a poet describes

Pippa heard him but simply flipped her hair over the shoulder, sending a twinkle into the air. She felt deep into her and pulled out her Veela strings. She hadn't practiced for awhile outside a job, and what would it hurt. It was obvious to tell that he was sore, feeling bad about something. She wasn't sure what, but her tea was, pardon the pun, magical. She'd been creating her own brew for years, jokingly calling it's Witches Brew, but it was certainly magical. It made her happy. It made other people happy. 

She waved her wand and the kettle began to fill, moving over the fire. Tea saucers and cups flew to the table along with biscuits and jams. Sandwiches began to assemble.

"I wasn't thinking a tea party exactly," she said. "I was just thinking since we have the same boss, it might do us some good to have tea."  She waved her wand again and from the cupboard, out of the safe, flew the bag of galleons. 

"You can take that if you want," she said with a flourish, her shoulder dipped and her cardigan slipped off her shoulder, revealing bare skin. The light lace of her strapless top a top a fluted tulip skirt with small netted back seam stockings and a low heel. She wished she had on higher heels, but she wasn't working.