Once again, I have written what I was in the mood to read and I am sharing it in the hopes that you'll enjoy it as well. It's a two parter, next part to come in a week or so. Happy autumn to all, but to E especially :)

"It's a rather shite pile of brick, mortar, and worn shingles," the man said, chewing on a biro pen as he crossed his arms. He rubbed the toe of his shoe against a chip in the front step, the result of Tobias Snape and a dropped car tyre jack three decades earlier. "The rain doesn't help much, with the shabbiness an' all."

"I'm aware. I need it sold," Severus said, his tone neutral to hide both his annoyance with the estate agent and the fact that he was actually willing to pay someone to take it if there was no interest. The past two years of living there under the Dark Lord's whim were enough to eschew any sense of peace the house could bring him, and it had already been discovered by far too many congratulatory owls and fireworks.

"You won't get much," the man warned. "But I'm sure I can find someone."

Much was a relative term, Severus thought. He'd come out of the war with several injuries of varying permanence, a newfound status of elevated regard in the community, and a small but precious amount of dignity.

He was not as well prepared to deal with his new circumstances as he would have liked. Severus had not expected to survive at all.

…..

The Ministry had expressed its gratitude for twenty years of terror in Severus' life through a not-insignificant pile of galleons. Infinitely more useful than the hundreds of thank you owls sent via post; Severus planned to use the money to buy himself a small cottage in a secluded and quiet village where he would not be recognised. He looked forward to the new start, to buying exactly what he wanted and needed, and nothing more. He'd trashed nearly everything from his childhood home in an attempt to step out of the clinging grime of previous death eater presence, and was privately pleased that after decades of living with the nearby influence of Albus Dumbledore to be setting up his own private home.

Market stalls and celebration posters mostly covered blast marks and brick gashes on the storefronts of Diagon Alley as September started winding down. Tension still seemed to permeate the grout and dirt between the pavers of the street as people walked with purpose through the open market, and acclimated themselves to chatter and leisure once more. Discussions of how families and shops had made out during the final few months of war had finally started to fade away as the community had moved on to other topics. Mostly.

Severus made sure he went as early as he could to avoid the crowds, but it didn't stop people from taking the liberty to stop him and talk to him.

He managed to keep his expression blank as a frail arm reached out and patted his forearm. It belonged to an older witch that had vaguely familiar facial features and the fond look she gave him turned his stomach as he clutched his paper bag of purchases hard enough to tear.

"Thank you for all you did. It was very brave of you, to face off against him and his likes."

"Yes," Severus said, a beat too late. She smiled at him and wandered off, unaffected, into the crowd of shoppers who had started to notice him and whisper his name.

The endless layers of black had been a comfort of mystery, sternness, and a general air of unapproachability, but as Severus pulled his collar tight and readjusted it over his scars, he lamented about how recognizable it made him and how sorely he stood out. More modern cut of cloth or not, Severus had always worn black and it had become his recognised look.

In opposition, Diagon Alley had burst into colour to celebrate the war ending. Brightly coloured robes, shawls, and hats had quickly become the newest fashion, and the Wanted and Ministry posters had been switched out for flashy advertisements and event billboards. Hogwarts had delayed its opening, leading to an extended summer of parties and young witches and wizards making up for more than a year of missed gatherings.

Severus glanced at his dark eyes and hair in the reflection of Flourish & Blott's main window as he passed, ignoring the post war drivel display titles that had quickly been sent to press. The shorter hair made him feel self-conscious and exposed, but also slightly more younger looking and a step away from the long-haired fashion of pureblood wizards. It also made him look much less like the posters still up on the walls more than three months after the war.

He scowled at the one to his left as he approached Slug & Jiggers, the tattered poster corner curling over on itself and partially hiding Severus' well-drawn, stern-looking face, but not quite enough. The Spy Who Won. Awful moniker, Severus thought.

…..

After stringent promises of privacy, Severus chose a witch in her sixties from the estate agent in Diagon Alley to show him around to properties that fit his criteria. His wish list was fairly simple: a house that was nothing like what he grew up in, and nothing like the dungeons of Hogwarts. He wanted anonymity, a property where he could brew, garden, build his own library, and in general do whatever he wanted without needing to entertain the opinion of anyone else.

She'd taken him all over Great Britain, showing off a collection of houses that Severus never would have imagined himself interested in as a child. Another lifetime ago he'd wanted a big city home or a ludicrously ornate mansion; fame and respectability. What he chose was a four-hundred-year-old stone cottage with lead framed windows and an overgrowth of nettles in the garden.

The cottage was at the end of a lane in a little village in the north of Wales. It was an unexceptional Snowdonian village, and though it had an old witch's cottage a stone throw from the town's library, it hadn't had a magical resident in several decades until Severus moved in. The cottage was small, containing a small entry way, sitting room, kitchen, and downstairs bedroom, with an upstairs attic room that was slightly larger. The loo was a more recent addition, and was off the entryway. Muggles had lived there in the years between, though the estate agent had told Severus that they'd all felt slightly uneasy and no family had stayed for very long.

He suspected that was rather due to all the old jinxes, worn-out magic, doxies and boggarts in the place.

Merely a week later, Severus sat in his newly unpacked wingback armchair in the evening, shifting around and lamenting that the chair would still take a while before it was properly broken in. His feet up on an ottoman that still had a bit of plastic wrap stuck to one corner, the fire burned brightly in his hearth and out the curtain less window he watched fireflies skim over the little grass field between his property and the village library.

He had a glass of whiskey in one hand, which had seemed like the perfect drink to top off a day of work dismantling several old security spells around the house. An easier task when mostly empty, as it gave him space to investigate all nooks and crannies for errant old magic. He'd not been in a rush to purchase furniture, as Severus had never before had options or the chance to express his own desire and was finding the burden of choice surprisingly arduous. Nevertheless, it was a relaxing evening with the silence of the cottage punctuated by cracks of the log in the fire and the shrill chirp of crickets.

He'd not expected this sort of calm tranquillity after the war, nor the sense of independence of a wizard who would choose his own actions that very day with little forethought. The few times he'd thought of survival over the last year, in the middle of long winter nights when he couldn't sleep, Severus had sworn he'd end up in Azkaban. He looked around the room and felt the smallest hint of restlessness as he stared at the empty walls. Absolutely no one could tell him what to do with his time or his property. Or tell him to risk his life on one task or another. He was free, and had no obligation to any witch or wizard.

The feeling of loneliness was unexpected.

…..

Severus had previously not given much thought to the lack of wizarding villages in the UK, but on this particular day he wished that there was another bloody shop he could purchase a self-laundering wardrobe. The Daily Prophet had not only reported that he was selling his childhood home, but now seemed to be following him through the Alley to report on what he was buying for his new cottage. A complete non-story that only angered him further at the blatant disrespect for his own privacy, to the point that he planned to pen a letter to the editor promising a variety of dark outcomes should his new address ever be found out and printed.

This was Potter's fault, Severus petulantly thought as he exited Willykin's Furniture and Wares, irritably waving away the several owls waiting for him. Potter had disappeared shortly after the trials finished in July, after airing Severus' secrets of war and announcing to all and sundry that he was off to the continent for a well-earned holiday. He'd left, and the public's focus of attention had maddeningly shifted to Severus.

Folding his receipt to fit into his billfold, Severus ordered the owls all drop their letters before immediately banishing them to his new post box. They'd waned a bit as summer had gone on, but now that the re-opening of Hogwarts had been announced, and his home put up for sale, the volume of letters had increased once more. His mood soured, Severus decided he'd forgo the rest of his errands on the magical side and deal with muggles at the closest grocers to his home.

"Mum look, it's the Spy Who Won."

The not-so-quiet whisper travelled on the bitter wind toward Severus and he didn't turn to confront the child. Instead, he spun toward the end of the Alley, lamenting that his more modern clothing didn't have the same snap of cape that his teaching robes did.

Surrounded by brightly coloured pennant banners flapping in the brisk autumn wind was an unassuming store window in a darkened corner of Diagon Alley that Severus had never noticed before. It featured two shelves of black tea canisters on display which hid the interior of the shop, and contained labels that read "Rainy tea date in Paris", and "Morning brew".

Severus would have bypassed it completely in his grumpy mood if not for the welcome sign written in letters so similar to his mother's handwriting. Though the Alley was starting to fill with more shoppers and the reporter was not that far away, Severus was intrigued enough that he decided to sacrifice some time to investigate.

That he often took comfort in tea with his mother as a child was a secondary thought that he pushed to the side.

…..

The shop was marginally larger on the inside with boxes yet to be unpacked stacked by the worktop and an old-fashioned wingback chair in the window. There was a large black fireplace between the window and the café area. It had the fittings of a café to be – a long wooden bar and empty display were by the front, whilst bookcases had been set up around the fireplace in anticipation of being filled, and several plants of varying sizes were placed haphazardly on empty surfaces. Severus was curious to note that they were all plants used for potion ingredients.

There was not a single newspaper, poster, nor magazine to be found.

"Hullo."

Severus looked up from his perusal of the stacked boxes of tea and coffee, hiding his surprise. That there was an attendant behind the bar was not startling, but it did seem like he was the only other person there, though given the state of the place, perhaps anyone else who'd come in to check it out had quickly departed.

Also dressed solely in black, the man gave a glance to Severus once before returning to his task.

He wasn't very tall, and had a short scruffy beard that somehow matched his slightly unkempt hair. He worked smoothly, arms sweeping across the bar as he poured tea leaves into a small metal sieve and levitated an instantly boiling pot of water from the cast iron cooktop behind him over to his side. Charming, though in need of a haircut and a shirt press.

"We're not actually open yet," the man continued, turning away to fetch milk from the small cupboard behind him. He spoke again before Severus could properly process that and consider if he wanted to apologise for intruding.

"But you can stay for a bit."

A tall white ceramic cup of tea gently floated its way over to Severus, little plate for his tea strainer following along, and just the right amount of milk splashed in.

"Your café appeared open," Severus said, gripping the hot cup in his hands and giving no outward sign of how the heat instantly relaxed the tension in his hands.

The man behind the bar smiled wistfully, before gesturing to the cosy chair in the window.

"It would do, yes," he cryptically said, before running his fingers through his hair and leaving it in a right mess. He seemed perturbed by something and Severus immediately wanted to demand to know if it was his presence that was the bother. But the man said nothing else, gave no hint otherwise that he knew who Severus was at all.

Severus settled into the chair with the tea, a strong brew, and watched as the man disappeared behind a curtain to the back. His shoulders were broad but slightly hunched, years of stress stretched under the collar of his shirt.

The tea was brewed perfectly. Hidden enough that Severus felt confident to stay and finish his cup without unwanted interruption, he thought about the strange comment about the café and the fact that no one had noticed him go in. There'd been no open sign in the window that he could remember, but space in Diagon Alley was at a premium and it was far more likely that the owner had merely forgotten to lock the door than the café itself be hidden or otherwise charmed.

…..

Three days later Severus returned to the Alley to hand over the keys to his muggle home. He'd given up on the muggle estate agent after a handful of wizards and witches had contacted and very much alarmed the man. He'd not wanted to sell within the magical world, but given his newfound status as a war hero, the interest was there as well as the money.

Severus didn't want to think about what a potential buyer would do with his old house. As long as they didn't turn it into a museum or shrine to Death Eaters, he didn't much care. There weren't any positive memories of the place, and he was more than happy to leave it behind.

On his way back to the furniture store - he was tired of eating meals standing by the cooker - Severus passed the mystery café. The tea tins were still in the window, and a light was on inside. There was no name painted on the sign above the door, nor was there an open sign in the window, and it seemed like the bundled-up witches walking past didn't even give it a second's glance. The welcome sign was still there, but it was relatively small compared to the tins of tea and Severus wasn't even sure how he'd noticed it the other day.

Perhaps his estate agent could tell him who owned it, Severus thought, turning away from someone shouting his name, and disapparating.

…..

After a fitful sleep on his transfigured bed, Severus rose with the early morning thunderstorm and banished the memory dreams of writing condolences letters to parents of the dead.

His mood didn't improve through the rest of the morning, spent fighting with a modern wrought iron bed from some atrocious maze of a muggle store that Severus had to put together himself. It was a far cry from the heavy oak four poster bed of his quarters of Hogwarts, but the thin metal frame and open space above already gave a lightness to the room that Severus wasn't entirely sure he deserved.

Once he'd finally finished and the bed was made, Severus found his thoughts once again wandering to the tea shop and the man at the counter. The tea had been nearly as perfect as possible, and given that it was a rainy, dull day… well. Severus was never that good at letting go of things that he didn't understand.

It still appeared, to Severus at least, that the shop was in the midst of being setup. It looked similar as earlier in the week, though this time there were a few pastries in the glass cabinet display inside and some of the tea boxes had been unpacked. Severus also noted that there was now a knit black blanket on the wingback chair, and a foot stool off to the side. Some books were in the bookcases now, periodicals, journals, and a healthy mixture of murder mysteries as well.

Severus inspected the pastries, finding a collection of apple tarts.

"The tea must have been satisfactory."

The man had slipped out between the curtain without Severus noticing once again, something he chided himself for. It hadn't been that long since that ability had been vital to ensure his survival.

"The cranberry glaze on an apple tart will be too bitter," Severus said, instead of acknowledging that he had indeed come back for another cup.

He received a raised eyebrow in return, as the cafe owner? Worker? Severus didn't know, gave him the barest of smirks. The cauldron on the stove came to an instant boil once more, and Severus watched the smooth motions of tea being prepared.

"Rather depends on the apple used, doesn't it?"

Severus narrowed his eyes a bit and gave a small harrumph. It would, of course, depend on the apple and its level of tartness, though one would assume from the very name of apple tart that it would not be overly sweet.

"I await your judgement," the man said, his smile a little more genuine as he sent a plate with a tart floating toward the chair Severus had sat in the day before. The tea was placed on the bar in front of Severus.

Before Severus could ask his name, the man disappeared behind the curtain again. He had a glamour on, it's slightly blurry edges around the mess of hair on his head made that evident. But it was a very well-cast one and Severus thought it very interesting that instead of glamorising himself into a handsome chiselled man, this one chose to look like a regular bloke.

The floorboards creaked as Severus chose a magazine and made his way over to what he now considered his seat. The café remained silent, the quiet noise of the man in the back unpacking more boxes a not-unpleasant white noise to drown out the chatter in the Alley.

The tart was perfectly balanced.

…..

His kitchen was coming together fairly well, Severus thought. He'd never really been much for cooking, to the amusement of Minerva and his fellow colleagues given his proficiency at brewing potions. The cottage had not been chosen for its kitchen either as it was a small space in the corner stretching out from under the stairs, but it was sufficient and Severus had filled it with new saucepans and a shiny new muggle kettle that responded very well to boiling charms.

On his fridge and written in dark ink was a list of tasks to do for the cottage, on a thick piece of parchment that was stuck with a charm. He sat at a small table in front of the sitting room window, sipping water and sorting through the pile of post that had been sitting for a few days. A local newsletter informing him of the muggle activities in town and upcoming fall fair. Several adverts for electronics, man with a van, and dog walking services. In the owl post he found more letters, including one covered in an overly-flowery perfume, two official notices from the Ministry, and a response from Minerva to his previous correspondence.

Severus banished the perfumed letter and opened the Ministry notices next, scowling at the reminder of an upcoming ceremony to re-open Hogwarts in October. An event no doubt attended by all the major players of the war, meaning Potter and friends, the Weasley family, and as many self-important people as the Ministry could manage to find. The Ministry he had very little issue with telling to leave him alone. The former group, however, caused him a mixture of guilt and begrudging respect that left him unsettled whenever they interacted.

Minerva's letter wasn't a cheery one either. It was easy to see from her hurried writing that she was busy organizing the opening of the school and new year of students, but he hadn't expected her to gloss over his questions about the ceremony. She'd scolded him instead, reminding him that he'd abandoned his post as Headmaster on the night of the war and that his attendance was required to officially hand over the title.

He glanced up at his list on the fridge, his vision a little blurred and the list out of focus as he trailed off his thoughts. He'd learned as a child that friendships could be born out of proximity, a proximity that more often than not artificially inflated the value of them. Severus had deliberately burned many a bridge in the last year of war to repay his debt; to win. Upon reflection he wondered if that really was his true penance. Not the suffering and terror of war, but the quiet abandonment afterward.

…..

Severus closed the door quickly as he stepped in and droplets of rain splattered around his feet. He'd been chased out of the apothecary and followed relentlessly as he weaved through the puddles and crowds of the Alley toward the café. Flashes of the viridian green brolly the persistent witch wielded about came through the front shop window but Severus was fairly certain that she couldn't see inside. He wasn't entirely sure why she'd not just followed him in, continuing to shout her questions at him for whatever article she was writing, and glanced accusingly at the café man.

"Will she be allowed entrance?" he demanded, pointing at the door.

"It would boost my sales to have a war hero help promote my tea shop, would it not?" the café man asked, his eyes watching carefully for Severus' reaction.

"I don't do promotions," Severus snidely replied, a blatant lie that only the most in observant would miss, given that he was holding two very clearly marked carrier bags from Slug and Jiggers.

The man raised his eyebrow but didn't comment on the bags. He did put the mug he was holding down long enough to withdraw his wand and wave it toward the entrance. Severus heard the lock on the door shut as he sat and felt his spine straighten as he glanced toward it.

"You're not locked in," the man said, back to pouring himself his own tea. "But I also would rather that Rita Skeeter remain out."

"You've never commented on who I was before," Snape coolly said, sitting in the wingback chair and placing his bags to the side of his feet. A matching tea cup floated over to the little table next to him. He picked up the spoon on the saucer that the tea cup was on and stirred twice, even though the tea had been perfectly poured and they both knew it.

"Why do you come to the alley so much if you hate the celebrity?"

"I have just as much right to be here as any other wizard," Severus answered, levelling a glare toward the cafe man. He pretended to be annoyed that the man hadn't flinched. "Old homes require a variety of potions to clean and fix them up, which in turn require a variety of ingredients."

"Right," the cafe man said, picking up a small whisk. "They do owl order though, don't they?"

Severus nearly sputtered as he swallowed his tea incorrectly.

"You suggest that a potions master would allow someone else to blindly pick my ingredient supply."

The man shrugged and turned back to the stove where a pot was slowly coming to a boil. He could smell warm sugar from the pot, with undertones he couldn't quite identify; browned butter perhaps. There was now a little corkboard on the wall beside the stove, and Severus could see a partially scratched-out list written on parchment that was pinned to it.

"I had also thought that Potter would still be around. He actually enjoys this godforsaken attention," Severus said, more to himself as he looked around the room to note the other changes since his last visit. A dark blue circular rug had been added to the floor in front of the fireplace and a mini cauldron with little metal stir sticks for tea and coffee sat on the bar. He was analysing the café with a shrewd enough eye that he nearly missed the studying look the café man was giving him.

"Maybe he doesn't like it as much as you think, given he's disappeared for a few months."

Severus sipped his tea with as stern of a look as he could muster, which after staring at miscreants from the head table in the Great Hall for years was a formidable look.

"Friend of his, are you?"

"Perhaps," the man said, unaffected by Severus' glare as he turned back to the stove and removed the pot. "What sort of potions does your house need?"

Severus wasn't deterred by the change of topic, but still reeled off a list as he watched the man.

"Cleaning, pesticides, restorative," Severus answered. "It is a room-by-room process."

"I imagine it's rather cathartic," the man said, placing a thermometer in the pot. "Rebuilding instead of destroying."

He knew that it was, knew that he'd chosen a place that needed honest work on it because it would keep him busy and working on things that were in no way related to anything he'd done during the war.

The café owner came out from the curtain he'd momentarily disappeared behind, carrying a 10kg bag of flour on one shoulder, with some escaped flour dust in his hair and in his beard. He was wearing a black shirt again, this time with a small silver mug logo on it.

"I haven't caught your name," Severus said, putting his feet up on the ottoman next to his chair. Around four in the morning, after another fitful hour of tossing and turning, Severus had made plans to find out who exactly owned the café.

A pause of silence settled over the room before the man spoke up again.

"Brewer works, I think. For now," he answered. The worktop was wiped down and the flour sack opened.

"Paranoid?" Severus dryly asked.

"I do brew tea and coffee," came the amused reply. "It is a cafe."

"A cafe that hasn't opened. One that permits only one customer is not a very good café," Severus countered. He dragged the blanket over his lap and left it draped there, trying not to think about the fact that he was only thirty-eight years old and the damp from the rain was making his bones ache.

The man, Brewer, shrugged. A dishcloth gaily attacked his hands as he unwrapped a block of butter, swatting at him as it tried to wipe away the flour on his fingers.

"Recipes aren't quite perfect yet," Brewer said. "Best to get them sorted before the press come at me."

He wasn't looking at Severus when he said it, but rather concentrating heavily on weighing the butter chunk he'd cut. Gears turned slowly in Severus' mind as he thought of the glamour and of Brewer's reaction to Rita Skeeter being outside. Someone closely involved in the war, likely someone that Severus knew. But not turned off by Severus' presence in the café, and certainly not in awe of him either.

Possibly a Slytherin. Possibly someone who'd seen enough horror that Severus was no longer the scariest thing they could imagine, but instead a fellow wizard who'd also gone through it.

"Baking is a precise science, much like potions," Severus said, watching Brewer carefully.

"Less explosive than potions, I reckon," Brewer said, finally offering a smile as he dumped a precisely measured bowl of flour in with the butter. He nodded toward the display case of pastries. "Which one today?"

Severus selected the caramel apple tart and waited as the plate floated over to him. He could watch outside as people wandered by, but no one seemed to notice him through the glass and that suited Severus just fine. The weather had grown steadily worse as September was coming to an end, dropping noticeably in temperature and bringing more rain to the city. Diagon itself didn't have any trees in it, but there were two squares on the muggle side and some autumn leaves had managed to find their way over the Leaky's roof and into the Alley, riding on the wind.

"Did you know," Brewer started, interrupting Severus' thoughts of autumn, his students, and where each had ended up after the war. "You can use jelly babies to lure gnomes out of a garden?"

The question was so far from what Severus was expecting that his hand paused part way up to his mouth with the tart as he stared at Brewer.

"I know traditionally you catch them, spin them, and launch them far away. But you can also lure them out with jelly babies without the risk of being bitten."

"And where exactly do you lure them to?" Severus asked, his eyebrow raised in disbelief. Not likely a pureblood then, if Brewer knew about jelly babies.

"Depends if you like your neighbour," Brewer said, a small laugh escaping with his grin. He'd finished whatever baking he was working on and was cleaning the worktop again.

"We've just come out of a war, Brewer," Severus said, his voice only slightly admonishing. "I'm not about to start a new one with the village."

Brewer's grin faded away as he tossed the cleaning rag into the fireplace across from Severus.

"Would burn off some of this extra energy."

"Hmmph," Severus grumbled, pretending not to know of the restless and anxious energy that Brewer referred to. He'd spent so much time waiting for something to happen, for himself to be found out or for Potter to be found, that he still was simmering under the skin and itching for action.

A ruckus going on in Diagon Alley that could be plainly heard through the window broke him out of his thoughts, but once again no one came into the café or even seemed to notice it. Brewer was now puttering around with a shelf that he was trying to hang up on the wall, and the fire had started in the fireplace. If he closed his eyes, Severus could almost imagine he was in his own sitting room, or the staff room at Hogwarts.

"Is it the same spell preventing owls from entering, as it is hiding the café?" Severus asked, stretching his legs out on the ottoman and drinking more tea.

"No," Brewer answered. He'd come round to the front of the café near Severus, staring at the wall with the shelf in one hand and wand in the other.

"Which begs the question," Severus drawled, "as to why you don't allow post owls in here."

Brewer waved his wand at the wall in a precise and fluid movement that made his wand look like an extension of his hand. The shelf stuck perfectly level above the fireplace, wood crackling and hissing as it aged to match the brickwork as if it had been there for years.

"Maybe I just don't receive any," Brewer said, without facing Severus and with his shoulders raised slightly defensively. Severus hadn't taught for fifteen years without learning exactly how to spot the signs of someone lying.

"A pity," Severus said, not hiding his sarcasm. "If you were involved in the battle, as you've alluded, you'll find that some of the owls come with the promise of money, attention, and the potential for romance."

Brewer glanced over his shoulder at Severus before raising his wand again.

"I think I'll pass, thanks."

….

After returning home he'd unearthed several old issues of the Prophet from his moving materials to verify what he'd already known. Potter's announcement of a continental trip with no expected return date. Potter never shared how long he'd be gone, or where exactly he was going. Merely to the continent, to reset after the dust had settled. His friends as far as Severus could discern were in Australia, and the Weasley he'd been dating in sixth year had been spotted with Longbottom.

Most of the Slytherins had been either laying low or distancing themselves from prejudicial stereotypes, and Severus knew that none had really been close to Potter. Brewer sounded like he was a bit older anyway, as he didn't reply to Severus as if he considered Severus to hold a position of authority, and he had enough maturity or responsibility to be opening his own café.

That he may be conversing so easily with a former student unnerved him more than a little, and Severus sunk into bed and stared at the harvest moon through the window as he tried to figure out why. He'd taught for so many years that nearly everyone younger than him had been his student at some point, and did it really matter if Brewer seemed more than happy to talk about tea and pastries and not demand a damn thing from him?

…..

After the first war the weather in Britain had been unusually perfect, as if a curse had been lifted from the island. The muggles were pleased and slightly suspicious by their good fortune, and the magical had been loose and carefree with their celebrations. Severus had found it unsettling, as the general air was one of pure joy and didn't seem to give any thought to the dead nor the ones who were grieving. The only thoughts to a little boy who'd lost his family were those of exaltation.

Outside his cottage the weather had continued to be dreary and damp, though the bright orange leaves of the trees and small village roadways around had accented the dark pavement like the perfect postcard photo of autumn in rural Wales. In London the leaves were mostly absent, and Severus swiftly avoided the dirt and muck kicked up by the cobblestones as he walked through the Alley. This time round after the Dark Lord's defeat the mood had been much more hesitant and subdued, something that the weather had echoed.

This time they'd lost so many more.

…..

"What exactly do you do with all this baking, considering your cafe isn't opening?"

The drizzle had started up again as Severus entered the café, determined to figure out who the owner was. He could ask, of course, but there was some enjoyment to the challenge of determining it himself. The lack of personal danger if he was wrong was a new, but not unwelcome feeling. That Brewer was easy to talk to because he didn't seem to give a shit about Severus' actions in the war was a thought that Severus pushed away.

"It'll open," Brewer said, confidence rolling off his shoulders as he expertly cut turnover shapes from the dough he had rolled out in front of him. "The extra pastry gets donated to St Mungo's."

"I have my doubts, considering I've never seen you work on the actual cafe itself," Severus dryly said.

Brewer rolled his eyes and Severus noted that he didn't actually seem insulted. The cauldron behind him started to boil, and Severus picked through the new tins of tea that were on the bar. Nettle tea, Darjeeling, and a flavoured Assam.

"You're not here all hours. As for the opening… I'm still working on setting up, so it's all my choices of what happens and when. When I open to the public they'll all have an opinion, so, it can wait."

"And yet, you allowed me in," Severus said, popping open the tin of Darjeeling to smell it.

Brewer balled up the remaining dough from the cut-outs and rolled it flat again.

"You're doing the same, aren't you?" Brewer asked, this time stopping his work to look at Severus with a stare that made Severus shift ever so slightly in discomfort. "How many people have you had visit your cottage?"

"It is not suitable for visitors," Severus crisply responded, snapping the lid of the tin shut.

"Right," Brewer said, cutting out more dough. "Because it's your own private space. And now that you're the Spy Who Won, it's a lot harder to tell who wants to visit to see you, and who wants to go just cos you're Severus Snape and they're nosy."

"What would you know about that?" Severus quietly asked, his voice tightly controlled even though he felt that Brewer had cut through and seen exactly what Severus had been bitter about since he'd become a household name.

"What you've said. The letters, the people in the street, the articles. You've complained about all of them but you never talk about anyone else."

The tea mugs floated down from the shelf and toward the bar, but for once Severus didn't rush to fill the loose-leaf strainer.

"I clearly don't speak about the private aspects of— "

"And you're here nearly every day."

Severus snapped his mouth shut and pursed his lips into thin angry lines as he came to the same conclusion that Brewer seemed to. Severus was there because he appreciated the company.

"Not that I mind," Brewer continued, maddeningly calm as he put a tray of turnovers in the oven. "As you said, I make too many pastries."

"Then we have come to an understanding that once you open the café, I will no longer return," Severus finally said, standing as tall as he could to mask his vulnerability.

"Why?" Brewer asked, clearing the worktop enough so that he could pour their teas. "You know it'll be empty when you're here."

He picked up the cauldron of boiling water and before Severus could puzzle out his statement, cursed loudly and nearly flung the water.

Severus had his wand out in an instant, levitating the water away as Brewer clutched at his arm.

"Don't apply pressure," Severus ordered, steering the cauldron to land on the bar top far out of the way. Brewer was grimacing as he held his arm out, the skin an angry red colour from where it had touched against the cast iron. Severus, who had dealt with more burns than he could count in a lifetime in the potions classroom and thus acted more out of muscle memory than intention, began chanting a healing spell.

"I will skip tea today," Severus finally said a few moments later, as Brewer stared at the shiny and slightly less angry looking welt on his arm.

…..

Severus spent the next four days working on his cottage and perusing the local shops in town. With his updated wardrobe he didn't stick out as much amongst the muggles, and was determined to show his face enough in the village to not appear as a suspicious recluse. He was fairly productive, setting up his entire library in the second bedroom, but found his evenings quiet and prone to reflecting back on the misery and mistakes he'd made in his life.

He sipped from his glass as the field outside his sitting room grew dark, earlier and earlier as the days passed. The summary was always the same. Dumbledore was gone and his boyhood contemporaries either dead or in Azkaban. Severus hounded by a public who only cared for him as a hero, and him, lonely, maudlin and somewhat drunk on firewhiskey, mentally stumbling over an observation from the only actual person he regularly conversed with. A baker that he didn't even know his real name.

…..

The reopening of Hogwarts, pushed to the third week of October, managed to happen on a rare sunny and pleasantly warm evening. It was a much different mood from the cold dark night in May when it had been under siege. Severus had agreed to go because he'd not been able to find a way to turn down the Ministry's strong suggestion that he attend, and he was fairly certain that Minerva would bodily drag him there. The castle had not so surprisingly started to lose its feeling of home, causing a bitter taste on his tongue as Severus kept glancing toward the stairs leading to the dungeons.

The courtyard served as a gathering area before the ceremony as the guests mixed into groups of chatter and Severus made his way around the perimeter, falling into the steps he used to take on patrol duty during school events. Well aware that Minerva would spot him leaving if he tried, he stayed just within the courtyard and studied those who'd been invited. Several ministry officials were flirting from group to group, and the "heroes of the battle" seemed to have their own clusters as well.

Severus grabbed a glass of wine from an elf as he walked, noticing Flitwick sharing raucous laughter with Sprout as they retold a tale to former students. Minerva and Hooch were nearby as well, discussing vegetable gardens and the upcoming year.

He received a few congratulations and thank yous as he walked his rounds, and asked himself why he was surprised that there was nothing more. Severus had ensured to make the last year as hellish as he could to ensure his role was fulfilled exactly as planned, and he knew that hadn't endeared him to anyone.

Still, he was the official headmaster of Hogwarts for another half hour or so, and he inspected the courtyard as he walked, checking on the repairs to the flagstone. Most of the ceremony was to take place near the front gates, where (he'd been told) Potter's body had been carried by Rubeus Hagrid and the Dark Lord had taunted the survivors.

A piercing whistle from Madame Hooch sounded precisely at half three and the chatter died down as people shuffled into their assigned places – the heroes and Ministry officials at the front, and a surprisingly large number of press and others sitting in folding chairs to watch. He'd not attended the funeral of Albus Dumbledore, but imagined that it had looked similar on a much grander scale.

He tried to ignore people glancing at him during the ceremony, instead keeping his eyes focused on Minerva and her speech about a new school year and healing for all students. Potter, being the Boy Who Lived, had been told to stand nearby and Severus could feel the exhaustion emanating from him. Severus at least only had to do an official passing of the headmaster role to Minerva, whereas Potter had been requested to give a speech.

It seemed well received, though the words Severus had bothered to pay attention to sounded more like they'd come from Granger than Potter. He watched over the crowd as Potter talked, barely concealing his irritation at the clicking cameras and witches holding up posters and photos of Potter to be autographed.

That there was more than one sign for himself baffled him.

Potter returned to his side as Shacklebolt took over the podium, looking irritated but like he was putting on a pleased face. The irritation grew as the Minister spoke and shared tales of the brave work of Potter and friends and requested solemn moments of silence for those who did not make it.

Severus tuned out most of it, aware that the romanticism of what they did will only grow more far-fetched through the years. He was a bitter, solitary, terrible person and no good deed tally from a war he had little choice in fighting would change that.

"When do we get to leave?" Potter muttered under his breath, quietly enough that Severus wasn't entirely sure if he was intended to hear it. His friends had not returned from Australia for the ceremony, leaving Potter surprisingly quiet and solitary through as much of it as he could get away with.

A Prophet reporter took the opportunity during a speech switch to yell toward Potter and ask what he planned to do now that the war was over. Severus admired the answer, a meaningless stringing together of ideas that all sounded vaguely legitimate and that would disclose nothing about what Potter was actually currently up to. A moment later and Severus understood exactly why.

Potter gave another quick and forced smile as the reporter was asked to wait until the end for further questions. He and Severus stood straighter automatically as Shacklebolt made his way down from the podium, Severus shaking Shacklebolt's hand out of obligation of ceremony and narrowing his eyes to make sure Potter did so as well.

Shacklebolt was full of warm gratitude for them both, but Severus didn't hear any of it as he stared at Potter's outstretched arm, at the roughened and calloused hand, and the shiny pink skin peeking out from Potter's sleeve.

The Minister moved on a second later, and Severus' hand shot out to snatch Potter's arm. He didn't miss the flinch from Potter, but noted the tense muscles and steady hand as Severus turned the arm slightly to confirm that the very edge of pink skin led to the rest of the burn he'd helped heal only a few days before.

"Potter," Severus growled, suddenly letting go as if the heat was still searing the skin and passing through to Severus.

He'd expected a look of guilt, of fear perhaps, or of triumph as Severus discovered his secret.

Severus was not expecting the hard, challenging look that Potter gave him instead.