A/N: hey so
what is this
oops
sorry
sorry for springing this on you like this
i have no idea what this is or what it could be
so just let it speak
and maybe it'll speak to me again sometime soon and I'll be able to listen to it and put some more down
love you
bye
-oxy
Very few things are made up of only one other thing - many things are several things or more, all at once.
There is only so much matter in the universe, and one cannot create something out of nothing with this principle in place.
Everything you use was once something else, and that something else holds history.
Every once in a while, that history leeches into the air and into the people, and if you listen hard enough sometimes you can hear it.
The bricks, magnificent and pale and stained with old smoke, resonated with something sad and prestigious. Echoes of incredible bravery and incredible cowardice - the essence of a last stand, perhaps, or a first collapse.
Take chances while you have them, thought the bricks.
Not too close to the sun, Icarus, thought the front door.
I hope they really enjoy this one, thought the piemaker.
That's a lot of pressure, thought the pie.
Sometimes the piemaker was a piemaker, and sometimes he was a coffee-maker. Sometimes he was both at once, sometimes he was neither.
He wasn't necessarily tall or short, but he seemed to tower over his surroundings and be dwarfed by them all at once.
The bell on the front door jingled loudly, and the piemaker ignored it.
"Excuse me?"
The piemaker turned, inky black ponytail swishing behind him.
"Yes, how can I help you?"
The customer tapped her long, pink nails on the countertop where the fresh pie sat, "Two slices of whatever is fresh, to go, with two small black coffees."
Plasticine bubblegum tomahawk, thought the countertop.
"Coming right up," the piemaker, now the coffee-maker, replied amiably.
Being afraid to fly is only being afraid of landing, the bricks thought.
The bell on the door jingled again, and kept jingling, and the piemaker and coffee-maker filled and continued filling orders while being battered by the observations of his surroundings.
The last customer of the morning rush left after paying, identified by the cash drawer as leafy molasses hand grenade, and the pie-coffee-maker set to bringing fresh products from his oven.
The bell jingled during a dip in customer flow, and the piemaker raised a brow at the unusual timing.
Tarnished silver serpent, warned the flagstones in the entryway, and the piemaker listened harder than before.
"Potter," the man with the long, silvery-blonde hair greeted, "I heard you'd opened up shop here."
The supply closet said fresh parchment to write on.
"Malfoy," the piemaker returned easily, settling on an open and unthreatening expression, "Can I help you?"
Malfoy's face grew pinched, as if he'd been looking for a different reaction, "Coffee, black."
There was a moment where Malfoy's hand rested on the countertop, and the countertop thought very hard at the coffee-maker grandfather clock missing a winding key.
The blonde turned and left, and the coffee-maker was neither a coffee-maker nor a piemaker for several more minutes.
Dull green flute, said the bell on the door when customers started filing in for the lunch rush.
And what a lackluster melody it plays, thought the coffee-maker.
Broken clockwork snake, said the flagstones the next day, and the piemaker was intrigued at the change.
"Potter," said the former snake.
"Malfoy," replied the piemaker.
"Coffee, black. And a slice of whatever isn't too sweet."
"Of course," the piemaker elegantly spun into motion, slicing this and pouring that, assuming correctly that the items were to go and placing them on the countertop. The piemaker said nothing else but the price of the items, something that Malfoy apparently found odd.
Malfoy seemed cautious, "You aren't curious?"
The piemaker didn't need to ask about the context of Malfoy's question; he already knew it.
Private white peacock, said the countertop, something that the piemaker also knew already.
"It's none of my business," the piemaker replied gently, making change for Malfoy's payment nimbly and handing him back a smattering of coins.
"Th-that's right," Malfoy said and then startled, as if frightened by the volume of his own voice.
Malfoy stowed his change and left in a flourish of expensive-looking fabric and immaculate hair.
Unhinged pewter music box, said the flagstones to the piemaker when Malfoy passed over them again.
Polish what was tarnished. Rewind the grandfather clock. Place the lid back on its hinges, thought Harry Potter.
Once a hero, always a hero, replied the countertop.
Mauve tombstones on a verdant day, interjected the cash box.
A first stand, not a last stand, projected the quiet courage of the bricks taken from a ruined castle in the Scottish countryside.
Fix, fix, fix, what is broken, said the Deathstick in Harry Potter's boot, before something else becomes necessary.
I'll consider it, the piemaker allowed, and began to make more pies.