t remember the ride home. “Thank God for autopilot” becomes my new mantra.
I’m sitting in my flitter in the parking bay at Starfleet Academy, nerves jittering like proverbial butterflies in my stomach. I keep thinking that I should have said no to being his date, or that, once accepted, I should have let him pick me up. I mean, my apartment’s not that far away, and he has a freaking starship at his disposal.
Okay, that might be an exaggeration. But here’s what’s not: I’ve known Geordi LaForge since we were both ten, and I’m hiding in my flitter because I’m afraid of what my feelings for him really are. And I’m equally afraid of what they aren’t. I mean, what if he really does want to take our relationship into adult realms…and what if he doesn’t. And there’s still the whole traipsing around the galaxy thing. As long as we’re just friends, I’ll never have to deal with the agony of worrying when the Enterprise is out of communication, never have to refuse to cover a story about the ship or her crew because I can’t be objective, and… I bang my clenched fists against the controls, and mutter out loud, “Dammit, Kat, just go IN there.”
“Please restate your desired coordinates,” the navigation system requests in too-calm tones, the way computers do. I press the button to power down with a little more gusto than is really called for. And I take a deep breath. Then, I smooth my hair and exit the flitter.
I’ve been told where to meet him, of course, and I’ve been here before – years ago for his graduation, when I sat next to his sister and we rated the relative hotness of the male humanoids in his class to kill time. Ariana has a wicked sense of humor, while her brother is a little kinder in his witticisms. And then, when there were rumors of a conspiracy in Starfleet, I was one of the reporters sent to cover it. So I know where the arrivals lounge is, and I’m not weirded out by the full-body scan to determine if I’m packing weapons (though in this dress, I’m not sure where I’d put them. My purse holds a lipstick and my identification, not much else).
A cadet stuck on door duty recognizes me, and welcomes me by name, and I thank her, as I walk into the building. Lots of glass and steel and combinations of the two, just enough stone to ground the place. They’ve decorated for the occasion by hanging festive banners, and bringing out flowers in Starfleet colors. I’ve seen worse. I walk the short distance down the main corridor to the arrivals lounge, and enter, and the noise of so many conversations is a bit jarring after the heel-clicking silence of the corridor, but I just take another deep breath and look around.
I recognize a few faces. Captain Picard, of course, because he’s been interviewed a lot. Never seems to age, which is criminal. He’s talking to a petite blonde in admiral’s stripes. I think she’s got a Russian name, but don’t bother racking my brains for the knowledge. Davis T’laren, a reporter from a rival news syndicate is talking to a bearded officer in red, but notices me, and waggles his eyebrows – apparently the dress is effective – but I just smirk. Then I turn, and I freeze.
Geordi’s off in a corner, engaged in animate conversation with a man who isn’t merely dressed in the mustard-yellow ops color, but actually echoes it with his skin. This, I think, must be the infamous Data, who’s supplanted me as LaForge’s best friend. I’d seen his image before, of course, but it’s nothing compared to the actual person. And Geordi…Geordi’s also in yellow, and…is that another stripe? I can’t decide if I should yell at him for not telling me or merely be glad that someone’s seen how talented he his.
My name, being shouted (in as polite a manner as possible) breaks me from this line of thinking. “Geordi!” I answer back, and weave through the crowd, exchanging only brief greetings with people I know on the way. “Sorry I’m late,” I say.
He’s staring at me, at my dress. He’s…riveted, even. “You look amazing,” he says. “Worth the wait.” For a moment, something heavy hangs between us, as he watches me and I stare into his VISOR. Then he bends to kiss me on the cheek, and whispers, “I’m glad you came, Kat,” and it’s such a familiar gesture that all is well again.
“Yellow?” I ask softly.
He actually blushes. Well, sort of. “Yeah,” he says. “I meant to tell you, but there wasn’t time. I was promoted.” His expression is a mixture of shyness and pride. “I’m chief engineer,” he tells me.
I want to whoop or shout or dance, but I resist the urge, and simply hug him. It’s a little more enthusiastic than our hugs generally are, and it lasts a little longer, and I tell him softly, “Congratulations. I’m so beyond proud of you.”
“Ahem.” A voice behind me makes an extremely artificial coughing sound, and I pull away from my friend, smooth my skirt, and turn to find it’s source.
Mustering all of my professionalism, I extend my hand, and say, “Commander Data, I presume? Geordi’s told me a lot about you. It’s good to finally meet you.” I add, in case he’s unsure. “I’m Kathryn Rossi, from FNN. Call me Kat – all my friends do.”
“And I am just Data,” he answers, and I wonder if he, too, can feel the worry-waves emanating from Geordi, who has to be hoping we’ll like each other, at least a little. “Geordi speaks of you often, Kat.” He gives me an appraising look, as if he’s trying to decide how a polite android can say, ‘If you hurt my friend, I’ll kill you.’ And then that also passes, just as a steward (another duty cadet, of course) is circulating a tray of champagne.
Geordi hands me a glass, keeps one for himself, and nods at Data, who’s taken one as well. The three of us form a private circle, and Geordi lifts his glass, and toasts, “To friendship.”
I raise my glass, too, but I don’t speak, because I’m busy noticing that Geordi looks good in yellow. Really good. He catches me staring and catches my hand, squeezing slightly and letting it go, and then I want to say something, but we’re called into dinner before I can.
Here’s hoping Starfleet parties aren’t as excruciatingly speech-heavy as news net shindigs, because some things are better conveyed on the dance floor.