Homesickness was one of the most difficult things you dealt with while attending Hogwarts. You understood the plight of some of the other children, to whom Hogwarts felt like home more than their actual homes ever did. But for you, the long stretches away from the small flat you grew up in with your mother, with its comforting haze of incense smoke and the rickety book shelves full of vinyl records, were utterly depressing. You loved Hogwarts, truly you did, but it was winter and spring breaks that kept you sane. And in between holidays, you had the kitchens.
You had been told about the entrance to the kitchens quite early on in your time at Hogwarts, as the Hufflepuff common room was literally down the hall from it. Many a Saturday night you had snuck out with your dorm-mates to nick leftover sweets for your weekly gossip- uh, study sessions. But it wasn't until about your third year that you started sneaking to the kitchens on your own. You shared many interests and pastimes with your mother. She encouraged your love for art by framing nearly every piece you'd ever given her, including crayon scribbles you'd made as a baby. She cultivated your passion for music by sharing her own turntable, letting you explore whatever genres you fancied, though you typically had the same tastes. And she'd nurtured your fascination with plants and nature through numerous little garden boxes hanging from every window of your flat. But nothing made you feel more at home than when you cooked together, and cooking brought you the greatest sense of comfort.
The first time you'd crept off to the kitchens with the intention of cooking something for yourself, the house elves had been irate. They couldn't understand why you would want to make something, heavens forbid, the muggle way, when you could just give them the recipe and they'd make it for you faster than you could snap your fingers. It took a great deal of clever word manipulation on your part to assure them that the best way they could serve you was simply by showing you where the ingredients were stored. You had eventually come to a consensus that they would allow you to cook for yourself, if they were allowed to clean up after you. As if you were really going to argue with that ultimatum.
Presently in your fourth year, Christmas break was fast approaching, and you were sustained by the fact that you'd be hopping on the Hogwarts Express in a scant week to head home for the rest of the year. Most of your friends were going home as well, and you'd all agreed to exchange gifts before school let out for the holidays, because the best part about giving gifts was seeing the recipients face when they opened them, right? But for you, this heartwarming idea had caused a great deal of panic. Because you didn't have any gifts to exchange. You'd been appallingly broke during the last Hogsmeade trip, and while you'd watched your friends return to their dorms carting large shopping bags from Honeydukes and Zonko's, you had returned emptyhanded. It seemed absolutely disgraceful to accept their gifts without having anything to give in return.
And so, your options quiet limited, you found yourself in the kitchens on a school night, wrist deep in crescent cake dough, your mothers handwritten recipe card floating magically above the sheet pan you were loading up with hand-crafted pastries. There were already two sheets of the completed cakes cooling on one of the long, narrow work tables, the little moon shaped treats looking perfectly golden and delicious, if you did say so yourself. With another batch still in the oven, everything smelled like toasted almonds and warm butter. You had set up your portable wizarding wireless on the counter at your elbow, the volume turned down low enough so as not to disturb the sleeping elves, but loud enough that you could enjoy the music being broadcast. After a lot of finessing, you'd charmed its range and frequency to pick up a few muggle radio stations, and you had been utterly delighted with the evening's selection; they were playing the entirety of Queen's last album, and you were anticipating the dramatic final track off of 'A Kind of Magic' any minute now. All of your senses were occupied with the fond nostalgia of home.
So of course, you never even heard him come in.
The final batch of crescent cakes were prepared and waiting on their pan. Now, all that was left to do was wait for the tray in the oven to come out so you could put the last tray in. And once it was, you could start packing up the cooled cakes into festive little paper bundles to exchange with your friends. A flawless plan if you'd ever had one! Wiping your hands with a dish towel, you were whisper-belting the opening lines of 'Princes of the Universe' when you turned towards the sink, but were stopped mid-rotation as your shoulder collided directly with something solid, black, and unyielding.
The first thing you did was scream, the startled sound tearing itself from your soul as you stumbled back against the work table, clutching the butter-smeared rag to your chest in an attempt to prevent your heart from leaping out of your rib cage. The second thing you did was flush, heat and dread all burning their way up from your neck to the top of your head with creeping humiliation. And the final thing you did was groan, burying your face in the dish towel to hide your shame from the thoroughly amused smirk of Professor Snape.
You were in several different flavors of trouble. You had never been caught while illicitly using the kitchens. Never! So it had never occurred to you just how many school rules you were breaking all at once. Out of dorm, after hours, in a restricted part of the castle, using school utilities you had no business using. You'd be lucky if you weren't serving detention for the rest of the school year. But then again… your heart gave a curious flutter. Detention with Snape had never been that bad.
"It's uncanny how well sound carries through the halls at night," Snape mused, almost conversationally as he took a step backward to give you room to breathe. "Imagine my surprise upon hearing rock music of all things drifting down the corridors as I made my rounds this evening." His eyes shifted past you to the wizarding wireless humming innocuously on the work table, Brian May's growling guitar solo filling the silence as 'Princes of The Universe' neared its conclusion. "How did you get that thing to pick up Muggle stations, anyway?"
Snape's casual curiosity was both oddly welcome and highly concerning. Your heart was pounding in your throat, and you were attempting to wrap your head around the fact that you hadn't yet been scolded. Best not to stare a gift horse in the mouth. You fumbled for an explanation, extricating your face from the towel, but continuing to twist the cloth in your hands behind your back. Would tampering with wizard tech be another broken rule? You knew making muggle things magic was frowned upon; was making magic things mundane just as bad?
"What, uh…" you swallowed thickly, following his eyes to your wireless, which you subtly moved towards, as if attempting to block its soundwaves from reaching Snape's ears. "What makes you think it's a Muggle station?" you asked innocently, meeting his eye only long enough to catch his flawless impassivity. Squaring up your shoulders with a false sense of confidence, you pressed on against your better judgement, stating quite matter-of-factly "Well, I'm not entirely convinced that Freddie Mercury isn't a wizard."
Oh, how you wished you could shove those words back down your throat. What an utterly ludicrous thing to say. And yet, all Snape did was raise both eyebrows, as if mildly intrigued by your theory. He actually appeared to be considering it, folding his arms across his narrow chest before rebounding, "Mercury, you think? Not David Bowie? I've always had my suspicions."
You balked, stunned by both his frankness and your good fortune at managing to steer the conversation away from how utterly freaking screwed you were. Yet you couldn't prevent the apprehensive giggle from spilling out of you. "Bowie?" you asked, scandalized. "Bowie just… just starred in a film that proves there isn't a magical bone in his body." You couldn't believe you were bantering about this. With Snape. Were you dreaming? Was the heat of the kitchen making you delirious? "If he were a wizard he would know that goblins have no business being that attractive. Not even the king of them."
Snape's eyes shifted away from you then, one of his hands lifting to pinch his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger, as if deeply analyzing this information against his own evidence towards the contrary. Gee. He really did have his suspicions. You were just lighting up with the prospect of actually investing in this conversation, when he seemed to catch himself. Brows pressed together, he returned his narrowed gaze back to you, pulling his hand away from his mouth to point an accusatory finger in your direction. "I'm not here to discuss the magical merits of rock stars with you," he stated firmly, and you had to wonder if this declaration was for you, or for himself.
"Aren't you? I'd much prefer it if you were," you quipped, plowing ahead with abandon. You didn't want to be resigned to your fate just yet. Besides, you were interested in his magical Bowie concept. If you could only keep him talking…
But it appeared that your luck had run out. Leveling you with a steely glare, the beginning of yet another reprimand finally came. "What exactly are you doing in here, Miss Goode?" he questioned finally, sharp eyes flitting around to the section of work table you had sequestered for yourself.
Self-preservation apparently being the last thing on your mind, you arched a brow and surveyed your surroundings along with him. "Baking?" you offered numbly. At that moment, a rather obnoxious bell went off, an hourglass shaped timer rattling on the counter with the ferocity of its ringing. After silencing it with a flick of your wand, you abandoned your post at the table in order to open the oven, the immediate area suddenly filling with the sweet aroma of almonds. "I… thought that much was obvious, sir," you stated innocently, peering over your shoulder at Snape.
Who appeared to be thoroughly unimpressed with your sass. "Indeed, I had gathered that much," he spat, his countenance darkening as he observed your apparent disregard for his authority. "Allow me to rephrase the question. Why are you baking four dozen crescent cakes in the middle of the night on a Thursday?"
Your shoulders stiffened at that. Yes, that was a considerably more specific question, and the icy quality of his voice seemed to finally sober you up. This was not the time for wit. You were in trouble, and he was all too happy to remind you of that fact with his tone alone. Working quickly, you cast a charm to levitate the hot tray out of the oven and onto the table, before shutting the oven door to preserve the heat. You weren't sure if your entire project was about to be scrapped, so it seemed presumptuous to attempt to add the new tray to the oven just yet. Leaning your hip against the warm oven door, you considered your options. However, the only viable one was simply to tell the truth.
"The holidays," you explained softly, rolling your wand between your hands in a nervous gesture that had gotten you scolded by Professor Flitwick on more than one occasion. "My friends, they want to exchange gifts tomorrow, before we all leave for break. And I couldn't affor-…" you wince, averting your gaze to the floor. "I mean, I just didn't have the chance to buy anything during the last Hogsmeade trip. So I thought… I just… thought…" You felt like a first year again, having to explain yourself for your mundane muggle compromises. Indeed, this whole situation felt remarkably similar to your first meaningful interaction with your Potions Professor. Only this time you really were breaking rules, which greatly reduced your chances of getting away unscathed.
Snape spared you from having to tumble over your own words for much longer. "While I rather doubt you did much thinking at all, you are clearly quite… thoughtful, Miss Goode." You ceased your fidgeting with your wand, slipping it into your shirtsleeve as your eyes snapped back to his with a surge of optimism. Which must have been evident on your face, as he responded with a long suffering sigh. "How much longer do you think you'll be?"
Not wanting to miss your opportunity, you burst into action, throwing open the oven door before hastily taking up the last tray of cakes. "Thirty minutes?" you suggested honestly, sliding the pan into the oven before nudging the door closed with your hip. Taking up the magically attuned timer, you flipped the hourglass over twice, watching one end fill with sand which began its steady downpour once you set it back on the table. "They take about twenty minutes to bake. In the meantime I was going to start wrapping up the cooled ones. The house elves insist on cleaning up for me so, really, I shouldn't be too long…" You turned back to him then, your hands clasped anxiously against your midsection, waiting to see if this plan was acceptable to him.
Snape was looking you over rather critically, eyes shifting from your writhing hands, to your hope filled eyes, to the work table littered with the evidence of your labor. "You shall clean this mess yourself, without magic, and without aide from the house elves." You blinked uncertainly, looking to the small pile of bowls, spatulas, spoons and cups you had accumulated, and back to him again. Waving his hand dismissively, he explained, "Consider it your punishment for being out after hours."
He… was letting you off easy. Way easy. Your chest suddenly felt tight, swelling with a deep appreciation you didn't know how to express. He could have demanded you trash everything and sent you back to bed empty handed. Would have done so with a malicious grin to anyone else, you were certain, but he was allowing you to finish your work. You could have kissed him. But instead you nodded your head woodenly with acceptance, before gathering up your baking equipment, stacking and slotting bowls and cups into each before placing them into the nearest sink, submerging them in hot soapy water to soak. Nodding once he saw you acquiescing to his terms, he stepped to the work table, pulling out one of the high wooden stools, before perching himself upon it with one knee crossed over the other.
"You'll… be staying then?" you asked, drying your hands on a dish towel before procuring a small roll of baking parchment and a ball of butchers twine from one of the many cabinets. It took a great deal of concentration, as frankly you were rubbish at this sort of thing, but with a bit of charm work you managed to give the paper a rather pleasant green and red tartan pattern. You then tried to turn the twine gold, but only ended up making it a sort of dull bronze. You sighed. It would have to do.
"Well, someone needs to oversee your… detention," Snape explained, surveying your poor spell work, but keeping any commentary on it to himself. "As well as make sure you get back to your dormitory in a timely fashion." He glanced then to the hourglass, as if gauging how much longer he would be stuck here. You internally groaned at that. He may have let you off the hook with a slap on the wrist, but he was certain to continue to remind you that you were taking up a great deal of his time. In the middle of the night.
"Yes, sir," you answered, hoping your voice contained the proper amount of remorse. Working quickly, you rolled out a length of your lovely new wrapping paper, and then debated whether or not to use magic to directly cut it, or if you should conjure up a pair of scissors. Deciding your transfiguration skills were even more abysmal than your charms, you traced the tip of your wand across the paper, relishing the satisfying slicing sound as you created several neat little squares. You did the same on several lengths of bronze twine, before you finally had all you would need to begin the wrapping. Pulling over one of the pans of cooled cakes, you plucked off two of the little cookies, before you were overcome by a sudden realization.
"How did you know these were called 'Crescent Cakes'?" you asked abruptly, turning your attention to your professor, who appeared to have been silently criticizing your magical abilities for the past several minutes. His face remained stony but for the arch of a single brow, which told you that the answer should have been obvious.
"You mean besides that they are, in fact, cakes shaped like crescents?" Snape deadpanned, speaking as though you were a very slow first year.
"I mean it! This is…" you peered around frantically, setting the cakes down on the wrapping paper before you snatched the recipe card out of the air from where it had been hovering. "This is my mother's recipe! I've been making these since I was like, four! They could have been called anything, but you guessed it exactly."
Holding the card out to him, Snape glanced from the butter stained page, to your very serious face, and back, before seizing it from your hands. He stared down at the list of ingredients contemplatively, his impassive expression softening into something closer to curiosity. "Your mother?" he asked quietly, and at your nod, persisted. "And she is… how did you describe it… the 'Muggle half of your equation'?"
Your face reddened at that. You were immediately on edge, uncertain as to why Snape was bringing that particular detail up. You crossed your arms over your chest defensively, your brows creasing as you nodded again. "Yes, she is," you answered, your voice firm with warning. You were sure he remembered what happened the last time a Slytherin had said anything disparaging towards your mother.
Snape had caught on to your discomfort easily though, for his answer came with a considerably softer tone. "I only ask, Miss Goode, because this is a very old witch's recipe," he held the page back out to you, and your tension seemed to melt away at this declaration. "It's been around for decades, at least. My own…" he hesitated, watching your hands as you carefully took the card back from him. Eyes shifting away then, he carried on, though his voice seemed strained. "My own mother would make them… From time to time."
Holding the card to your chest, you were suddenly breathless from the weight of this confession. Teachers seemed to have this secretiveness about them, the sort of mystique that made you forget that they were… you know, people, with lives and families outside of these stone walls. It never came up. With very little exception, you knew virtually nothing about the personal lives of your professors. It wasn't the fact that Snape had a mom, because of course he did; everyone did. But it was the knowledge that he was willing to speak about her, however briefly, with you. He'd hesitated before revealing this small parallel between your childhoods, yet he'd told you nonetheless. Overwhelmed with emotion you couldn't quite define, you peered down at the recipe in your hands. You didn't want to ruin this moment, to break the delicate thread that now connected you. You didn't want to make him regret sharing this.
"An old witch's recipe?" you repeated, your voice unusually thick, though you ignored it, hoping Snape would too. Placing the recipe reverently back on the counter top, you got back to the task at hand, which was folding the wrapping paper into neat little bundles around the cakes. You worked precisely, but efficiently, which gave you the perfect excuse not to meet his eyes. "As in, real witches have been making these for years? Mum's going to be thrilled to hear that."
If Snape had picked up on the odd tension in your voice, he was kind enough to ignore it. "Indeed. I honestly thought you had procured it from the library." Leaning over with his arms crossed, he raked his eyes over the card once again. "It's a near replica of the olden recipes, though it seems your mother added sugar, which I cannot fault her for. They might be traditional but they usually taste like sawdust." He eyed the tray of cakes then, with the same sort of intensity he might give one of your Potions assignments. "Any idea where she got it from?"
Tying off the ribbon of the first packet, you set it aside on the countertop before considering his question. You weren't entirely certain where your mother had gotten the recipe from, as they had been 'family tradition' since you were very small. But if they were customarily witchy, and weren't really a common muggle recipe… you had a pretty good idea how she'd gotten it. "Well, my mother, she's…" You paused a moment, trying to think of the best way to describe her. If Snape had any muggle upbringing, as you heavily suspected, then you hoped he would understand. "She's always been one of those… 'Age of Aquarius' types?"
This elicited a reaction that caught you more off guard than anything else had this evening; Snape laughed. It was more of a bark, a sharp burst of rusty sound, but it was undeniably a laugh. And it wasn't entirely derisive either; it sounded suspiciously like mirth. You were still not entirely sure that you weren't delirious but… that smile was a good look for him. You couldn't contain your own anxious giggle then, though your shoulders drooped with relief. "Oh good! You get my meaning then?"
"Oh, certainly," Snape snorted, shaking his head with amusement. He finally uncrossed his arms then, instead leaning an elbow against the work table. It appeared that he was finally opening up a little. "I do believe the New Forest Coven is still in trouble with the Ministry for the whole Gerald Gardner debacle." At your bemused expression, he rolled his eyes slightly, but explained without pretense. "Gardner was a muggle who had been 'initiated' into a coven of real witches, probably for a good laugh at his expense. He went on to publish a few books on 'magic and witchcraft', used what he'd learned from their customs and beliefs to form his own type of paganism, and now he's called 'The Father of Wicca'. The Ministry didn't think much of it when they first found out; figured no one was going to believe him anyway. But now it's almost 30 years later, Gardner is dead, and the neopagan phenomena is too big for even the Office of Misinformation to try and tackle. The result being muggles dancing around in the moonlight and practicing divination and… well. Getting their hands on old witch's recipes and having no idea what they've really got."
You were absolutely dumbstruck. All those years of abiding your mother's eclectic beliefs, sometimes thinking she was off her gourd. You thought back to the little pouch of crystals and patchouli oil that still hung from your school bag, and you couldn't help but wonder… "There's stock in it then? The basis of all that stuff actually comes from something real?"
"It's real for us," Snape shrugged, offhandedly leaning over and nicking one of the cakes from the sheet pan. You made no move to stop him. "If a bit outdated. For muggles, they made a religion out of something which does not belong to them, something they could never truly understand." This was said with such bitterness, that you actually felt a little guilty about your mother's participation in it. "Even if they could, it doesn't actually do anything for them, besides provide false hope… or peace of mind, I suppose." He snapped the little cookie in half. "On the other hand, more muggles are observing Sabbats and Esbats than most wizards do today. Modern magic folk might celebrate Samhain or Yule, but the other days have gone to the wayside. Muggles are keeping our traditions better than we are." He popped half of the crescent into his mouth, chewing slowly as he swiped a crumb from the corner of his lip, and his eyelashes practically fluttered. "Dear god, how much butter did you put in these things?"
You smiled sincerely at that; nothing warmed you quite like seeing someone else enjoy your cooking. "Apparently, a very traditional amount," you teased, proceeding on to your next parcel of cakes. He narrowed his eyes coolly at your keen display of sassiness once again, but kept silent as he finished the next bit of cake. Conversation dissolved into comfortable silence as you continued your wrapping, and Snape watched on with dull interest. He'd given you a lot to ponder, as he often did, and you found yourself looking forward to your visit home even more. The mountain of books your mother had on crystals and astrology and 'magik' was looking far more interesting than it ever had in your young life.
Once the last tray was taken out of the oven, you decided to wash the dishes while the cakes cooled. Sleeves rolled up to your elbows, you made quick work of the pile of bowls and cups, as cleaning things the muggle way was a typical chore for you. Several house elves watched on anxiously from their cupboards, and you heard mutterings about how unfair the Master of Potions was being. You got the impression that they were probably going to re-wash all of this stuff anyway, so you thought it practical not to agonize over them. Though you made a good show of scrubbing and rinsing and drying while Snape's eyes were on your back.
"Are these… anisette?" You jumped slightly at the abrupt question, silence suddenly broken by Snape's ever smooth baritone. Looking over your shoulder as you dried the assortment of spatulas and knives, you saw that he'd taken another cake, this one from the last batch fresh from the oven. Your cheeks tinted at this.
"Star anise," you corrected, setting the last of the utensils onto the counter top. (Surely he'd allow the elves to put everything away? They were the only ones who knew where all this stuff went, after all.) Pulling your sleeves back down and fiddling with the buttons on your cuffs, you joined him next to the work table. "Don't think the elves would let me have anisette, even if they had it." You took up one of the cakes, finally allowing yourself to partake in your own handiwork as you bit off one of the points.
He was regarding you with another of his impassive looks, but ultimately joined you in the indulgence. You waited with bated breath for his reaction, but he simply rolled his eyes at your eager face. "The rest were almond. Anise isn't a very popular flavor these days," he stated pointedly, though it was clear to you that he enjoyed them, despite his best efforts.
Shrugging a little, you placed four of the small cakes onto one of the squares of wrapping paper you had left. "No, it isn't. It's definitely an… acquired taste. But it's certainly my favorite," you explained fondly, slipping a second square of paper on top of the cakes. You folded the edges into a much larger bundle to contain the greater number of pastries, before trying two lengths of twine together to finish securing the package. "These were for my… private stash, anyway," you admitted sheepishly, holding up the parcel by its string and presenting it to your professor.
Snape's face was unreadable as his eyes flickered from yours, to the gift you were offering him. He didn't make a move. You'd rather hoped you were beyond this nonsense. Why couldn't the man simply accept something from you without questioning your sincerity? Would he ever actually trust you? With an exasperated sigh, you set the package on the table, making sure they were very close to his elbow so that your intentions were clear. Take them or leave them.
After storing away your wizarding wireless and baking timer, you began loading up your messenger bag with the bundles of cakes you'd made, before tossing the rest of the anise cookies into a small tin that you'd brought along in anticipation of replenishing your personal hoard. That done, you placed the sheet pan into the nearest sink, merely running water over it, as the House Elves had, indeed, already started re-washing all of your equipment again. Leaving three little packages on the countertop for said elves, you turned to find the stool Snape had previously occupied was now empty. He was already waiting by the door out of the kitchen, his arms crossed impatiently over his chest.
"Well?" he called out to you, and you straightened up a bit. Giving the kitchen a final onceover to make sure you hadn't forgotten anything, you noticed that the work table was empty. Nothing left on it at all.
"Coming," you answered, biting your bottom lip to quash your smile.
An acquired taste, indeed.