I Know It’s Over
The air forged of fresh baked goods, of warm bread and cinnamon, and the soft light of dawn filters through the lofty windows. It’s common, now.
When James inherited this place from his dying father’s will, there was two things he couldn’t quite recall. One: when and where and how and why did he initially own a bloody bakery in the first place? James had quite literally no idea that Monty hid this from him his entire existence when it only was mere hours away. When he did find out about The Stag’s Rest’s (don’t ask: Monty, only a few days away from lying dead on his bed, refused to tell him) existence, he accepted it with an embrace, certainty and kindness.
So, right after his father’s death and funeral, he moved from the central region of London to the countryside and reclusiveness of Branscombe. If James was honest-to-God, he entered the village and never wanted to stay at a flat—above his dad’s, well, his bakery—this much beforehand. When he strolled around the town, as if he owned the block, he couldn’t quite contain his excitement and admiration. His enthusiasm. The village was surrounded by picturesque countryside, with miles of walks, that he’s gladly endured, through woodland, farmland and a beach.
God, that beach.
The people were lovely, if not endearing by sight only. Although still being considered as a newcomer by the townspeople after six months, James had already forged a friendship with a man named Remus Lupin.
Tall, quite hot—beautiful, really. Dark siren eyes and thick, red lips, always with a cigarette in between. His nose was slightly arched and a scar passed his way from below his right eye to below his cheekbone on the opposite side, and one passing by his moors, and a few more on his hands, other parts of his face and, James assumed, his body. He never got the heart to actually ask what had happened, what made him so… scarred. There wasn’t any other way to put it, really. James is sure of one thing, though: his scars endeared him considerably, and that—God, he really was freakishly tall!
At first, Remus had only come here to read. He would spend a few hours a day, coming back early in the morning, leaving after an hour, and coming back during noon and sometimes, evening. Always ordered tea with enough sugar to make him have a heart attack, yet still stays as skinny as a knife. And then, afterwards, when James got to know him, he saw all besides the scars and the quick smiles, and the respectful nods. He saw a man with a dying mother, and a boy whose ears and eyes were so curious because his townspeople talked about wolf sightings, and so he had the greatest idea to investigate it alone and got himself attacked by a wild wolf. He never talks about it much, and James doesn’t push.
And then, the few conversations a day became ‘let’s catch up at Pettigrew’s, good with you mate?’, a sign that they’ve become friendly with each other, and James had made a lot of progress with the townsmen, but Remus was by far the one with whom he made the most progress with. His friendship quite felt like a reward, actually. He had this thing about himself: his tough nature and confidence whilst still being vulnerable and weak by times, sometimes accepting help and then lament, and lament, and lament. Just like everybody else fancy to do by times.
Remus also was the reason James stayed at Branscombe in the first place. Because, you see… when he arrived at the bakery he expected something else. Something alive, fulfilling, and satisfying—something that swore by the epitome of James Potter. And, you see…
The place was a dump.
Nothing was broken nor in really bad shape (thank God, or else James would have returned to London in a snap), it was just utterly rusty and ridiculously disgusting. When James had entered the closed building, he fell to his knees and huffed out a bitter breath. Fuck you, dad. After mere weeks of thoroughly cleaning the toilets and scrubbing the floors, it finally turned out to actually look like something James could work with.
When the renovations were over, and that the bills were payed, and the sweets & goods freshly baked right out of the oven, James waited. He hired two younger people, Evan Rosier and his friend Dorcas Meadowes. Feisty and in their mid-twenties, if not early, they stuck to their job and hours, and both had a bit of experience in baking and cooking, so James assumed they were great. Though the bakery wasn’t that big, he’d wish to have a few more people to work with, though.
Don’t get him wrong, he appreciates both Dorcas and Evan. The woman was louder and babbled quite a lot, not frightened to let what she thought be heard and spoken. Evan was a little bit more soft-spoken, not letting his thoughts be heard and make them known to the world. Still, they were lovely people and James loved lovely people, obviously.
Because the Stag’s Rest was being reopened after a decade of termination, quite a lot of people were gossiping and chatting about it. Mrs. Pomfrey made it the thing that it is now, James is sure, though. See, if it weren’t for her, James is confident he would have gone bankrupt, without money or a home, and in the streets. Mrs. Pomfrey, the nice, gossipy, chatty lady that she was, babbled about the place nonstop.
She would come everyday and talk about her cats, her teas and her garden. She’d order the same ginger tea with a glazed donut and plain biscuits, every day. One of James’ most recurring customer.
So, surely today wouldn’t be any different.
The scent of fresh-baked bread and cinnamon rolls filled the tiny bakery, mingling with the sound of clinking trays and the low hums of conversation. James Potter balanced a tray of tea and a donut on one arm, beaming as he handed a bag of scones to Mrs. Pomfrey, the town’s most opinionated cat owner.
“You’re late today, love,” James teased, tucking a stray curl out of his face as he moved to the counter. The elder woman blushed at the nickname. (James for real thought it was common sense for him to call people sweet nicknames. He called everybody love, if he was being honest.) “Let me guess—Godric took a piss everywhere on your bed again?”
The elderly woman harrumphed, adjusting her scarf. “Don’t you start with me, James. The old hag popped on it. She quite literally told me she did so.”
James grinned. “Sounds about right. Maybe I should add ‘cat whisperer’ to the list of bakery services.”
The bell above the door jingled as another customer left, and Remus came in. He had recommended for him to play ‘I Know It’s Over’, by the Smiths, which James had greatly appreciated. The tune was a bit resentful and sad, yes, but it still was great. Nobody ever told him how hard it was to choose tunes in a shop, it was exhausting. James glanced at the time. It was nearly half past eight, and the bakery was in full swing. The cozy shop had a way of drawing people in—maybe it was the warm smell of sugar and butter, or maybe it was just James’ knack for remembering everyone’s name and their favorite pastry.
But as he wiped his hands on his apron, his thoughts wandered upstairs. The flat above the bakery had been empty for months, but he’d heard whispers around town that someone had finally rented it. Which means that James would have a next door neighbour, then.
He was familiar with waking up alone now, and his little dusty apartment slowly became a cozy spot he could call home. His balcony above the bakery was quite empty, and James thought it was a shame. He’d wish for it to be full of plants, to look alive, to the least. Maybe his neighbour’ll hear his pleas and James could benefit from it.
“Have you met him yet?” Mrs. Pomfrey asked, leaning against the counter. “The new tenant?”
James shook his head, “Nah, not yet. He moved in last night, right? Must be an early riser, since I didn’t hear a thing.” He said when Remus shyly smiled at him, his cane in one hand and a book in the other. James beamed right back, “Hi, Remus.”
“Hello, James,” Remus greeted, taking the chocolate bars and coffee James had anticipated he would order. (Mondays and Wednesdays were the chocolate bars with the nuts and fudge, with a black coffee on the side, on Tuesdays and Thursdays he had a toast cut in four pieces, marmalade, jam, butter and lemon curd, each in one quarter of the cut pieces. On the weekends he usually came in with his lovely boyfriend—who was quite the opposite of Remus—and they both smoked and chatted at their usual table.)
“How’s Sirius doing?” James bit his lower lip, containing himself until he couldn’t. “Still, err… so serious?” He chuckled slightly, before releasing a full on laugh that made Remus groan.
Remus tssks and rolled his eyes, hiding a grin. “You know, mate, you and him are probably the only people in the world that think this joke is funny.”
“What can I say? He’s got taste, so do I.” James answered and winked, handing Remus’ order over to him, and Remus only rolled his eyes even further, and laughed quietly. He frowns when he realises his friend is on his way out. “Not staying in today, Remus?”
“Nah, gotta meet with—” He cut himself when he saw James’ mischievous grin and eyes. “My lovely boyfriend with a name that’s not that funny at Pettigrew’s.”
“That early in the mornin’? Didn’t even know it was open in day time. That Pete guy’s so pissed all the time.”
“What can I say,” Remus mocked him, mimicking a high pitched voice. “He’s got taste for alcohol in the morning, and so do I!”
James only rolled his eyes back and laughed, waving at Remus when the taller man only waved a few fingers at him, not bothering to look back.
Mrs. Pomfrey lowered her voice conspiratorially, continuing their conversation. “I hear he’s young. Quiet. Looks like trouble, if you ask me,”
James laughed, shrugging. He wipes his hands on his worn-out apron when he smiles charmingly, “Well, trouble or not, he’ll be getting the best coffee in town if he stops by.”
As if on cue, the creak of footsteps echoed from the stairs. James straightened, his smile widening as a figure appeared in the doorway.
The man—tall, pale, and dressed entirely in black, with a large shirt and oversized jeans featuring a raven coat—paused at the threshold. He seemed younger than James, by three years at least. His raven hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d spent the night wrestling with a pillow, and his gray eyes scanned the bakery with a mix of irritation and wariness.
James’ cheerful greeting caught in his throat. This was not what he’d expected. He adjusted his glasses and checked his breath, as though he was preparing for a job interview. I mean, it was kind of like it, wasn’t it? This person would be his neighbour for, what he assumed, a long time. When James had heard from the person that took care of it that his tenant had no intention of moving out any time soon, James just insinuated he would stay awhile.
Maybe a person that was full of life, you know, like him? But he was… all the opposite. His face grew into a scowl that was quite endearing really, because his face seemed soft in James’ eyes, and it was as though he forced the scowl instead of it growing naturally.
The man cleared his throat, his voice low and clipped. He crossed his arms, scanning the room like he’s already decided this place worn him out, like he’s already regretted stepping inside. He exhales sharply, looking around bitterly when his sharp gaze falls on James’. “You’re the landlord?”
James was fortunate; the bakery wasn’t as busy on Wednesdays. He could at least talk a bit with his neighbour… which he wasn’t sure was actually fortunate or not. James blinks. What? “Err—well, I own the bakery. The—the flat’s just kind of a bonus, I s’pose.” He readjusts his glasses.
Regulus nods, never uncrossing his arms.
He was handsome.
It wasn’t him hitting on his neighbour, obviously not. It was rather something he thought matter-of-factly, like, if he showed him to Remus, he would probably agree and say that his neighbour was really pretty. He actually reminded him of Sirius, too. Both of there eyes were grey like the moon was. They were so much alike, now that James thinks about it. But while Sirius’ eyes were soft, his were sharp. His features too, and his curls were way looser than Sirius’. He really was handsome.
His rings fit perfectly on his slim, pale fingers. They were of a silver, a sharper colour than his eyes that looked like it was made just for his tone.
“Right,” He steps down the whole way of the stairs, before finishing his sentence when he’s next to Mrs. Pomfrey, who steps back a bit, which leaves him right before James. “The plumbing is awful.”
James barks out a laugh, much to Regulus’ confusion. His scowl grows deeper. “Right, well. Great to meet you too, mystery neighbour. You know what?” The man before him only raised his eyebrows as a question. “That makes you my first ever tenant! Want a celebratory muffin, love?”
His scowl grew even deeper, which James wasn’t even aware was actually possible…? He only cleared his throat and looked away, narrowing his eyes, his tone icy and his eyes cold. “Just coffee. Black. No sugar.”
“Really?” James, already smirking at the dramatics, leans against the counter. “You sure? ‘Cause you look like the type who could use a pastry or two.”
Regulus only lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed and flatly. “And you look like the type who doesn’t know when to stop talking.”
Mrs. Pomfrey snickers in the background. James beams. Oh, this is going to be fun.
He raises his arm in surrender, and grabs a cup. “Comin’ right up.” He begins to brew his neighbour’s black coffee with no sugar. And no pastries. Since he refuses for James to offer him one so bad. Obviously.
James notices that the man’s gaze wander everywhere, from the menu above James’ head to the round and square tables around the small shop, with lovely drawings made by regular customers’ kids pinned on a board, next to job offers and demands, and missing cats posters. Really, James accepted anything that kept his board full.
“For here or to go?”
“To go. Please.” He says in a soft voice, lowering his gaze. James contained a snort. So he was posh (yes, James noticed his thick loaded-like posture and twat accent), and arrogant, and icy, but, he was still courteous enough to utter words of gratitude.
James hesitated only a second before grabbing a croissant from the the display case and placing it next to the coffee in a paper bag. His eyes only slightly widens when he gets an idea.
He took the closest marker there was, and swiftly grabbed the large cup of coffee before looking at the man before him, all cheeky. “Name?” He noticed the numbers of freckles he had, up his button nose and down off of it.
The man with the light freckles tensed his jaw. He took a deep breath before turning his head sharply to stare at Mrs. Pomfrey. “What’s your name, please?”
Mrs. Pomfrey only stared at him before slurring. “P—Poppy. Poppy Pomfrey.”
“Right.” He turned his harsh gaze right back into James’, who looked way too amused with himself. He tilted his head slightly. “Poppy. The name’s Poppy.”
He bites his lower lip discreetly but shamelessly and chuckles in an absurd way. “Alright, then. Poppy, here’s your black coffee.”
The so-called ‘Poppy’ stares at the croissant with furrowed eyebrows, finally seeming to notice it. “I didn’t order that,”
James grins. “It’s on the house. Welcome to the neighbourhood.”
The man didn’t thank him. Instead, he picked up the coffee and croissant, gave James a curt nod, and disappeared out the door without another word, the bell jingling among the hums of chatter that James couldn’t even hear as he stared at the man’s figure disappearance.
Mrs. Pomfrey was the first to break the silence. “I told you. Trouble.”
James only smiled, watching the door swing shut behind the stranger. “I reckon he just needs some time to warm up.”
The elder woman only scoffed and took her fresh tea. “Of course you think that, dear.”
***
When Regulus returns to the bakery to enter his new flat, he excepts to see Potter’s annoying arse but instead, meets the soft eyes of a blond name with the name tag ‘EVAN’ stapled onto his work jacket, offering shy smiles to customers. Regulus ignored him as he went upstairs, all the way up to the floor above the bakery.
Even from above, you could smell the croissants and the cinnamon rolls, the warm bread and the sweetness of chocolate. Regulus would never admit it, but even though he’s only been here for not even a day, he breathes and breathes and breathes the sweet scent of his new apartment.
The place was small, but then again, it wasn’t rusty, mostly clean and quiet. It smelled good, because of the baked goods. And it was closer to Sirius than any flat he’s ever had in bygone days. Regulus probably would have taken the change easier if Sirius had agreed to move in with him, but by the time the papers were signed and Regulus finally got out of his parents’ manipulative, bitchy behaviour, his older brother had already met the man he called ‘the moon of his life’ (make that make sense,) and had already moved in with him.
He had started to unpack halfheartedly, but the train ride fatigued him more than it didn’t, even though he made sure to listen to Sirius’ rock, punky music to stay wide awake. When he arrived, he made sure not to cause too much noise, not wanting to wake the owner. He wished he did, now, after he met him. So smug about—well, fucking nothing, really. The smirk never left his face when he and Potter had a conversation, not even once.
Regulus scowls at the memory of this morning, before he left for his library.
The sight of it already made him feel greater already. It was late dusk time when he arrived, stopping at Sirius’ flat beforehand to pick him up. The low sunlight emerged through the Black’s Library’s windows, dimming by the minute. The wee bell above the vast, dark wood double doors hadn’t rung for hours, and Regulus was leaning against the counter, facing the shelves instead of the door. He riffled through the pages of his book, weariness owning the best of him. Sirius fell asleep next to him, falling asleep in the middle of his rant about how cozy this town was. ‘Wake me in a few, Reggie’ he had asked.
Officially, it was Sirius who owned the library. When Regulus had plans about moving in the same town, Sirius immediately asked him if he would fancy that him and his brother would co-own the library together, taking care of it. Regulus would work in it, and Sirius would… well, own it. The things he usually does, so nothing, really. Regulus assumed Remus did all the hard work (he did).
His black shirt was tucked in his black trousers, and thick layers of dust could be sighted in the library’s warm air where the sun shined, a thing Regulus found himself to love to observe. He swivelled around, still leaning over the counter, still reading at the ink on his paper. His head was resting on his free hand, and when he glanced up, he could see himself through the windows of the library.
After a while, because Sirius had insisted they stay in until closing hours, he woke up his older brother by kicking him in the leg. “Wake up, idiot,”
Sirius groaned, his messy curls tangled when he pulled one out of his mouth. His expression softened. “Hi, Reggie.”
“You’ve been asleep for like two and a half hours,”
Sirius sighs. “It’s called taking a nap, Regulus. Resting,” He enunciates every syllable, “You should try that some time, Regulus.”
“Shut it. I’m going home.”
“Heard you live next to James?” So that was his name.
Regulus sighed and scowled. “Yes.” He says, out of despair. “Quite the… cheery guy, eh.”
“Yes! Isn’t he?” Sirius beamed to his ears. The younger man only rolled his eyes so deep it looked like they would roll to the back to his head. He could hear his older brother gulp. “What’d you, err. Think of Remus?”
“Hot.”
Sirius jumped to his feet, all giggly and cheeky. “I know—isn’t he? He’s so tall, too!”
“I saw.” Regulus smiled a little, barely noticeable. “It’s freakish, really.”
“I know.” Sirius smiles absurdly, and it’s the first time Regulus sees his older brother smile so hard, like he cannot help himself. Regulus scoffs at the sight, but he feels happiness filling him. Not for himself, obviously. Rather for his brother. He deserves the glee that’s manifestly displaying on his face.
After Sirius had taken him home, the unpacking then began again, which led him here. Deciding to whether or not eat the croissant that was gifted to him earlier this morning. Yes, Regulus is aware it would be dry by now, but, he was hungry, and the smell of cinnamon and cakes surely didn’t aid that the slightest.
He unpacks with precision—books stacked neatly on the shelves, clothes folded perfectly in the dresser. But no matter how much he organises, the flat still feels empty. Like it isn’t his. Like he’s just a visitor. He definitely still needs more time, but still. No one tells it is not that exciting to move into a new flat.
The ceiling creaks above him—James must still be in the bakery downstairs, probably cleaning up. The faint sound of music plays, something soft and warm. It makes Regulus feel even more like an outsider, like there’s a world happening downstairs that he isn’t part of.
When a stack of books fall loudly onto the floor, Regulus not only sighs but decides he’s done for the the day. He’s too weary for this. He tries to drown out his thoughts by making himself tea, but the pipes rattle when he turns the faucet, and he grimaces. The plumbing is awful.
He takes his tea to the window and watches the street below. It’s quiet, save for the occasional pedestrian hurrying home. He wonders, briefly, what he’s even doing here. He looks around and starts to make his way towards his balcony, already picturing his green plants sitting on the ground.
Then—there’s a knock on his door. Regulus tenses. No one should be knocking. He debates ignoring it, but the knocking comes again, more insistent this time.
He sets his tea down, crosses the flat, and opens the door to find—James Potter, holding a small bag.
“Alright in there, Poppy?” James says, all easy smiles. He lifts the bag, and looks around shamelessly. “I heard somethin’ fall, thought it might be a little bit serious so. Also, you might need some proper food. Can’t live on tea and regret alone, you know.”
Regulus stares. James looks far too comfortable, like he does this all the time, like he belongs in this building in a way Regulus never will. Well, there are the two only people in this building, and one of them is Regulus himself, so.
“So, you thought something serious had happened so you brought pastries?” He asks unimpressed, an eyebrow lifted.
He smiles truthfully, and wet his lips. “Yup.”
“I don’t need charity,” Regulus says stiffly, arms crossed.
“It’s not charity, it’s neighbourly. I promise, I’m not feeding you out of pity.” A beat passes, where James’ grin only widen and he smiles like a Cheshire Cat. “Well. Maybe just a little pity.”
Regulus scowls. James just keeps on smiling.
There’s a beat of hesitation before Regulus wordlessly takes the bag, shutting the door in James’ face without another word. “It’s my pleasure, Poppy!” His voice is muffled by the door.
Inside, he opens the bag to find a croissant and a muffin. They’re still warm. Seriously? Hadn’t he gotten the memo? That Regulus wanted to have nothing to do with him? Didn’t he make that crystal clear this morning? He’s awfully sure he did, didn’t he?
What was wrong with James Potter?