Summary: Draco was a Master. He'd always been one, but having a town of Muggles consider him as close to God's gift as they would ever receive was certainly validating. Except it wasn't enough. After years of settling, of conjuring masterpieces with his fingers and his prowess, Draco realised he needed a change.
How hard could it be to find an apprentice pâtissier that did what they were told? As it happened, doing 'what was told' was about the last thing on his inevitable prospect's mind. Trust Harry Potter to be the one to turn Draco's life upside down.
Rating: M
Tags: Post-War, Baking, Sugary Goodness, Pâtisseries, Enemies to Friends, Slow Burn
Chapter 1: The Breadbasket
~As a sign of hospitality, bread and butter is presented as an offering of welcome and to tide potential diners over until the meal~
Merrington was a Muggle town. A wholly Muggle town to the degree that the term 'magic' was only ever mentioned in laughing jest before proceeding to be cast it into disregard. It was unknown why the Wizarding world vacated the far southern region of Britain; little enough of it was understood besides the fact that it happened.
No witches. No wizards. It was one of the main reasons Draco had come to Merrington in the first place.
That, and the quietness, though as it always did on a sleepy morning, one particular storefront was alive with noise. And criticism. Always criticism.
"Just choose a direction and go, girl. Bloody hell, is it so hard?"
Merrington was a modest Muggle town. Overlooking a merry little bay, lighthouse squinting redundantly yet persistently each evening, it was nothing short of wholesome. The town itself was flat and sedate, with cobbled paths lining wide, smooth roads. The houses were equally wide, squat and homely, and gardens flourished in the mild warmth that endured until the depths of winter. Merrington was calm and quiet – mostly.
"If I turn around and that tray is still there, you'll have hell to pay!"
On one particular road, mornings always kickstarted with something of a bang. Boardwalk was reputed for its day-round, year-round open hours, and despite barely two dozen stores lining the wide road, it was often considered the centre of town. There was the pub, The Chuckling Cupid, that doubled as an inn and forever kept its doors open and well-lit for the passing townsman or visiting traveller. There was the bookstore, a quiet, humble abode rich with the scent of dust and flooded with polished wooden antiques. Many considered that particular store more of a library than an actual bookshop.
The grocers, the largest building on the street yet as cheerfully welcoming as the pub and open nearly as long; the hair salon that reeked of peroxide and glowed like a diamond amongst pebbles; the thrift shop that dressed most of the town in a range of quirky yet strangely suitable garb; the corner store or newsagent or tobacconist – the name varied depending upon its buyer. Each were bright and lively and welcoming in their own way, much as Merrington was itself. Even the pâtisserie had its own charm.
That pâtisserie echoed with not-so-cheerful vibrancy as the town roosters crowed their morning wake-up.
"No, no, no. I said two batches with raisins and one without. Use your ears for their proper function would you, boy!"
The pâtisserie was the newest store on Boardwalk, but it wasn't truly new. For six years it had been a resident amongst its fellows, and in those years the sweet smells of glaze and cinnamon, of baking yeast and warm ovens, had become a welcome addition to Merrington. Even the incessantly surly pâtissier was adored for the morsels he served with prim and proper accordance to any who stepped across his threshold.
Glass-doored and window-fronted, the pâtisserie was a spread of clean, glowingly white and immaculate perfection upon stepping inside. Polished floors of a marble mimic – or they could have really been marble, some townspeople speculated – and sleekly dark panelling continued its trend to the pair of swinging saloon doors into the kitchen. Hidden behind the counter – the wide, glass counter that more than adequately drew the eye of any customer to the glory of saccharine goods on display – no one stepped through those doors without the express permission of the master pâtissier himself.
That didn't mean that sounds didn't come out from those doors, however.
"A thin glaze, I said. Thin. No, don't try and fix it, you'll just make it worse."
"I'm sorry, I –"
"Why do I only have one more bag of icing sugar? Why?"
"The other one – I still left it in the pantry in case we didn't –"
"In case we didn't need it? How long have you been working here that you didn't realise we needed four bags in the morning, not three, boy?"
"Oh yeah. Sorry, I –"
"Why are those tarts still sitting atop the oven?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I –"
"Is there something wrong with them?"
"No, sir, I –"
"Then take them out, girl! Fuck, you'd think you didn't have a brain of your own!"
There spilled from the kitchens the sound of scampering footsteps, the clatter of a tray and a yelp chasing on the tail end of an exasperated curse. Then the saloon doors burst open, swinging wildly upon their hinges, and a tall, gangly young woman scurried through. Her curly red hair was a mess, peppered with white puffs of flour, and her apron was already lathered in similar baking stains despite working for barely more than an hour that morning.
In her hands, a wooden tray held a range of sprinkled goods, some still soft with the warmth of the oven and sliding dangerously against one another. Curling tops and smooth dough, speckled sugar and caramelised fruits – the scents flooded the front of the shop and would have turned any head had the shop itself have been opened to allow entrance.
Not that it did. Anguis In Temptationem as a pâtisserie was nothing if not punctual, but similarly it wouldn't open a second before the clock struck seven. Before the master's clock struck seven, at that. The stately Waterbury wall clock still bespoke five minutes til.
"I want them lined up properly today, Eloise!" the master's voice bellowed after her. "None of that uneven crap that I saw yesterday, or I'll have your hide!"
"Yes, sir," Eloise called over her shoulder as she dropped to her knees behind the counter, sliding open the glass doors of the refrigerated interior. To any watcher, and listener, she might have seemed frazzled. Scared, even, and many of the townspeople wouldn't have blamed her; the master pâtissier was far from an unwelcome addition to their town, despite that many tutted for how he all but mistreated his staff. But those people wouldn't have witnessed the slight twitch of her lips, the hint of amusement that had long ago been instilled in her. As Draco Malfoy's first worker – and perhaps the closest thing to family he had in the town – she knew better than to take his words to heart.
More's the problem, Draco thought as, turning back to his workbench, he took to swinging his pot free from the stovetop. The melted butter within heaved thick, rich plumes into the air, tantalising the nostrils and stimulating the taste buds. Draco barely noticed. Such was more than a common scent to the aromas wafting throughout his kitchen.
The kitchen itself was a mess of pots and pans, trays laden with pastries and tarts, and desserts waiting to be baked, or garnished, or taken out to the shopfront by a particularly lax assistant or two. Every surface, from the wall-hugging counters to the floating bench along the entire length of the room, was neatly arrayed, because Draco couldn't stand discordant and unnecessary mess in his workspace. Not even in the middle of baking hour of a morning.
The ovens were ablaze, all but the primary bread-baking monstrosity squatting at the far end of the extensive room working their magic on his masterpieces. Because they were masterpieces – each and every one of his goods. There was a certain degree of smug satisfaction to be gained from watching noses turn in the direction of a baking oven or serving platter, seeing passers-by slow in their tracks and ponder the prospect of entering his shop before inevitably caving to temptation. There was power in that kind of enticement, and though it was far from being the reason that Draco baked, it was definitely a welcome realisation when that realisation arose.
Not that Draco was thinking of such things at that moment. It was Friday, and that meant a morning of baking choux pastry. He had his order, his system, his timetable – though the kitchen with its three occupants were hardly enough to fill its walls, Draco was detachedly relieved that Margaret had already left for the morning. Though his bread-maker was skilled enough in what she did, he didn't need another person to get in his way. What he needed was –
"Boy, what in heaven's name are you doing looking in the oven," Draco barked over his shoulder as, with an automatic reach for his mixing bowl, he poured the sifted flower into his melted butter. "I said to take them out when they're done."
He didn't need to glance towards the boy across the room to know that he snapped to attention. Plump and dithering, George 'Call me Georgie' McGee squawked as he always did when scolded, the result being a veritable aviary of sounds that followed Draco's orders of a morning. Straightening immediately, Draco heard him jump to task. A tray clattered.
"If you've dropped something, you'll lose your head."
"I haven't dropped it, Dray," George replied. "It's all fine!"
Too enthusiastic. George was always enthusiastic, and it was one of his many, many flaws. He giggled nervously, sometimes even daring to do so when Draco scolded him. He called Draco by name rather than the respectful 'Master' or 'sir' as Eloise had blessedly realised was appropriate. He lost himself distraction too much and subsequently lost track of time; Draco would have almost thought he wanted to work overtime for how often he stayed past his hours. It was only the fact that he came to work late just as often that he was assured otherwise.
Shaking his head to himself, Draco focused upon his pastry. Pot back on the stove, he beat with a firm hand and the mixture reluctantly began to adhere into a ball. George scampered behind him. The swinging doors squeaked slightly with his passing, but Draco ignored them. He stirred, added his whisked eggs, stirred some more and then –
"Sir, it's nearly seven o'clock."
Draco glanced towards where Eloise stood attentively, a wooden tray held before her. He grabbed for the metal spoon he'd placed precisely alongside his stovetop and turned to ladling his mixture out onto the waiting greasy tray. At least his assistants had been reliable enough to provide him with that much.
"Not yet, though," he replied.
"There's one minute."
"But it's not seven?"
Eloise smirked. Draco knew she smirked, even as he didn't glance up from his tray. She thought he didn't know she did it, but… "My tables and chairs are ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did George actually sweep the front like I told him to?"
"Yes, sir."
"The coffee machine is –"
"Gutted and cleaned, sir," Eloise finished for him. "Just as I always keep it."
Draco did spare her a glance at that as, wiping his pastry-smeared finger on his apron, he raised his tray aloft and made for the oven. That Eloise considered the coffee machine hers simply because she was the one with the barista license was a consideration not quite under argument only because Eloise had never expressly claimed it as hers.
But it was. Draco would never admit it, but the coffee machine – it was hers.
"Those éclairs are actually straight?"
"I could line them with a ruler," Eloise assured him.
"And all of the fridge desserts have been taken out of the back room?"
"Yes, sir."
Striding across the kitchen, sweeping a glance over his waiting trays, towards the mess filling his sink – "George, clean that crap from the sink!" – and pausing alongside his cooling profiteroles to check their heat, he nodded curtly. "Alright, then. So long as you haven't entirely destroyed the front of the shop –"
"We haven't, sir," Eloise said, readjusting her hold upon her tray to pick up a second in her freed hand.
Draco pointed a finger at her, raising an eyebrow. "Drop them, and you're fired."
Eloise smiled. A small smile, but a smiled nonetheless. "Of course," she said, turning on her heel and, horrifyingly, nearly tripping over her feet as she did so.
Closing his eyes briefly – Merlin help him – Draco bit back a sigh. The girl was, and would likely always be, unutterably clumsy. "Walk backwards into the doors if you would, Eloise," he called as she nearly ploughed headfirst into the kitchen.
"'Kay, sir," she replied before disappearing through. George squawked as he came through a moment later, similarly nearly tripping over himself as he avoiding her passing.
"Boy," Draco said, turning to his bowl of finely chopped chocolate. George had managed that much, at least; he'd finally learnt just how important his knife work was for making ganache.
"Yes, Dray?" George replied a little breathily. What had he been doing that he was struggling for breath, Draco wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"Is the shop open?"
"Not yet, we were just –"
"It's seven o'clock, George," Draco interrupted curtly, not even sparing him a moment to glance as he made his way back to his stovetop with bowls of chocolate and cream in each hand. "We always open at seven o'clock. Hop to."
George squeaked. In a scurry, he was bursting back through the doors. The tinkle of the front doors opening sounded a moment later, as well as what sounded distinctly like muffled laughter. Eloise. It was very likely Eloise. And though Draco wouldn't have abided such a slight to his face, he didn't object to her doing so outside of the room. There were some rules and habits that had developed between them after years of working together, and that was one of them.
Another was how Draco couldn't very well ask her to open the doors after he'd just told her not to. Simple logic bespoke that. Which was why he scolded George into doing it.
So Draco didn't object. Or not to that, at least. When Eloise returned and fell to her tasks of assisting with his baking – or as much as he would let her – he chided her when she erred from perfection in a way that she always accepted without comment. When George returned himself, bumbling and darting between oven and shopfront and nearly colliding into Draco several times, he receiving his own further scolding.
Noise ran rampant through the kitchen, with battering pots and pans and clattering cutlery when it was discarded into the sink. Noise, and maybe it was more noise than three people should make. Controlled chaos reigned, and that was more than three people should have rightly managed, too.
Flour was layered, bowls were beaten with wooden spoons, icing was dusted and hands were slapped when someone – George – tried to tamper with Draco's éclairs with frankly horrifying presumptuousness. Draco allowed Eloise to soothe George's momentarily bruised ego as she took his place in smoothing icing atop the pastry.
In short, Draco's Friday morning was the same as every other. Noise, but for some reason a clatter and clamour that Draco had grown to love. Chaos, but the refined, clockwork chaos of tasks being fulfilled and the general flow of a kitchen as it should be. And if flour flew and mess spread in their wake…
Well, Draco had never been one much for mess, but he had assistants to ensure he didn't have to withstand it for long. The number of times, "Boy, clean up this mess!" resounded throughout the room within the hour was one Draco knew for a fact that Eloise tallied. He'd seen the scoreboard himself.
Draco would never admit it aloud, but he did love his shop. Eloise knew it, even if George was still openly sceptical that Draco 'liked' anything. And though Draco barely even admitted it to himself, he knew it was true.
The noise.
The chaos.
The baking itself, which he so specialised in, and yes, even those who came to purchase his goods and adored him for it.
Draco liked the quiet, sedate little town of Merrington, even – or because of – its lack of Wizarding representation, and he liked the life he'd built for himself. The consistency, the expectancy, was a comfortable blessing.
Not for the first time, as Draco drizzled ganache on his profiteroles, he silently questioned whether he was in the right for his most recent decision. That comfortable consistency… did he really want it to change? Because after that Friday, his pâtisserie would never be the same again.
The door tinkled with its welcoming chime and Draco glanced up from his tea and newspaper. There was nothing quite like sitting after a morning of crazed work, partaking of a warm cup and scouring an entirely Muggle newspaper for entirely Muggle news.
Better yet, as a self-employed businessman and self-titled pâtissier grandeur, Draco could take a lunch break for as long as he wanted. Uninterrupted, ideally, a fact that George particularly had discovered he preferred barely a month into his employment. He'd retained that knowledge for the past three years, at least.
Uninterrupted, however, would appear to be far from fulfilled. Draco registered that much as soon as he caught a glimpse of Mary McCamley's bleach-blonde head. He didn't need her overloud self-introduction, but he was afflicted by it anyway.
"Hello and good morning, dears!" she all but cried as she stepped inside the door. Her heeled shoes clicked with every shuffling step, and she all but slammed the door behind her. "Such a lovely day, isn't it?"
"Good afternoon, Mrs. McCamley," Eloise said from behind the counter, and Draco would always silently appreciate her slightly passive-aggressive remarks. "How are you today?"
"Oh, very well, very well," Mary assured her, tossing her head slightly as she adjusted her cardigan slightly upon her shoulders. "Hoping to pick up my weekly dose of medicine, as it were. Where is the magician himself?"
Draco, who had turned to regard the sky outside through his impeccably clean windows and questioning how anyone could possibly consider the drizzling day to be 'lovely', drew his gaze back towards Mary at her words. He regarded the back of her head as she shuffled – always shuffled in her impractical shoes – and quietly sipped his tea while she proceeded to monopolise Eloise's attention.
"He's on his lunch break," Eloise said. Draco silently nodded his gratitude that she didn't even glance his way. The shop was wide and spreading, but it wasn't so big that anyone who gave its sparsely spread round tables a cursory glance wouldn't notice him the second they stepped through the door.
"Ah, such a shame," Mary sighed, sounding not in the least regretful. "Well, be sure to give him my regards as I pilfer his goods."
Eloise smiled her small smile that was just enough to be acceptable in a customer service environment. Better than Draco could manage, for that matter, if not quite as good as George's jovial welcomes. "I'll be sure to do that."
Mary barely even seem to hear the reply. Filching around in her overlarge bag, she extracted her purse as she half bent to peer at the shelf of brightly coloured macaroons. "Now, I've got a list of requests, and I'm hoping you'll be able to fulfil them."
"I'm sure we can try," Eloise said.
"The book club would be devastated if I didn't bring them their lime and coconut cookies."
"Macaroons. And I'm sure they would be."
"And I'll certainly die if I'm left without my own daily dose of salted caramel cookies."
"Macaroons. And I'm sure you would."
Draco smirked into his tea as he dropped his gaze back to his newspaper. He truly did like Eloise, for all that she could be an appalling klutz. She had a witty, sarcastic sense of humour that seemed to slip beneath the notice of most of Merrington's residents, and Draco sorely appreciated it. For all that he liked the quiet little town, it would have surely been horribly dull without someone to appreciate his own wit. Eloise didn't openly express her appreciation, but Draco suspected she returned his own it nonetheless.
People like Mary McCamley, however, did not. To say that Mary was the sharpest tool in the shed would be an exaggeration that many wouldn't even consider worth verbalising in the first place, but she was still something of a force to be reckoned with. Years ago, when Draco had first come to town, she'd been one of those most vehemently dismissive and almost aggressively condescending towards him and his 'invasion of local businesses'.
That was until Margaret, Draco's baker, first accepted his proposed integration of her bakery into his own shop. Or, more correctly, until Mary had first partaken of his macaroons.
Food had an effect on people. Draco had never truly appreciated that effect in his youth, but as he'd grown older, as he'd fallen into the pastry-making world for his own pursuits rather than what he could provide for others, he'd made the unexpected discovery. And since setting up shop in Merrington, he'd unearthed just how powerful that effect could be.
Mary McCamley, resident coordinator of half a dozen town clubs, had fallen prey to his macaroons like a charging bull before a Stupefy.
John Hansell, Draco's landlord of the 'grand old estate' that had become his pâtisserie, had been the speaker of many a snide remark until he'd too fallen. John held the record for the highest purchaser of Draco's éclairs.
The town representative, Audrey Mallone, doted upon him nearly as much as she did his madeleines. The store-owners on either side of Draco's pâtisserie purchased in bulk, both for arraying his choice croissants in the grocers and to provide as 'Specials' at the local diner. Draco quietly revelled in the appreciative proclamations of both buyers as much as he did the respectable payments they sent his way for the service.
Apprentice barber Brian had discovered a taste for the caramelised sugar almonds Draco kept in modest supply, claiming he'd 'never tasted pralines so yummy before!' The Sanderson twins dropped by every evening at four o'clock on the dot to pick up their choice of desserts for their mother, handing over petty cash with sticky fingers. Pastries and buns, tarts and biscuits and desserts dressed in perfect adornments that Draco spent – and enjoyed spending – hours constructing, were admired, tasted, and appreciated by all. Even the grouchy old Herbert Pickett stopped by every Friday evening to buy a handful of punitions that he nibbled upon as he hobbled out of the store. Draco didn't have much regret that they likely fractured any of the remaining real teeth he had; for all that he was a dedicated customer, Herbert was an unerring grouch.
Draco was wanted in Merrington. Needed, even. And though he didn't care much for being needed, being wanted – nay, adored – was something he'd always enjoyed. That enjoyment was simply of a quieter kind nowadays.
Very decidedly quieter in the case of that Friday afternoon, for to preen before Mary McCamley's praise as she hummed and mumbled over the range of macaroons on display before her would find Draco within her claws in seconds. The woman was far from agreeable company.
So Draco sat quietly, sipping his tea that a wand up his sleeve and a wordless spell ensured never ran dry or cold, and read his newspaper. While not nearly as exciting with its static pictures as the Wizarding Daily Prophet, and even less so as nothing of consequence ever happened in Merrington, Draco enjoyed himself. Particularly the puzzles. He was an ace at crosswords.
The box that Mary was dwarfed beneath as she finally turned to leave would likely serve as being half the profit of that day. Draco regarded her over his teacup and credited himself once more on storing such expansive boxes; the tall, white cardboard, adorned in its green and silver ribbons, nothing if not shielded Mary entirely from view.
George appeared outside the door seemingly by chance as soon as she reached it. "Oh, trouble yourself by opening it for me, dear," Mary said in an overloud voice. Unnecessarily overloud, in Draco's opinion; his doors were reinforced but the glass wasn't that thick.
George, ever the gentleman – or perhaps simply cowed by Mary's presence as most of the town was – jumped to assist immediately. "Good afternoon, Mary," Draco heard him say brightly. "I nearly missed you! Are you stocking up for the bookclub this Sunday? I heard you were reading…"
Draco snorted quietly into his cup. George might not be much of a baker or even an amateur pâtissier, and his coffee-making skills left more than a little to be desired, but he knew how to talk to people. That feature gave him worth, in Draco's opinion. For himself, Draco had little time for people. At least, he didn't anymore.
"We'll probably have to order in a new batch of that Irish salted caramel for next Monday. I think Mrs. McCamley's quite set in her favourites by now."
Draco drew his gaze from where he'd been detachedly regarding Mary's bobbing blonde head as she engaged George in profuse conversation. Poor George. Draco might consider him a sorry excuse for a worker, but he was still his worker. The responsibility for his sanity lay, to some small degree, with Draco. Unfortunately.
Although, out of himself, Eloise and George, the boy seemed the most capable of dealing with the frivolous woman.
Glancing towards where Eloise had propped both elbows upon the counter, he frowned. "You look like a slob." Then, as Eloise only smiled in reply, "I'm perfectly capable of making my own caramel."
"Do you have the time for that?" Eloise asked.
"Of course I do."
"So you're going to work on Sunday again?"
Draco pressed his lips together for a moment. The fact of the matter was that he was indeed likely to work on Sunday. As Eloise stated, however, he would not do so of the typical kind. There was a certain type of 'working' that Draco conducted that required an absence of Muggle gazes. His spontaneously appearing 'Irish caramel' didn't cook itself.
Draco at times regretted the lie he'd told as an excuse on that occasion, even as necessary as it was. Eloise would be blown away to realise the place magic had in his cooking. It had seemed so much easier to simply claim he'd ordered it in.
"What I do in my own time is absolutely none of your business," Draco said. He took a deliberate sip of his tea. "Just as I have no interest in what you do."
Eloise hummed, rocking slightly forwards and backwards upon the counter. While mornings were awhirl with activity, the afternoons in Draco's shop bore the same sedate ambiance as the rest of the town. Eloise's sleepy slump stood testimony to that.
"I'm going out for dinner tonight," she said, almost to herself.
"And you're telling me this why?" Draco asked, flipped to the puzzles section of his paper. For himself, the day was all but done when his morning baking wrapped up, but he'd be damned if he'd leave his store wholly to unsupervised hands.
"Up to that Italian place half an hours outside of town."
"I find Italian food unremarkable," Draco said, pulling a pen from his shirt pocket. While his apron was weighted heavily by all manner of pens and utensils, there was a certain stateliness to be assumed when finished for the day. Draco never wore his apron outside of the kitchen.
"It's got a four-and-a-half star rating," Eloise continued.
"Do I seem like I care?"
"And apparently they're not against offering discounts to customers if you can get in their good books."
"What trivial information you pick up…"
Eloise's amusement was practically tangible, and yet when she continued her, tone was oddly and almost solemnly deliberate. "Maybe you should give it a visit? Take a chance and get out some more? When was the last time you actually went out?"
Draco frowned. He took another sip of tea, then wordlessly reheated it with a twist of his wrist and the concealed wand in its holster. "What's a synonym for the silencer on a pistol?"
Eloise didn't quite snort but Draco heard her amusement blossom further nonetheless. "How may letters?" she asked.
Draco didn't reply, and not because he didn't really need her help with the crossword puzzle. She understood his none-too-subtle hint.
George bustled in not long after, face flushed and apparently pleased with himself. He maintained his good humour even when Draco ordered him to do something useful with himself for his last hour, and his conversation with Eloise, thrown through the saloon doors as he worked upon his never-ending stack of washing, waged a constant battle with the oblivious classical music Draco always instructed Eloise to tune upon the radio. Eloise replied, but likely only out of boredom; George, Draco knew, was far more taken with her than she was with him.
And Draco completed out his crossword. As the door tinkled for entrance of faces familiar and otherwise, he sat and idled away the hours, swapping newspaper for book when his interest in puzzles waned. He barely glanced up when Wilson, the boy who would take over from Eloise and George for the afternoon shift, slipped almost silently through the door.
It was only at the appearance of Violet Lovett that his attention was truly shaken loose.
The afternoon was drifting towards evening, and Wilson, in the quiet way that he always did, had fallen without askance to the task of scrubbing every inch of Draco's pâtisserie until it gleamed. He damn-near managed as well as a Cleaning Charm could, too. Draco liked Wilson in a different way to how he liked Eloise; they'd barely exchanged a handful of sentences outside of rudimentary necessities since he'd been hired, and it worked perfectly for the both of them. Besides that, Wilson liked to clean. He actually liked it, and not in the "Of course I'll clean but I'd prefer to be doing something more creative" way that George did. Wilson seemed wholly satisfied with the duty of resident scullery-maid in Draco's store.
For Draco, self-acclaimed drill sergeant when cleanliness arose as a topic of conversation happened to quite like Wilson's commitment. He quite liked it a lot, in fact.
Violet swept into the store in a flurry of billowing jacket and flipping hair. The first time Draco had seen her, he could have sworn that she was the lost, squb sister of his old friend, Pansy Parkinson. That they both bore floral names seemed to only enhance the resemblance.
And yet that misconception was made starkly apparent as soon as Violet opened her mouth. She was sharp-faced, sharp-eyed, and yet her tongue lacked the sharpness that Pansy's possessed. Like a cat to a kneazle, Violet lacked the spark that Pansy did, and not only because of her absence of magic. She was… unutterably dull.
Unfortunately, she also couldn't take a hint because, for whatever reason, Violet seemed to think Draco enjoyed her company.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Malloy," she said, easing the door closed behind her. At least she didn't let it slam like Mary McCamley. That much Draco could credit her. "How are you? Finishing up for the day?"
Crossing the room, Violet even spared a moment to smile at Wilson as Pansy wouldn't have been caught dead doing. Wilson either didn't realise she had glanced his way or ignored her entirely. He seemed somewhat fixated upon scrubbing at a particularly hardy spot upon the primary counter. Draco approved of his dedication.
Violet paused alongside Draco's table. She beamed down at him, rocking on her heels and fiddling idly with the oversized handbag slung over her shoulder. She looked dressed up, Draco thought. Casually so, but dressed up nonetheless in her fitted jeans and billowy blouse. Even her boots appeared polished. Had Draco any interest in someone eight years his junior, he might have been more than approving of her presentation.
"What are you reading?" Violet asked when Draco only sat back slightly in his seat to afford her his attention. She cocked her head slightly. "Is it any good?"
By way of reply, Draco held up his book for momentary inspection. What little of the blurb Violet could read would have to suffice. "It's entertaining enough."
"Maybe you could lend it to me when you've finished?"
"You could certainly borrow it from the library, I'm sure."
"I'd rather just borrow yours."
Draco fought to suppress a twitch of his eyebrow. Violet was exasperating at times, and much because of her youth. Although, when Draco considered it, when he'd just finished his schooling years, it hadn't been to step into the world with such light-hearted ignorance. The clean up of a war and multiple court cases tended to put a dampener on things.
"Well, as it happens, this copy is from the library," Draco said. "I regret you'll have to borrow."
Violet regarded him for a moment. Then, with a little harrumph, she edged towards the seat opposite him and, after an expectant pause and further glance towards Draco, sat down. Draco wasn't sure what aspect of his minimalist greeting had suggested he was receptive to such company, but he would have to deduce it for future reference. Deduce and quash into oblivion.
"I've just finished up with work," Violet said, placing her bag beside her feet and propping an elbow on the table before her. "I can't say that it's particularly strenuous work, but I'm absolutely famished."
"You should probably get something to eat, then," Draco said, before adding a pointed, "and likely a meal more substantial than tarts and pastries."
Violet, her gaze already drawn towards the spread of delicacies, snapped her attention back towards him. She grinned as though caught in the act, a child with her hand in the cookie jar. "Am I that obvious?"
"Why else would you come into a pâtisserie?"
Violet's smile deepened into something besides amusement. "I can think of at least one," she said.
Was the lowering of her voice supposed to be enticing? Her slow, languid blinks suggestive? Draco didn't know. He didn't truly understand much about Violet besides the fact that she appeared to have taken an interest in him. That interest in itself was likely only a rebounding effect from their accidental first meeting.
She, as many in the town, had poked her head into Draco's store in the early days of his opening to preview the spread of his wares. And she, just liked many before her, appeared immediately enthralled by the possibility of a pâtisserie with French influences setting up shop in their unremarkable midst.
Draco saw her. He saw her entrance, and he nearly started in surprise. Her resemblance to Pansy was truly uncanny. Unfortunately for him, Violet witnessed his surprise. "Hello," she said, stepping into the store. "Are you the owner?"
Draco had only been a young businessman at the time, and Violet even younger. Still in school, he knew, and her uniform proved that much. Still, her resemblance was nothing short of disconcerting. Struggling to drag himself from his thoughts, Draco nodded. "I am."
"Dray Malloy, wasn't it?"
The urge to twitch, to scowl and click his tongue at the necessity of an alias, still irked at Draco in the early years of its use. He'd managed to keep the reflex smothered, however, tipping his head in a nod. "I am."
The then-unnamed-Violet stared at him from just inside the doorway. Not at the shop but at him. It was only when she spoke that Draco realised he'd been staring right back. "What?"
"I'm sorry?" he said.
Violet smiled. "You're staring at me."
The hair was slightly different, the nose just a little more pointed and yet… she was so much like Pansy. Draco shook his head, allowing himself the smallest of self-deprecating smiles. "Sorry. You just remind me of someone I know."
Violet still smiled. For a moment it was just that – just a smile. Then that smile widened and she blinked in that languid way that resembled Pansy but for a different reason entirely. "Is that right?" she said.
Apparently, "You reminded me of someone," meant something different to the younger generation. Or perhaps just in different circles to the ones Draco turned in. Since then, he'd grown to understand that Violet had sorely misunderstood him. So sorely, it seemed, that thenceforth, regardless of his attempts at dissuasion, she persisted with her…
Pursuit? Could it even be deemed a pursuit when Draco so stoically denied being chased? Regardless of what Eloise might always tell him about 'getting out more' and 'enjoying himself', he wasn't looking for a relationship. Certainly not one with a Pansy lookalike that didn't quite meet the standard of the original.
That Friday, said lookalike proceeded to chatter inanely – as she was prone to doing – after a thrown request towards Wilson for a cup of tea and "One of those little cakes with the strawberries on them, please."
Wilson, with obvious reluctance, dropped his rag and moved to fulfil her order. "You mean a fraisier?"
Violet beamed. "That's the one." Then she turned back to Draco. "They've always been my favourites, I think."
Draco flickered his gaze up from where he'd turned back to his book. His mother would have deemed him rude to so ignore a guest and customer in preference for literature – but then his mother wasn't there to scold him. Neither was Eloise, for that matter. "I know."
"I always get them. It's my Friday treat."
"I know."
"What're your favourites? Éclairs, by any chance?"
Slowly, Draco lowered his book. "Not hardly. What would make you consider such a thing?"
Violet glanced down at the table before her, her smile growing almost shy and definitely un-Pansy-like. Then, with slow deliberation, she reached towards the handbag resting beside her feet. "Just because. I thought that might have been what you meant when you said… last week, I mean…" Violet paused, dropping her gaze to the small box she'd extracted and placed upon the table before her. One of Draco's boxes, he saw, and likely from one of her many visits before. It still bore the green ribbon and everything. "Maybe I'm just assuming because of the job listing?"
Then she held out the box, as though in offering. Draco felt the sodden weight of it like a stone in his gut.
Really? That's really what she took from our previous conversation?
All of it, the job listing, the eclairs, Draco's foolish mention of both a week before. He should have expected Violet to leap upon the supposed opportunity that he'd unwittingly presented.
"Are you really not interested in… in dating?" Violet had asked at the time.
How the subject of dating had even arisen, Draco didn't know. For all that she was unlike Pansy, Violet somehow possessed the means of twisting a conversation to her devices with disconcerting resemblance to Draco's old friend.
It had taken him a moment to gather himself and reply. His first instinct was to turn on his heel and retreat to his kitchen – not in flight, but simply as a decision to ignore the need for a reply at all. If Draco had learnt anything in his time, it was that putting up with what he didn't want, didn't enjoy, or felt uncomfortable enduring wasn't worth it. Even if a slight in etiquette was perceived, he was done with playing to others needs. He'd been done when he'd finally been freed of all charges and taken himself to France nearly eight years ago.
But he hadn't. Not because Draco particularly liked Violet – because he didn't, really – nor because he'd felt any obligation to Pansy's memory. The simple fact of the matter was that he'd known that to leave the question hanging would be to provoke further pursuit from the persistent young woman. Enough was enough.
"My interests lie elsewhere," Draco had said, and hoped Violet understood the unspoken preference behind his words. Then he'd continued. "For instance, at present, I am in search of an apprentice. My schedule doesn't allow for consideration of other engagements."
Violet had stared at him. Then she'd nodded slowly, as though understanding. And then she'd left, and Draco had been hopeful that such was the end of their endless interactions.
Apparently not. Apparently the girl had mistaken the meaning of that statement, too.
At that moment, sitting across from his oblivious, unwelcome companion, Draco regarded the box. He blinked slowly, closing his book. "You baked an éclair," he said. A statement, not a question.
Violet nodded.
"To apply for the position as my apprentice."
Another nod, more eagerly this time.
"Even though you have never expressed interest in baking prior to this instance beyond eating sweets."
Violet laughed. She actually laughed, as though Draco had made a joke. From the corner of his eye, Draco saw Wilson pause briefly in the act of pouring Violet's tea. He understood that laughing at Draco was a definite No.
With slow motions – it had to be slow, for otherwise Draco would have likely simply risen to his feet and disregarded the encounter entirely – he reached for the box. The lid flipped open and with deliberate expressionlessness, Draco regarded its contents.
It certainly wasn't an éclair within.
Maybe it was an attempt at one, but what resulted was something that looked more like a gingerbread Honey Jumble. Where was the choux pastry? Where was the lightness, the fluffiness, the exquisite filling of cream or something grander, the perfect decorations to cap the top and the glistening spread of icing?
It had seemed like such a good idea at first. For whatever reason, it had struck a chord in Draco, and he felt the urge to act upon it. A change was needed, he;d felt; after nearly six years of owning a pâtisserie, he needed some kind of change. Something felt… missing. An absence, the likes of which Draco could neither see nor properly discern. He hadn't even an inkling of what it was, except that the thought of gaining an apprentice seemed to dampen the feeling of discontent that had been slowly building within him for months now.
An apprentice. Draco wasn't a teacher, didn't want to be a teacher, and ideally would find someone who needed little by way of actual teaching itself. A partner would likely be better company sought after, but…
Draco didn't share. And he could barely work with Eloise and Margaret; the thought of a second pâtissier, huffed up and entitled in their perceived superiority, was more than a little distasteful.
So it was decided upon. Draco would put out a posting for an apprentice, and before even an interview was offered, he would request the delivery and receipt of 'the best attempt at an éclair that can be made'. Attempt, because Draco knew from experience that few enough people were truly successful with their baking. He'd taken years until he reached a level that met his perfectionistic standards even slightly.
George had posted the listing. He'd written it up, too, and though Draco tended to consider him something of a useless fuddy-duddy in his shop, if there was one thing George was good with it were personable impressions. Draco wouldn't claim as much aloud, but he doubted he would have been capable of transcribing such an approachable listing as George managed, and not only because he was far from a fair hand at using computers. Some things of the Muggle world Draco understood while others…
He'd received responses. Seventeen in total that had actually fulfilled his demands for baked goods delivered to his doorstep. Draco had expected as much; even in the small town of Merrington as he was based, he knew that word of his pastries was renowned. It likely had something to do with the website that George had spent nearly a whole week constructing – and doing a surprisingly good job of, too – and Draco knew that guests of the town had begun to visit his store as a Merrington 'must see'. There was a certain satisfaction to be had in that.
Draco saw the éclairs. Or the attempts at éclairs, rather. He saw, he tasted, and he discarded the majority of them. Too dense, too sweet, the pastry too thin or not light enough. A poor choice of flavour combination or simply poor presentation. Draco considered acceptable presentation absolutely necessary; what else would draw the eye of a hungry customer? Really, some people must truly be blind to the proper perfection of an éclair.
Violet, it would seem, was one such person.
Regarding her Honey Jumble éclair, Draco pressed his lips together. He didn't want to be cruel to the girl; deliberately cruelty, teasing, and bullying, was a thing of the past. There was something quite aversive about overt cruelness, Draco had found, after being subjected to over a year of it himself. He knew he was blunt to the point of tactlessness, and that he was selfish in pursuing solely what he wanted, but to be deliberately cruel? Draco wouldn't do that.
Unfortunately, there was little other approach that Draco could take to the situation besides bluntness. Closing his eyes briefly, Draco shut the lid. "Miss Lovett, I think we may have reached something of a misunderstanding."
Violet laughed again in what was more of a giggle. "Miss Lovett. It sounds so strange, I –" She paused and her smile faded slightly. "What do you mean by that?"
Lips pressing together once more, Draco straightened in his seat. "I don't think you're suitable for the position of my apprentice."
Violet blinked. "What?"
"It is extremely long hours, early hours, and hard work in the majority of those hours," Draco continued. "I don't believe the position is what you're looking for."
Mouth opening in a little 'o', Violet's frown rose and rapidly deepened. "But… you haven't even tried my éclair."
And I likely won't, Draco thought but didn't say. He usually didn't much care about being tactlessly direct, but Violet seemed to require wearing kid-gloves to be let down gently. "Pastry making is an art, Miss Lovett. It takes years of time and dedication. Can you honestly say you're prepared for such an undertaking?"
Violet's frown had slipped into a pout. She plucked at the ribbons on the box. "You could at least try it," she muttered petulantly.
Merlin, but she's so young. Draco gave a mental shake of his head. Maybe he should just put it out there? Maybe he should be as blunt and direct as ever. Violet's visitation to his pâtisserie may wane as a result, but the impact would hardly affect his sales. A fraisier a week was a small price to pay for his patience and sanity.
Still, it would be just a little awkward. Draco wasn't sure if even he was quite up to letting Violet down completely. He'd once been an amateur too, and though not quite as bad as the Honey Jumble, he recalled his first real attempt at an éclair. It had been far from perfect.
He was at an impasse.
Blessedly, distraction came in the form of the shop's tinkling bell. Violet glanced over her shoulder instinctively. Wilson paused briefly in step as he made his way to their table, tea and fraisier in hand. Draco drew his attention towards the entrant, though more in an attempt to latch upon any kind of escape than for true interest. Except that, when he did, he found himself staring.
There were some people in Merrington that reminded Draco of those from his past. Violet was a sugary sweet version of Pansy, and that was as far as the similarities extended. A woman who always came in on Saturday mornings to pick up a single apple croustande bore a striking resemblance to his own mother but for the fact that Ms Williams smiled and actually seemed to feel it.
Jonathon Spivel was a tall boy who looked nothing if not a cousin of Draco's old friend Blaise, even down to the casual, joking swagger he wore like a well-worn jacket. It was strange, had been a little disconcerting at first, but Draco had overcome his discomfort long ago. The girl who reminded him of a certain Hufflepuff from his schooling years. The old man who he'd sworn for a moment was a Death Eater he'd once known until growing to rationalise that simply because the man was surly didn't mean he was Dark. So similar and yet different.
Countless people were strangely familiar, and it had taken Draco a long time to convince himself that, oftentimes, those familiarities weren't all that similar at all. That he saw what his mind impressed upon those strangers in a mirror of a past he'd been forced to leave behind him as much as he'd chosen to. That there was no Pansy, or Blaise, or Narcissa Malfoy, and certainly no Death Eaters in Merrington.
It was a harsh reality, but one Draco was growing to accept. When the man stepped through the door, however, dressed in jeans and shirt so utterly, simply plain themselves it was almost a sin to fashion, he forgot about his self-imposed commitment entirely.
Maybe it was the hair, a dark, shaggy mess that hung into his eyes. Maybe it was that he was short – or at least shorter than Draco – and such was something Draco had always been smugly aware of. Maybe it was simply the way he carried himself, the casualness of his step, the almost obliviously curious air he assumed as he stepped inside Draco's store.
Maybe it was all of that or none of it, he didn't know, but for whatever reason, Draco was speaking before he realised. "Potter?"
The man turned his gaze towards him, and instantly Draco felt like a fool. It wasn't Potter. Of course it wasn't Potter. The hair was the same, maybe, but the man wasn't even wearing glasses. He was short, it was true, but he was thinner than Potter had been when Draco had last caught sight of him beneath the Daily Prophet's headlines. Granted, that had been years ago, but still. The faintest of shadow touched his cheeks in a way that the clean-shaven Saviour never would have worn. And though there was the casual comfort in himself, the almost oblivious distraction, the man didn't sniff and preach of that entitlement as Draco was sure Potter would have.
The past caught up on him sometimes. That was all it was. Still, it was disconcerting.
The man himself stared at Draco with momentary surprise for his blurted words. He and Violet and Wilson all, for that matter, though Draco didn't spare the latter two a second thought. His attention was solely upon the intruder – for intruder he was. Draco knew just about everyone in town, and that man was not a townsman.
Then the man smiled. Just slightly, a half-smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. And Draco didn't stare – or at least not for Potter-related reasons. "Hello," the man said as he eased the door closed behind himself. He glanced towards Wilson, then Draco. "Would one of you be… Mr. Malloy?"
He stepped slowly into the room, almost hesitantly, and as he did, Draco couldn't help but study him. He studied him and with each passing moment catalogued the differences he identified.
The jaw was more square.
The nose was too straight.
Eyebrows too sharp and forehead too wide. No scar marred that forehead either, for that matter.
Even the way he dressed was different to how Draco knew Potter would have. And he knew. Everyone knew. Draco had seen evidence of Potter's fashion sense many a time in the papers over the years. Granted, such evidence hadn't been apparent for years – Potter had 'gone under' in a way unnervingly similar to how Draco had himself – but so much wouldn't possibly change.
Or it shouldn't, anyway.
"That would be me," Draco said, and he rose to his feet. Usually he wouldn't bother with such niceties, but any escape from the pouting Violet and the awkward conversation to come was a relief. "What do you want?"
The man paused in step. It was only then, as he stalled and swapped the box in his grasp between his hands, that Draco noticed the box at all. Which could only mean… "Is that how you greet all of your customers? It's a miracle you have any at all."
Draco twitched. He knew he was glaring even before he actively felt the tightening of his eyes and the curl of his lip. "And that is of concern of yours how? Should you have reason to comment upon my business, then I assure you, I'd be more than ready to hearing it."
The man cocked his head slightly. He regarded Draco with a slight frown, as though studying him for a glimpse of something Draco couldn't discern. Then he shrugged. "If I'm going to be working with you then it might just. Yeah, maybe."
Draco blinked. He heard Violet make a sound halfway between a grunt and a cheep. Wilson's feet scuffled slightly on the tiles and Draco had the half-thought that he would scold the hell out of the boy should he drop that fraisier before he was locking his attention upon the intruder once more. He maintained his glare purely out of instinctive habit. "You seem very certain of yourself."
The man's lips tugged slightly, widening his smile. He had a good smile. Nice. Not like Potter's at all. "Call it a hope, maybe," he said. With an almost disregarding gesture, he held out the box as an offering. "I don't suppose I'm meant to hand over a resume at the same time, am I? The job listing was a little vague."
Draco's frown deepened. It wasn't vague. It was enticing. Mysterious. A lure placed to draw potential pâtissiers rather than blatantly stating the reality of what Draco wanted. He'd been told by Eloise in a way that was supposedly 'not chiding at all' that his first draft of the listing was just short of a slap in the face.
"No," Draco said, and he all but grabbed the box out of the man's hand. "Just the pastry."
"Right." The man cocked his head in the opposite direction, regarding Draco for a moment longer. Then he drew his gaze in a quick scan around the shopfront, skimming eyes over the counter and walls and up to the modest chandelier lighting overhead in a purely practical manner. Draco approved up to and until he noticed no apparent opinion accompanying any of the man's observations. The urge to twitch niggled at his eye once more.
"Well, then," the man continued after a moment. "I suppose I might hear from you?"
"Possibly," Draco said, fingers tightening slightly around the box. "Possibly not."
The man smiled again – that damned good smile and by Merlin it was distracting. "Right. Possibly." He made another gesture towards the box as he half-turned towards the door. "I've left my name and number inside. I'm staying at the Chuckling Cupid, so if you need me…"
Then he shrugged, and that was it. Just a shrug, another passing glance over the shop, and he was stepping towards the door once more. The tinkle of the bell as he passed outside seemed to ring more loudly than usual in the silence he left behind him.
Draco stared at the closed door, watching with only the slightest shift in his gaze to follow the man as he passed the windows of the shopfront and disappeared from view. His finger tapped absently against the box, frown still affixed.
A name, he thought. I should have asked for his name rather than just reading it.
Even as the thought arose, Draco knew that, had he a Time Turner, he wouldn't have gone back to change his actions. He had his own pride to maintain, and coddling to some intruder that likely couldn't cook a simple scone wasn't one of them. If the simplicity of the little white box was any indication, the éclair within was going to be just as unremarkable.
The presumptuous man with his presumptuous smile. Merlin, damn him, if it hadn't been such perfect timing, Draco would have likely disregarded his suggestion entirely.
"So you'll accept so random person's application cake or whatever but not mine?" Violet abruptly spoke up. Indignation was so thick in her voice Draco could practically smell it.
"It's an éclair, which is actually closer to a pastry than a cake," Wilson said absently, and Draco quietly approved of him for more than the fact that he chose that moment to set down the distraction of tea and fraisier. Draco had worked hard to instil accurate identification of basic baking terms into his employees; Wilson had never shown much inclination for learning, but at least he abided by those rules.
"I don't really care, to be honest," Violet said, voice rising. "Why is that man any better of a prospect than me? Why is his cake better?"
Draco didn't reply. In fact, he barely heard Violet's objections at all. His attention was turned wholly to the box in his hands and the pastry within – because it wasn't simple. It wasn't simple at all.
Raising his gaze once more, Draco glanced towards the window where he'd last seen the man. Three other prospects, he had. Three other eclairs that he would deem even mildly worthy of presenting in his shop. And maybe… just maybe he might have found a fourth. Of course, it would all depend upon how it tasted, but…
"Is just because I'm a girl? Is that why you won't consider me? Are you sexist, Mr. Malloy?"
Closing his eyes briefly – and quietly blessing Wilson's murmured, "Um, both Eloise and Margaret are women, so…" – Draco turned towards her and closed the simple white box. It was time to put a stop to the little twit's impudence once and for all. Besides, he had a pastry to critique as only he could masterfully do so.
Violet had left. Mollified, as Draco had begrudgingly done his best to soothe her irrationally bruised ego, but left she had. In the empty silence of his kitchen, away from even the classical music that he constantly mulled to, Draco sat upon the sole stool in the entire expanse of his back room.
He wore his apron, because no one, regardless of circumstances, could enter without. He sat with a single plate and a single fork, the box that had held the éclair discarded. Of course it was. There was a certain protocol to be had to taste-testing, and Draco would be damned if he didn't abide by his own. It was his kitchen, after all.
The warmly glowing overhead lights were his only company. Wilson knew better than to come out the back when Draco retreated unless absolutely necessary. So Draco was alone – and staring.
The éclair was exquisite, to say the least. Puffed, perfectly long, the cream rich and fluffy and just visible, and the sheen of the chocolate icing so profound that Draco could almost see his reflection in it. Or he likely would have but for the sprinkled chips of caramel peppered atop.
It was a work of art, just as a pastry should be.
Draco didn't want to think well of the man. It was simply a matter of principle that made him reluctant; Draco never liked anyone.
He stared for a long, long time. At the plate, then the éclair. At the bin with its discarded box, then back to the pastry. He raised the fork, because nothing should be eaten with anything less than a dessert fork unless absolutely necessary.
He speared it into the éclair.
He paused for a moment to pry a piece loose.
And he took a bite.
It was soft. It was moist. The chocolate was rich and smooth, the cream thick and lathered with combined caramel and cocoa and that caramel… It was almost good enough to be 'Irish' caramel.
Draco paused as salty sweetness, smoothness and softness and the perfection of pastry, flooded his mouth. He closed his eyes.
Four. Maybe four possible apprentices. It was a secret relief that none in the town of Merrington were magical enough to hear Draco change his mind.
A/N: Hi! Thanks so much for reading this first chapter! I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review if you get the chance to let me know you thoughts, and I'll see you soon with the new chapter!