(This is for Dorothy and her Amazing Technicolor Cross-Stitch Book.)

It was November, winter whispers pervading the streets and the cold stone heart of the castle.

He noticed her at a coffee shop in Hogsmeade. (Funny things they were getting in Hogsmeade these days - muggle things, but he tried not to think about that.)

"A latte with extra cream, if you please," the girl said to the cashier. He noted how she formed her words, perhaps because they were so crisply and carefully prounounced. There was something about her that caught at the edge of his eye; perhaps the way the sun gilded her bronzed auburn hair, or the sharp precision with which her features seemed to have been crafted.

He gave his order ("House blend, black,") and paid his ten sickles. When he turned around, he found the girl still standing there, looking rather curious, but not at all unfriendly. "You teach at Hogwarts, don't you?"

"Yes," he said sharply. "You're not a student there, are you?"

"No." The girl smiled. "I'm Etain Realeigh, Aoife and Finian's sister."

Before he could stop himself - "The squib."

"Yes." She smiled again, and this time he allowed himself to notice the innocent, radiant beauty of her face, how the curvature of her lips lit up her black eyes. "You must be Professor Snape."

After they had exchanged pleasantries and he had affirmed her assessment of her siblings' aptitude in scholastic matters, she left, and he knew he would not see her again, except perhaps on the pages of the Daily Prophet. She was the type, he thought, not to let adversity get in her way.

It was November; it was cold and crisp and the chill air blew all the heart out of him when he stepped out of the little shop. He was getting old, could feel the ice in his bones now; and he thought ironically of Aoife and Finian Realeigh's elder sister, and the sun bred into her eyes and mouth like it was woven into her name.

Somewhere in Hogsmeade, a girl who had been born Etain Riddle greeted her brother and sister jovially with the promise of books and perhaps, a hot mug of butterbeer. But that is another story, for another time.