Insatiable

The first time she walks into Maillard is an accident. Or kind of an accident, because technically, she had followed the smell of chocolate down Charing Cross Road on her way to the tube, a route which she only takes home on her half-days at the Ministry.

It makes sense that she had gotten so lost in her thoughts that her feet just happened to take her somewhere different. After all, there was nothing, and no one, waiting for her at home. She shakes her head at the maudlin, convoluted intellection, and her eyes widen as her brain trips over its thoughts.

Standing at a glass case filled with pastries, a familiar, spiky script on the labels of cookie jars behind him, is none other than Severus Snape.

She gasps, her mind racing a mile a minute. The last time she had seen him was at his trial right after the Battle, and Harry had told her that the Professor had left the UK immediately following his exoneration.

It seems that her old Potions professor is back in England, in what appears to be a Muggle bakery a few corners away from Diagon Alley. She has stumbled upon him by accident, and found him in a brick-and-mortar storefront with high ceilings and dark shelves stacked with books and sculpted ends and knick knacks. There are glass vases filled with water and the rooting cuttings of ficuses, globes littered with moss and air plants, and copper cups full of pens and pencils and the occasional quill. 

Shocked doesn’t begin to cover how she feels at the sight of him. 

For a moment, she flashes back to her memory of him in the Shrieking Shack, gasping for breath, the life flowing out of his neck. His tears glowing silver, his eyes frantic, his hand shaking as he tries to staunch the bleeding.

She blinks, and his hands are steady, holding a tray of what looks like toasted marshmallows. Just as they used to look when he was handling potions ingredients in the dungeons.

She breathes again, grounding herself in this new reality.

He is wearing a chef’s jacket, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His hair is longer, tied back into a soft bun on the crown of his head. The most notable difference in his appearance is the relaxed look around his eyes, and the keen gaze he bestows on his work.

He’s beautiful.

Her mouth waters, and she turns away before he spots her.

Distracted, she wonders what had triggered the reflexive response that is leaving her dazed in its wake. It must be the marshmallows. Or the full case of colourful cakes, each tray different and decadent.

When she turns back, he’s gone. Instead, a young, surly teenager leans on the counter, looking at her expectantly.

“May I help you, Miss?”

She smiles, her eyes peeled and her heart hopeful. “Yes. The toasted marshmallows from,” she glances around, and spots them in a jar to the side of the cash register, “There! Are they served with something?”

“Yes, we serve them with our fudgy rocky road brownies. Would you like it melted on top, or on the side?”

“On top and to go, please.”

“Of course.”

Try as she could to catch another glimpse of him, she doesn’t see him again.

Not when she scrambles through the thick June heat to find a slice of glazed lemon curd loaf cake on top of the glass case, where it seems to be cooling.

Not when it rains, the humidity of London stifling, and she relaxes in the comfort of a mixed stone fruit galette with sage-infused syrup glazing the caramelised top. 

One day, it was a strawberry spoon cake with cardamom-flavoured whipped cream.

That weekend, she moans with a forkful of chocolate cloud cake topped with peanut butter frosting coating her tongue.

The hot Monday that follows brings about a spicy, cinnamon-forward apple pie à la mode, and the week after that blesses her with a rectangle of salted caramel tray bake, complete with Swiss meringue buttercream frosting and crispy, melt-in-her-mouth shards of meringue kisses on top.

It frustrates her to no end that every time she visits, he is not at the front counter.

Sometimes, she can hear the steady rumblings of a dough mixer coming from beyond the doorway leading to the back. She takes her time choosing her treat for the day, hoping he would step outside the kitchen for a moment. She has questions, comments, observations that need to be exchanged. She is floored at the thought of Severus Snape being the mastermind behind these confections she can’t get enough of.

Cherry and yoghurt ice cream atop a vanilla-scented waffle cone. 

Dark chocolate truffles with amaretto cream cheese filling.

Classic Boston Cream doughnuts. There are sugared custard doughnuts in another tray, so she gets both.

The long July days introduces her to a coffee crumb cake with cream cheese frosting, which contains a hint of something different— is that mastic? —and pairs perfectly with her unsweetened cappuccino. Sometimes, she’d get her coffee first, relishing in the perfect balance of bitterness with the spiced, sugar-coated cookie that’s always perched beside of her cup. Then, perhaps, some takeaway to eat later…

She can’t help but revel in every single thing she gets.

Every plate she carries to her table in the corner, where the books are most worn; every box she cradles in her arms on the tube, every last bite she cherishes… It seems that, even though she hasn’t been given the chance to see him again, she is still getting a private audience with the man himself. 

Through his ever-evolving menu, she keeps learning more about him than she has ever known. The flavour combinations that marry perfectly on her tongue and the trickery his ingredients play on her mind are a sufficient distraction from the monotonous summer projects she undertakes at work.

They are a comfort after her dreams of wartime, of him bleeding out in the Shack, of the guilt she’s carried all these years when she had turned her back on him.

It feels right that, when an unusually cool day in August comes around, she basks in the warmth of a slice of banana bread coated in a sticky, caramel-like syrup that tastes of dates. At least she thinks it’s dates…she will likely never be certain of the ingredients since the man who holds all the answers is still nowhere to be seen.

She gets too busy after that.

September starts with a flurry of personnel changes in her department, prompting her return to late nights at the office. Weekends are dedicated to chores and spending time with Harry, Ron, and their families.

She just has no time to visit the bakery.

The days she spends away from Maillard weigh heavily on her, the dark storefront mirroring her low spirits on her way home. Tired and despondent, she craves the peace that comes from taking time to be indulgent, to putting her life on hold for a moment, just so she can savour a slice of his.

She realises that, while the desserts she tries from his hands are inimitable, she is no longer satisfied with this limited insight into Severus Snape.

She misses him.

She tells herself that she should be happy with the quiet, fulfilling life she’s created. That to settle for pieces of him is enough; that she’s content with the hints of sweet and seasoned, salty and floral, rich textures and light bitterness with rolling contrasts so delicious she can’t stop coming back for more.

On her birthday, she finally manages to skive off work early. After her parents’ decision to remain in Australia, she always spends the day alone, celebrating with her friends the day after. It’s a Friday night, so the streets are busy. Inhaling the familiar fragrance of coffee and chocolate, she waits in line for the first time, texting her mum on her mobile so they could speak later.

Her ears perk up when she hears a low baritone humming a familiar song. Thinking it’s another customer, she checks behind her only to notice that she is the last person waiting to be served.

Someone clears their throat from behind the glass case, and she looks up into eyes the colour of chocolate.

Lo and behold, it’s him.

Her disbelieving gaze flickers down to his fidgeting fingers, stained with berry juice that matches the splatters on his chef’s jacket. The muscles in his forearms ripple, and she is aware that she is ogling him, but she cannot stop. When she eventually reaches his face, she almost flinches at his trademark furrowed brow. His expression, however, is one of curiosity, and when their eyes meet, it shifts to surprise as he recognises who she is.

Her breath hitches. She didn’t know that his presence would affect her so. She finally, finally has something more than what she had made herself content with having. Not just tantalising desserts, or a place that feels like home away from home, but the focus of Severus Snape, as he lives and breathes.

She steels herself for his customary vitriol. Just as she wonders if she ought to leave, he opens his mouth. 

“Hermione Granger?” he rumbles, his voice just as mesmerising as she remembers.

Her mind empties. Tears prick the corners of her eyes, an overwhelming wave of relief rising in her chest. He’s really here, gazing back at her with a question on his face and her name on his tongue.

She speaks before she thinks. “The very same, Professor.”

“I haven’t been that man for a long time.” He blinks, looking uncertain for a moment. “You may call me Severus.”

“Hermione, then,” she murmurs.

They stand in silence, each appraising the other, until he clears his throat again.

“What will you be having today?”

“Oh, erm…” Flustered, she steps back to check what’s available when he interrupts.

“I recall you were quite fond of the chocolate cake…we have something similar today.” He swallows as though curbing his words. “Perhaps your usual cappuccino and life cake for now, until you decide?”

She’s struck into silence by his nonchalance. Or maybe it’s his knowledge of her preferences, or the fact that he’s politely speaking to her in longer sentences than she’s used to hearing from him. 

She says the only thing that can revive their conversation: a question. “Life cake?”

“Ah, yes,” he inhales, gesturing to the large jar of sugared cookies she always saves for her last mouthful of coffee. “Lebkuchen. They’re traditionally a Christmas treat, but… Well, we serve them year round, as a nod to… new life.”

His eyes find hers, and she can’t look away.

“Oh,” she smiles shakily, her heart lodged in her throat, way north of where it should be. “Well, I’m glad I could partake.”

“Yes, it seems you can’t get enough.” Her jaw drops, and he breaks their gaze. “Of the cakes. And the books, of course.”

So he’s noticed that, too. She bites her lip, not knowing how to respond. Something changes in his eyes as he tracks the movement, and she blushes.

“So, Granger,” he smirks, “my seasoned season regular. Devil’s food cake?”

“Yes,” she answers, the irony of the name not lost on her. “That would be lovely. Coffee, too, please?”

“Of course.”

He steps away, serving her a slice on the plain but dainty plates, the dessert fork at a perfect angle next to it. Then, he turns to prepare her coffee, his hands expertly working the machine. He’s humming again, and she hears his low voice roll over the lyrics.

“—she's a killer queen, gunpowder, gelatine—” 

The sound of grinding coffee takes over, followed by the loud whoosh of the steam wand. 

“—insatiable an appetite, wanna try—you wanna try—” 

He faces her and sets her cup and saucer down, then picks up a pair of tongs to extract a life cake from the jar next to the register. 

“Anything else?” he asks, after he is done.

She takes a deep breath, stepping forward until her belly bumps the edge of the counter. “You, if you’re available?”

His deep-set eyes widen, flashing gloriously as his mouth twitches.

“I– I have something in the oven— but perhaps dinner, later?”

Dinner. He wanted to see her for dinner. Later. As in, tonight.

As in she needs to answer him sooner rather than later, because dinner is later. 

“Yes,” she nods, “I’d like that.”

“Good,” An alarm rings from the kitchen, and he startles. “Good. Meet me back here.”

She recalls that the bakery closes at five. “Here?” 

“I’ll keep the door open for you,” he grabs a dishcloth from his apron, reluctantly stepping away. “Six sharp. If that suits?”

“Yes.” He grins as he backs away, eyes holding hers, and she chokes on something that is part-sob, part-laugh, and so, so new. “Yes, that’s perfect.”