Chapter 1
It's after the Christmas holiday when you meet the man in black. You notice him because he’s your first customer of the day—he enters the bakery rather early, just minutes after you open. You suspect he’d been at a pub all night and needed some caffeine, some sort of pick-me-up. The bell ringing on the door as he enters means nothing. Patrons walk in several times a day and you notice nothing about them, just the words they speak as they tell you their order.
He is different.
Black hair, black clothes, and, gods, his eyes . They’re as dark as a new moon night but… you can see stars in them, somewhere. Even beyond the sneer he sends you when your eyes meet.
He stands in the doorway for a moment, eyes darting quickly away from you and around to the booths, high top tables, and bar. The floors have just been redone in white wood, along with a fresh coat of light grey paint on the walls of the bakery. His booted feet—covered to the ankles by slim pants fashioned with buttons up the sides–take him to a booth in the corner. He slides in and picks up the small menu on the table.
You begin a pot of coffee to give the man time to peruse the choices—there aren’t many. You serve many teas, normal coffee, along with five specialty blends. For food, you have a slew of baked goods—scones, croissants, cakes, breakfast squares, amongst other things you feel like making for the day. You pour yourself coffee into your favorite mug—light green with a cat on the face of it, given character by a large chip in the lip of it. Adding what you like to the strong, black caffeinated liquid, you glance up at your customer across the bakery. His menu is laid aside and his hands are folded over each other on the table. He’s ready, it seems.
You slip your dainty white apron over your jeans and sweatshirt and glide across the floor in black sneakers. Your hair is pulled back in a loose bun, flyaway hairs framing your face.
“Good morning, sir,” you greet.
The man looks up at you - he’s staring at the table until you come close enough to earn his attention. He seems stiff, grumpy. You hope he isn’t rude. And he isn’t…at first.
“Morning,” he grunts.
You give him a small smile. His black eyes suck you in involuntarily. You wish you could look away - but they won’t let you.
“Happy Christmas,” you add.
His brow arches up.
“That was two days ago,” he replies.
You nod, beaming. “Still the holiday, sort of, at least to me.”
His eyes linger on you for a moment, then he grabs at the menu. “What is your best coffee?”
You stick your lower lip out, thinking thoughtfully.
“Well, what do you like?” you ask.
His hand grasps the menu tighter. “I’m clearly unsure, hence why I asked you.”
You stiffen at his cold tone. It’s far too early in your day to have to deal with that. You return his attitude.
“I’m asking if you like a normal coffee, or something stronger like an espresso. Do you like it black or sweet? Dairy or nondairy creamer? Sugar? Froth? Or have you never had coffee?”
The man instantly slams the menu down and glares up at you, rewarding you with a sneer. Does he expect you to cower? To not go toe to toe with him?
“Surprise me,” he drawls.
You exhale a long sigh, then turn on your heel and stomp back behind the counter. This is irritating, infuriating. You don’t have the patience for people like him. You decide to bring him a coffee and his bill - you could care less for a tip from him.
It takes you less than three minutes to brew him an espresso. You bring over three silver pitchers with his coffee and set down the cup with agitation, making it clank on the table.
“Cream?” you ask flatly.
“A bit,” he orders.
You shuffle the pitchers around - he won’t look back up at you.
“Vanilla? Caramel? Milk?”
“The milk will do.”
You splash a bit into his cup, then look at him. He raises his hand to you, signaling that it will do. You reach into your apron for his enormous bill—a life-changing three pounds.
Then you hesitate. Both of his hands are clasped around the warm ceramic cup, his long, pale fingers caressing the warmth of it. They seem to be trying to find relief in a way, searching for assurance. Maybe this man is troubled. The holiday has just passed and perhaps he didn’t have anyone to spend it with. You don’t know his story—maybe there’s a reason for his bitterness.
Or maybe he’s just an arse.
You leave him to drink his coffee. The oven in the kitchen dings, meaning the scones you bake each morning are finished. You put on old, stained oven mitts and take the pan of them out of the oven and into the front of the bakery. Carefully wrapping each one in brown baking sheets, you place them in the warming window for display. Before wrapping up the last one, you stare at it—you rarely make this kind, but it was a difficult holiday for you and these scones always make your regulars smile. You place the last one on a plate and begin to walk across the bakery again to your lonely, brooding patron. You set the scone down beside his untouched coffee. He immediately shakes his head.
“On the house,” you insist.
He groans loud enough that you’re sure you could hear from the London Bridge. He doesn’t raise his head, but his eyes flutter up to glare at you. As if you wronged him. You breathe and remind yourself the customer is always right, even in this case, where the customer is obviously rude and miserable.
“It seems like you despise this atmosphere, so just leave when you’re finished. Don’t worry about the bloody bill,” you grit out.
You stomp away immediately after and slip into the kitchen. Much to your delight, the florist from down the street is dropping off boxes of fresh flowers as he does each week, through the back door. This perks you up.
“Hello, Devin, how was your holiday?” you ask.
You walk over to him and take the box of different flowers from his arms. He picks up the other one he had dropped by the door. Like every Monday, you both walk into the bakery and begin to slip flowers into the vases on the tables. You whisper to Devin not to go near your customer. He doesn’t ask why.
“I had a good holiday, mum still is complaining that I broke up with my girlfriend. I apparently ruined her Christmas because she didn’t get to get my ex any gifts. Yours?”
You giggle, placing flowers on the tables while he works on setting them in bar top vases.
“Oh, I spent it with my grandmother,” you murmur. “Quite boring. Not like she talks. She just…kinda stares. I dunno. Sometimes I think she is there, but she isn’t.”
Devin sighs apologetically.
“Sorry to hear,” Devin says. “She doesn’t ask about Louis?”
You shrug. You hate when people bring up your late grandfather. Six months have passed—still too soon.
“She doesn’t talk,” you explain. “Even when he was alive, she wouldn’t.”
You glance at the man in black. He doesn’t seem to be listening, though his eyebrows are furrowed. Devin sets his empty box down and stares at you as you finish all the booths, besides the one your loathsome customer is in.
“Drinks later?” Devin suggests, changing the subject.
You shake your head. “No, no… I’m sure I’ll be tired. The first day of work after a holiday is always draining.”
Devin nods. “Maybe this weekend, if you’re up to it.”
You nod, gazing at him with appreciation. He waves, departing through the kitchen. You stare at the single remaining flower in the bottom of the box. It’s pretty and lonely, much like the man in black who sits alone inside your bakery. You grab it and approach him—the bakery does belong to you. You aren’t going to wait to do something just because a customer talked to you rudely.
You drop the flower in the vase and walk away. A white lily. You think it contrasts nicely with his black hair, eyes, his attire—hell, even with his cold personality.
He leaves shortly after. When you retrieve his dishes—he’d eaten the scone—you see he left far more money than what his bill would have been worth. Of course, the man had to pay, even when you told him not to worry about it. It must have been a pride thing. He overtipped you and, begrudgingly, you take the money and place it in your pocket. You take a step to walk back to the counter when something catches your eye.
The lily inside of the vase has wilted and died.
You are genuinely confused. Hadn't you put a fresh one there? Was that the old one from last week? Did the man in black take the flower? Or did he somehow destroy it? His attitude must have killed it. You deduce that is the only way.
He is the worst customer you’ve had in weeks.
And, despite your unpleasant transaction, the man in black returns the very next day.
Severus Snape lands elegantly as he apparates onto the sidewalk, just ten feet away from your bakery. He is early enough to see you unlocking the glass door from the inside and flipping the sign to open. He eyes you through the windows, seeing you rubbing the sides of your arms, attempting to warm yourself up. Once you turn your back, he strides forward on top the sidewalk, wet with London rain.
When his hand reaches forward to grasp the handle of the door, he hesitates. He hadn’t meant to wilt your flower. It is unlike him to have such lack of self control, such lack of discipline of his magical abilities. It just…threw him over the edge. He’s spent his holiday not relaxing like he intended, but chasing after the few Death Eaters left on the run. He is not remotely relaxed, not contented by a new release of MasteryofPotioneering, but instead chasing after the past he so desperately wants to leave behind. Dolohov, Rookwood, and Rowle - cowards who are running and hiding and who cannot accept their verdicts of life in Azkaban. Snape had thought he’d join them there - he had a whole spiel that he was going to say during his trial. He intended to admit to everything, including killing Albus Dumbledore and not being able to thwart the Carrows in their torture of students, his students. Amongst several other crimes. But Potter had spoken, the glorified ChosenOne, and who was to go against his heartfelt speech of why Professor Snape should be liberated of any crimes. He even went as far to say he deserved a First Order of Merlin. The certificate is sitting on a bookshelf in the Headmaster’s Office, collecting dust.
He had hoped to die. He didn’t want to live anymore. He believed Nagini did the trick. It hurt like hell, the deadly snake bites, but he deserved every ounce of pain he received. Then Potter and his shadows had to find him. He deserved to die alone, but, looking back now, he was relieved he didn’t. Potter was there - Lily’s eyes - it was almost a sign of forgiveness and thanks.
Then, saint Poppy Pomfrey found him. Shoved blood replenishing potions down his throat, massaged his neck so he’d swallow them, and began to mend him with healing magic. He was just entering the bright white of the afterlife when he was sucked back into this miserable hell.
He will, verybegrudgingly, admit that he was relieved to find Potter alive and, much more relieved to find the Dark Lord vanquished when he came to. For over a year, he thought the boy to be a walking time bomb. He believed everything he had done for the last living piece Lily Potter was for all for nothing. He spent many sleepless nights over the boy and his supposed fate of death. The last piece of his only true friend and woman he once loved would be killed and there would be no way for the sins of his past to be even slightly atoned for.
But the boy lived and his duty to Lily to keep him safe was fulfilled. A weight had lifted on his chest, only to be replaced by the burden of Headmaster until they found a fit replacement. McGonagall refused, though she remains deputy Headmistress. Perhaps it ended up this way because of something he said whilst recovering in the hospital wing. He hadn’t meant it. Well, maybe he did, but no one should have worried themselves over his sentiment of wishing he would have died in the Shrieking Shack. The next day, McGonagall came to Snape and regretfully told him she could not accept the position of Headmistress due to her age - which was a lie and he knows it - which leads him to now.
It’s now almost the start of the new century and they have yet to find a replacement. And, no surprise, the fabulous new Auror department with their star new associate, Mr. Potter, can not seem to catch these pathetic Death Eaters. They keep causing havoc, and Snape took it upon himself to catch them since Miss Skeeter insists on writing false articles on Snape’s supposed connection to them. No one believes it. But it is the principle.
Chasing Dolohov through the night led him here yesterday, in front of your little bakery. You looked at him like a normal person. Talked to him like any other soul. Not some renowned double agent war hero who keeps denying requests to place a statue of himself inside the Ministry of Magic. Then, you gifted him a scone which he will admit was very good. And made by a muggle, without magic, which he found very impressive.
He hadn’t meant to have been short with you. He was tired and he typically didn’t make a habit of being patron to muggle businesses. The entire British Wizarding community knew Severus Snape was not a warm, welcoming man. They expected this of him. And you braved him, endured him, even bantered back and forth with him. He could tell you were down, something had been carving away at you. He could see it so very clearly in your eyes because he, time after time, wore that expression.
He learned from the delivery boy that your grandmother was ill - terminally, from the sounds of it. Then he mentioned a man named Louis, which Snape assumes is your grandfather who has since passed. He briefly wondered about your parents, but stopped thinking so much about who these people were to you because he didn’t even know your name. When he left, you made him think. He wanted to know more about you. He wanted to know more about the girl who gave him a scone and dealt with his attitude. The pretty girl whose eyes looked joyful but lacked spirit and spark.
You’re stocking bags of coffee and tea on your shelves when the bell rings on the glass doors of the bakery as Snape enters the establishment. Your back is facing him and your nimble arms reach above you to shelves in the wall.
“Good morning. Sit wherever you’d like!” You call out.
Snape quickly makes his way to the counter - he’ll sit there today, where you will be accessible to speak to. His hands fold under his chin and he props his elbows on the countertop, beginning to stare at you. He hears you inhale deeply, as if to prepare yourself to face the first customer of the day. Then you turn to face him with a clearly forged smile on your face.
“What can I…” You begin.
You stop speaking when your eyes land on him. Snape tenses.
“What the hell are you doing back?” You demand.
Snape opens his mouth, unsure of what will come out, but before he can answer, you narrow your eyes at the sunflower in between the two of you. You reach forward and snatch the vase from his reach. Snape watches you place it behind the counter protectively. He cannot help it when his lips turn upward and a deep chuckle escapes him. That was dramatic - he respects that.
“Kindly leave. Actually, unkindly leave,” you demand.
Snape’s lips press into a straight line. He watches your eyes dart down his face slowly, your gaze lingering on each of his features. Snape briefly considers using Legilimency on you to figure out what you’re thinking, but he decides against it. You peer down to his hands now, then shut your eyes forcibly. He wonders if he saw your head subtly shake to the side, but can’t be sure.
“I am a paying customer,” Snape replies, simply.
“You are also a tosser,” you throw back.
“So, you don’t want my money?” he inquires, ignoring your obviously incorrect insult.
You laugh once - a sing song laugh - and Snape instantly wants to hear it again, even though it was laced in sarcasm.
“I don’t need your money or your attitude,” you inform, proudly.
“I’ll be polite,” he bargains.
You breathe out forcefully through your nose, nostrils flaring. Snape arches a brow.
“You should be nice in general,” you make clear.
His lip quirks up again. He realizes you must have never dealt with a Snape in your life. Snape’s aren’t nice , especially in general.
“Are you going to take my order or keep arguing with me?” Snape finally inquires.
You shut your eyes and turn your back around, making his brows knit together. What an odd girl. You whip around with a fauxly exultant face on.
“Welcome to Three Bridges Bakery. What can I get you today?” you ask, in your best upbeat voice.
Snape huffs out an unhideable laugh.
“The same as yesterday,” he requests.
Snape watches you turn without a word and stride over to brew a pot of coffee. While it is made, you grab a to-go box and begin to pack them with baked goods from the display window. Snape begins to decipher what to say next. You’re obviously mad he ruined your bloody flower. Gods, why is it so hard for him to just have a decent conversation with you? You know nothing of him - you can’t victimize him nor make him an idolized hero. He clears his throat.
“You do take away as well?” Snape wonders.
Snape congratulates himself on a rather mediocre, but neutral statement. He watches you grit your teeth as you crouch to the warming window filled with shelves of baked goods. Alright, it clearly wasn’t that good of an ice breaker.
Why else would she be doing that, Severus? Merlin, you’re pathetic. You can lie to the Dark Lord’s face for years but can’t have a decent discussion with a pretty woman?
“Yes, but I only place large orders ahead of time,” you state.
Snape hums from the countertop as he gazes at you. A few strands of your day old hair have fallen from its hold - he realizes you have lovely, smooth looking, long hair. You stand quickly which makes him advert his eyes.
“Want the paper?” you ask.
He turns to you again, eyes lingering on yours, not speaking. If he doesn’t speak immediately, he can lay his eyes upon you longer. He sees deep, dark circles beneath your eyes. What’s keeping you up at night?
“The newspaper?” Snape confirms, questionably.
You nod, he shrugs one shoulder indifferently. He wouldn’t normally want to read a Muggle newspaper, but you offered it to him. He’d hate to displease you further. You reach into the shelf below and retrieve it. You sit it in front of him, then spin on your heel and stride to the coffee. Snape opens the paper meanderingly, staring at you as you pour him and yourself a cup. You splash some milk into his, fix yours with some special cream, then bring it down to him.
You slide the mug towards him and he reaches out to grab it. Snape’s long, thin fingers brush over yours that are on the cup. He breathes in through his nose, the pads of his fingers resting on your knuckles. You have smooth, soft skin and Snape doesn’t want to grab the mug just yet. He looks up at you, seeing you staring at the cup. Then your pretty eyes dart to him and you hold his gaze. Snape slowly pulls the cup of coffee towards him, fingers sliding down your hand as he does. You grab your own mug and look down at it - he observes your cheeks redden.
Snape taps his foot against the tall chair he is in. He wants to know you, baker girl. Your name. Taste it on his lips. Have it roll off his tongue.
“You never-“ Snape begins.
The bell on the door rings as a customer comes in - by the way you smile at him makes Snape believe he is a regular. He wants you to smile at him like that.
“Hi, [first name]!”
Snape makes a mental note. You step out of the counter space and walk towards the aged man. Snape observes you hug him.
“Hey, Thomas, good to see you! You look well,” you speak.
“You do too, sweetie. I love the new floors!” he beams.
You thank the elder man and hand him the box of scones.
“On the house,” you gift.
Thomas frowns. Do you give your goods away for free everyday? How do you make revenue?
“Now, [first name], I wouldn’t be doing Louis right if I keep taking these from you each week free of charge!”
You wave him off. Another mention of, presumably, your grandfather. Perhaps they were friends.
“I’m just continuing what he did for you. No worries,” you assure.
The older man smiles sweetly at you, rubbing your arm.
“I wish I had a grandchild as sweet as you. You make him proud each day.”
Snape watches you press your lips together, nodding once. Thomas waves and leaves the bakery, the only sound now is the bell ringing on the door. Snape watches you closely as you seem to falter - perhaps you feel your knees get weak as it appears it becomes difficult to keep yourself steady. Calmly, you back into the display window behind you and shut your eyes.
You straighten up and head back behind the counter, passing Snape without a word and dip straight into the kitchen, letting the doors swing shut behind you. Snape cranes his head to watch you through the opened window in the wall between the bakery and the kitchen. You press your fingers to the bridge of your nose, as if your feelings are inconvenient, frustrating.
He studies you as you walk to the fridge and open the door, fishing out some eggs and bacon. Quickly and rather efficiently, you fry them up in a pan and watch your next batch of pastries bake. You glance out the open window in the wall, catching Snape and his dark eyes on you. He quickly raises the paper over his face.
Oh, Gods, she’s caught you staring now, Severus. Good. Make her think you’re a creepy old man. Perfect. Wonderful. Brilliant. Ten points to Slytherin .
A few minutes pass and you come out with a plate of breakfast. Now, that looked appetizing to Snape. He murmurs a thank you as you top off his coffee. You nod, beginning to eat. Snape leans forward, pursing his lips. It smelt well enough to consume.
“I didn’t think the menu said breakfast was available,” Snape drawls.
You bite off a piece of bacon, turning to him.
“What? You want a scone? Biscuit?” you ask, keeping a hand over your full mouth.
He glances down to your plate, arching a brow. He sees you roll your eyes.
“I suppose I can make you a spot of breakfast, seeing as there are no other customers… how do you want your eggs?” You ask, tiredly.
“Same as yours.”
You nod, disappearing back into the kitchen. Snape gets to watch you again. It seems as if you’re in your element back there. Just like he is when he stands in front of a cauldron. It doesn’t take you long to prepare the food. You bring it out on a clean, white plate and sit in front of him. You reach below and retrieve a fork. Snape reaches for it, grabs the handle of it, but you don’t let it go.
“How did you destroy my flower? It was fresh. Did you…stomp on it, put it in your coffee, set it on fire?” you ask, irritatedly.
Snape’s lips quirk up. Set it on fire? What do you take him for? An arsonist?
“I got angry,” he states, simply.
You point at him, making him lean back slightly.
“So, you did ruin it! You bastard!” you complain.
Snape takes a turn to roll his eyes now.
“I lost my self control,” he corrects.
You shrug.
“I don’t care! You don’t just ruin things that don’t belong to you,” you inform.
He taps his fingers across the countertop, pondering. If only it were easy, and legal, to say he was a wizard. The telephone rings and you dutifully go to answer it. After a short conversation, you sit the phone on the receiver and sigh. You begin back towards Snape, but the phone rings again . You furrow your brows and go to answer. Another short conversation. Then, you slam the phone down rather harshly.
Aggravatedly, you lean into the threshold of the kitchen and grab the large garbage can, then drag it out the display window. You lower it and begin to sweep the shelves full of baked goods into the trash, beginning to mutter indecencies under your breath, frustratedly shaking your head back and forth. Snape cocks his head - what has come over you? Ruining your detailed, time consuming creations?
“Miss?” Snape speaks.
You stop halfway through trashing everything and glance up to him.
“My orders were canceled. Best if I just throw everything out,” you say, dryly.
“Why? Won’t it be good tomorrow?” he inquires.
You shrug.
“What does it matter? I don’t do anything but come here. Baking keeps me busy,” you murmur.
You go to finish the job, but Snape raises his hand to halt you, as if you’re a student about to make a mistake.
“I’ll buy them, then,” Snape decides.
You sigh, clearly not pleased with his request.
“I don’t need your charity. I have plenty of money. I’m just…” you begin.
Snape furrows his brows as you lean back against the wall, still crouched down, and put your face in your hands.
Snape realizes at this moment that even muggles have difficulties, troubles that are just as afflicting as any witch or wizard may face. Sure, you haven’t had to face a Dark Lord or be used like a puppet on a string, but Snape knows when someone is barely keeping it together.
“Will you please leave? I’m closing the place early,” you breathe.
“No. I’m not finished,” Snape states.
You sigh, wiping unwarranted tears coming from your eyes. You lean towards the pastries and prepare to throw the rest away.
“I believe I said I wanted those,” Snape insists.
“All of them?!” you demand.
“Your ears are intact. Brilliant,” Snape muses.
You groan, standing, kicking the trash can back into the kitchen, and begin to vigorously wash your hands in the sink. The man smirks again as you begin to box up the pastries.
“Are you taking them to work?” you ask.
He nods once - it seems you’ve calmed down a bit.
“There is a quick meeting before term resumes. Perhaps if I bring these, I won’t have to stay,” Snape explains.
You sit the box down on the counter beside him.
“What do you do? Teach?” you wonder.
He huffs out a breath, fingers tapping on the glossy countertop of the bar.
“Unfortunately. I…run a boarding school currently. Trying to get out of the position. They can’t seem to find anyone suitable.”
You laugh.
“Just quit. They’ll have to find someone then,” you murmur.
He scoffs.
“If only it were that easy,” he retorts.
You press your lips together and don’t say anything else. The interaction is ending between you and him, Snape realizes. Will he come back here? Perhaps. What if other tasks are more pressing than having a lovely girl make him coffee? He needs to be able to contact you. He gestures to the box.
“You should…write your phone number on the box… in case my colleagues want to order from you.” The man suggests, slowly.
You furrow your brows, hesitantly.
“Three Bridges Bakery, it’s in the phone book.” You inform.
Snape taps his finger against his mug, not saying anything more about it. You lean against the counter, eating what’s left of your plate.
“Will you sit the flower back up here?” Snape suddenly asks.
You furrow your brows.
“What? Why? To ruin it?” you question.
He shakes his head, fighting the urge to smirk. You hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. You reach down and slowly raise the vase from below, then sit it carefully on the counter.
“Best take the flower out,” Snape suggests.
Your lips part at his request and Snape watches you fight to hold your tongue - you slowly pull the flower out and lay it beside the cash register behind you. You begin to type his receipt up, running your hand through your hair, seemingly confused, stressed.
Snape stands silently, withdrawing his wand, keeping it below the level of the countertop. In case he never makes his way back here, he wants to leave you with something lovely to remember him by. It seems like a crime, grouping the word lovely with Snape.
Wordlessly, he conjures a dozen of white, perfect roses into the vase. He reaches into his pocket and leaves different bills of his muggle money, grabs the box of pastries, and Disapparates with a pop.
Rubbing your shoulders to warm yourself up, you continue staring out the window of the bakery. It’s just past seven in the morning and, curious of the man in black, you open early. You could hardly rest last night - the man has intrigued you. And he left far too much money for his bill. You stare up and down the vacant, rainy street, seeing not a soul in sight. You turn and head to the counter, wanting to prepare some hot chocolate on this cold December morning. As soon as you begin to warm some milk, the door opens, the bell ringing. Your head whips to the door and, surprisingly and not surprisingly, the man in black walks in. He stands in the doorway as the door swings shut behind him. Your eyes watch him as he crosses the floor to sit at the counter, in the same spot he sat in yesterday.
“Good morning,” the deep voice speaks.
You merely stare at him, trying to figure out how the hell he’s just appeared here. You just looked outside. Are you going crazy? Maybe lack of sleep is making your vision poor. You slam the kettle shut and walk to him, staring at him eye level where he sits across from where you stand inside the counter.
“How…how did these flowers get here?” You whisper.
You gesture to the still healthy and beautiful roses. You’ve set them above the baking window for all to see.
“Those scones you made were phenomenal. Every single one of my colleagues enjoyed them,” he instead says.
You bring your hand up and pinch the bridge of your nose.
“How did you just get here, by the way? I just looked outside and saw no one,” you add, clearly suspicious.
He picks up the menu, beginning to read it.
“I think I’d like something different today,” the man murmurs.
You grab the menu from him and slam it down on the counter.
“Are you going to ignore my questions?!” you demand.
He furrows his brows, looking completely confused.
“You’re asking me questions?” he inquires, falsely confused.
You stare at him for a long moment, then exhale, returning to fix your hot chocolate.
“I already think I’m going mental. You’re just adding to that.” You mutter.
The man sighs, and you can almost feel him studying you from behind. Your shoulders are limp as you make your cuppa. You run your fingers through the hair at the top of your head, feeling your fingers become sleek with grease. You realize your hair has been in its same bun for three days now - you just hope this man doesn’t notice. You don’t want him to think you, or your bakery, is uncleanly. You’ve showered, just have had no aptitude to do or wash your hair. You whip around, setting two cups of hot chocolate down on the counter, eyeing him as you drop marshmallows into yours.
“You never told me your name,” you begin.
He raises a brow.
“You never told me yours,” he retorts.
You groan. Is this a game to him? Who can make the other more irritated?
“You’ve heard my regulars call me it. It’s [first name].”
He smirks, glancing to the side. Did he not think you knew he was listening?
“Yes, but you never told me . Quite rude for a waitress,” the man in black tuts.
You gape.
“I am not a waitress! I’m a barista! And I own this establishment, thank you very much!” you inform.
How rude of him to give you the title of waitress. You’ve been a waitress and never want to be one again. Bless those who are though, they have tasking occupations filled with customers of many sorts. The man raises his hands defensively.
“Sorry, sorry. [First name], barista, owner of a bakery,” he corrects properly.
You gesture to him as he lowers his hands, waiting for him to introduce himself, since he’s determined to make himself a regular. You bring your cup up to your lips.
“Severus,” he informs.
You swallow the hot liquid quickly, scalding your mouth. He grabs at his mug, but you wrap your hand around his wrist - his skin is smooth, warm.
“It’s too hot. Burnt myself. Severus? I’ve never heard that name before,” you chatter.
The man in black - Severus - smiles, as if he likes the way you say his name.
“It’s…a family name.”
You nod.
“So, Severus, spill it. Are you some sort of showman? Magician? How did you produce a dozen roses? How did you seemingly leave yesterday and get here today, as if you came out of thin air?” you ask, forwardly.
Severus stares at you, then leans forward.
“Do you believe in magic?” he asks, quietly.
You nod once, then laugh.
“Yes, when I was in primary school, we had an assembly where a magician pulled a rabbit out of a hat.”
Severus presses his lips together.
“Other magic. Real magic,” he states.
You cock your head.
“As in…?” you beckon.
He opens his lips, but the door opens, bell ringing. Five people bustle in and head for a table. You groan quietly as you pull your apron over your head.
“It’ll be a minute… want breakfast again?” you offer.
He stares at you, appearing to be daydreaming. You snap your fingers in front of his face.
“Helllooooo?” you ask.
He blinks, then nods once.
“That’ll be lovely,” Severus affirms.
You begin to walk towards the table of guests, but stop beside him, looking around him. No hidden flowers today, it appears.
“Also, don’t worry about your bill today. You overtipped me way too much yesterday,” you admit.
The man looks at you, seemingly confused, but then his face returns to the flat, impassive expression he typically carries. You wander to the table of guests and take their orders. They’re out early to hit the shops and return unwanted Christmas gifts. You smile at them and tell them their orders will be out shortly, then head back behind the counter.
“Want your eggs the same way as yesterday?” you murmur, not looking up from your task.
The man stares at you again. He watches you and your nimble fingers work with purpose.
“Whatever you like.” he breathes.
You nod, disappearing into the kitchen to turn the stove on and start your breakfasts. Severus watches you come back out to the counter a second before their coffees are finished. You pour them into white mugs, sit them on a tray, and grab the group their biscuits and spreads. You take them out to the table and lie them out. You ask if they need anything more but the lot of them shake their heads and thank you. You wander back towards the counter - Severus has somehow gotten today’s paper and is staring down at the crossword puzzle. You place your hand on his shoulder, your thumb gently rubbing the wool of his jacket. Beneath your hand, you feel him tense. Must have startled him. You lean down slightly to look at him.
“Want toast?” You ask.
His head turns towards you and you notice his dark eyes - they’re so unending, intense. You peer at him, thinking you could stare at them forever. A few long moments pass and you laugh.
“Is your sugar low or something? You keep daydreaming,” you murmur.
He swallows, holding your gaze.
“That would be fine.” He replies.
You walk into the kitchen, the doors swinging behind you.
“I also want something else,” he calls out.
You make a U-turn and stride right back out the swinging doors.
“What is it? You know, breakfast isn't even on the menu, sir,” you remind him.
He shakes his head. He reaches into his black - wait, perhaps dark blue - jacket. He pulls out a phone.
“I want your number,” he states.
You nod, holding up a finger. Maybe he wants to place an order ahead of time.
“Let me finish our food,” you compromise.
He nods once. You disappear back into the kitchen and work diligently and quickly. In mere minutes, you come out of the kitchen with two plates of perfect, hot food. You set the plates down - one in front of him and one beside him. You glance over Severus’ shoulder and see the table laughing - not in need of anything. You come around the counter, doff your apron, and hop into the chair next to him.
“Alright, the number to the bakery. Get your phone out,” you murmur.
He fishes it back out as you grab your fork and begin to cut into your meal.
“I would like…your personal number,” he explains, tentatively.
You furrow your brows.
“What? For what?”
He shrugs.
“What if I wish to place an order during the hours in which you are closed?” he inquires.
You shrug back, buttering your toast.
“Guess you won’t get an order,” you laugh.
His shoulders slump and he stares at the phone in his hand. You bite your toast, glancing at him. He’s staring at his phone now, lost in thought. You roll your eyes.
“Alright, my number is 020 7946 0394,” you comply.
He quickly turns the phone on and stares at the screen. Then, his other ghostly white hand comes up to knead his temple. He sighs, deeply.
“Will you put it in?” he inquires.
You nod, grabbing the phone from him, and go into the address book. The phone looks new - he must keep it in good condition. When you open the address book, you hesitate for a moment. There isn’t a single other contact in his phone. Is he trying to kill you? Or, did he just get a new phone? For what purpose? This?
“Severus…” you begin.
He leans down to your eye level, his dark locks gliding over his shoulders, his eyes are a little bigger, more intense than before.
“Yes, [first name]?” he asks.
You stare at him, feeling your face flush. You look back to his phone so he doesn’t see your cheeks redden.
“You should eat…before it gets cold,” you say, instead.
You type in your name and number and save it, then sit it down beside him. If he runs a boarding school, shouldn’t he have many contacts? Perhaps he has a work phone.
“What school do you work at?” you ask.
He halts his hand from bringing the fork to his mouth.
“I work…north of London,” he states, vaguely.
“You know, you’re kind of a weird man,” you mumble.
“Am I?” he inquires.
You laugh once, nodding.
“Any plans for the weekend?” he asks.
You shrug.
“I dunno, maybe I’ll go for drinks. Haven’t been out in quite some time,” you admit.
“With the delivery man?”
You laugh.
“Do you listen to everyone in this bakery?” you wonder.
That was days ago and the man remembers.
“Just when it concerns you,” Severus exhales.
You lower your fork slowly, turning back to him. His eyes are fixed on his plate and he eats unhurriedly. You reach into your apron that’s haphazardly thrown on the counter, withdrawing a pen. You reach across him and grab the paper, reading the first clue of the crossword puzzle.
“One across is serendipity , one down is sagacious .” Severus speaks.
You gape, filling them in, finding them a correct match to their meanings. You go to the second question. He leans closer to the paper, his hair falling over his eyes, studying the sentence.
“Two across would be deviant… the word that describes unacceptable social or…sexual behavior,” Severus speaks, his voice an octave deeper on his last words.
The heat from your cheeks begins to run down your neck now. You slowly write it in.
“You have lovely handwriting,” Severus informs.
The bell on the door jingles, making you glance towards it. Which is probably a good thing - you aren’t sure how to reply to the guy. You stand as more patrons enter. As you pull on your apron, you place your hand over the crossword.
“Save some for me to do,” you say, smiling.
Severus stares at you, again, then nods stiffly. You turn on your heel to go wait on them.
The morning slowly turns into the afternoon and you become overwhelmingly busy - perhaps you should have hired an extra hand, like your grandad suggested before he passed away last summer. One minute Severus is there, the next he’s gone. You wander to the counter when things finally slow down to take care of his dishes. You glance down at the crossword, seeing it finished. A note is written beneath it in spidery, cramped writing.
Thank you. Do not overwork yourself.
-S
You smile, tracing your hand over the writing. You sort of like the guy, in an odd, hesitant way. He’s handsome, but not of the common sort. He did bring the bakery flowers, even though he refuses to tell you just how he made them appear. He asked if you believe in magic, but that’s so vague. What sort of magic did he speak of? You hope he returns tomorrow. Despite your rocky start, you want him to become a regular.
Severus doesn’t return today. Every time the door opens at the bakery, you hope it will be him. But it never is. It’s almost New Year's Eve, maybe he has plans with his friends and family. Or work is bothering him.
You run the bakery like normal and end up taking the delivery boy, Devin, up on his offer for drinks. You both stay out rather late, laughing, catching up, and getting absolutely sloshed. Devin offers you a ride home when you both leave the bar just after one in the morning. But, your house is just a ten minute walk and in the opposite direction as Devin‘s house. You pull on your coat and scarf and begin your short journey.
It’s cold out tonight and the snow has melted to watery slush around your feet. Winters are so dark in London when you don’t live in the city. You take the Main Street filled with shops and businesses home, to keep in the luminance of the street lamps. You’ve lived in Three Bridges all of your life, nothing bad ever happens here.
You begin to quickly rethink that sentiment when a fast movement whirls above you. You look up, wide eyed, wondering what sort of creature just flew by. Maybe a bat or an owl. You pick up the pace, blinking furiously, trying to get the alcohol out of your system. Your hand slides into the purse around your shoulder - you know your grandad put pepper spray in there a long time ago. You aren’t scared to use it on an animal if it’s coming for you.
But despite your faster walking, a chill keeps running down your spine. You hear the quick noise of something flying overhead again. You look up, but see nothing. You pull your phone out, knowing the several voicemails of your grandfather you have stored on there will calm you down. Before you can click on one, your phone begins to vibrate, which makes you shriek. You slap your hand over your chest, sighing. It’s just your phone. Get a grip. But, who the hell is calling you right now? Maybe it’s Devin from his home phone, wondering if you got home. You wish you would have taken him up on his offer to drive you.
“Hello?”
“Good evening.”
You stop walking, furrowing your brows. This deep voice is…
“Severus?!” you demand.
The scary noise comes back and you tense, looking up. Nothing but the dark of night is above you.
“Hello. Is this working?” he inquires.
You groan, continuing to walk.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?!” you whisper.
He is silent for a moment.
“Will you give me baking lessons?” He asks, quickly.
You stop in your tracks and the anger boiling inside you erupts.
“Bakinglessons? You’re calling me at one in the morning for baking lessons, Severus?!” you yell into the phone.
Then the noise you’ve been hearing gets louder, louder than ever before. You feel something wash over you - almost like a rush of air - and your arms are being grabbed. The phone slips from your hands as you begin to be dragged back - someone has you. Your immediate reaction is to yell for help.
“Help! Help- “ you begin.
A hand slams over your mouth - it is a man, surely. He towers over you from behind - a scraggly man with dark hair and a beard. He begins to feel up and down your body.
“Where’s your wand, girl?!”
You jerk away from him, ducking under his arms, and begin to run away. You’re drunk, but what the fuck was that? He came out of thin air! You’ve never believed in the supernatural, but you’re quickly rethinking it. You glance around the street - not one light is on inside any business. Your only choice is to run home. You’re faster than he is, you know you are. You begin to sprint, your boots gliding across the sidewalk.
“Hey!” the man yells.
You chance a glance behind you to find the man already chasing you. Fuck! You dig into your purse and find your pepper spray. You open it and crane your head over your shoulder - the man is close - and what is he holding? A stick? You furrow your brows in confusion. When the end of the stick seemingly ignites, you turn immediately and sprint into an alleyway between two buildings. Something whizzes past you - something weird and abnormal and, oh god, you must be drunk . You watch over your shoulder as the man turns down the alleyway.
“Fuck off, man!” You yell.
Then, you slam into something. It’s tall, firm, yet it doesn’t hurt. Hands are grabbing at you - it must be the man’s accomplice! His arms find your shoulders and he pulls you into him - and it almost feels safe . With one arm, he secures you to his body, and the other stretches out above you.
“It’s over, Dolohov. Surrender.”
You look up, knowing that voice. That baritone, slow, deep voice. It’s Severus. You go to look behind you, but his arm tightens around your waist, keeping you firmly pressed against his body. You hear the man behind you scoff and before he can accomplish anything, Severus’ arm that is outstretched flicks - you hear a loud thud on the ground. Severus slowly lowers his arm, his hand coming up to your face.
“Are you alright?” He inquires.
You inhale slowly, then grasp the pepper spray in your hand and raise it up to his face. You push down on the button, beginning to spray his face with it. He groans and hurls back, giving you enough time to escape. You begin to run down the alleyway, knowing you can cut through the woods and to your home. You’ll call the police as soon as you’re there. Maybe you’ve imagined Severus, made him up in your head. Maybe you are going mental.
You witness for yourself two men materialize out of thin air in front of you. You stop in your tracks, turning around, seeing Severus regaining his composure.
“Professor Snape!”
One of the young men runs past you, hurrying down the alleyway. He begins to talk lowly with Severus. You swallow, staring at the red haired man, beginning to take a step. He steps in your way, keeping you from leaving.
“I’ll obliviate the muggle.”
“No, Weasley!” Severus yells.
You tense, beginning to shake your head.
“Please, sir, just let me go!” you beg.
The redhead looks over your shoulder, gulping.
“I’ll take care of it. Get the rest of the aurors here and scour the place for Rookwood and Rowle,” Severus commands.
The redhead crosses his arms.
“You know, Snape, you really can’t tell Harry or I what to do anymore.”
Severus cocks his head to the side and eyes him warningly - the moonlight hits his face and you see his eyes bloodshot and his face blanched from your attack. The young man steps forward, seemingly complying and listening to Severus, heading to his associate. The man that was chasing you is tied on the ground and unconscious. A few seconds pass and bright blue light emits from the end of his stick - what appears to be a small dog jolts into the air and disappears. Your hand comes up to hit the side of your head. This isn’t happening. You’re mental. You’re mental. You’ve gone bloody mental.
“Stop that. You’re not mental.” Severus speaks.
Your eyes widen. Did he just hear your thoughts? He grabs your upper arm and pulls you to him again. You fight for your arm but he is superior in his strength. One of the young men begins to approach you. His hand is out, almost pleading to stop. But it isn’t directed to you. It’s directed to Severus.
“Professor, wait, can I just have a word-“
Severus sneers.
“No, Potter. Do the job you’re paid for!” he commands.
Severus places his other hand on your waist and you're sucked into the air. You scream for what feels like eternity, but must only be seconds. You land on a sidewalk in front of a large brick building - townhomes of some sort. Severus keeps you upright, but you force his arm away from you - you feel sick. You lurch forward and throw up the alcohol you’ve consumed. How did you get to this place? Where are you? You glance up to Severus, about to give him an earful, but your eyes begin to lose focus.
“[First name]?”
You reach forward and grasp at the lapel of his jacket, but that’s all you can do before you succumb to unconsciousness.