DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off of this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does. And if I reference to anyone else that does not seem to be original, chances are, they aren't. But I do have some of my own original characters in here (i.e., maybe, JUST maybe, the characters I didn't mention in this disclaimer?) Please don't take these! However, if you do, I can't see what I can do about it. Just refrain, please?

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The Case of the Nearly-Knapped Secret Recipe

I'm writing this next entry because it was my first case here in London, not because it was of much estimable merit. But whatever…

Well today began like any other day normally did, for me. I awoke where I had dozed off last night in my recliner, stood up, stretched, and went immediately to my computer for my online-update with all the strangers I regularly chat with on the internet. Little did I expect that this day would be any different from those that I had lived every day for the past two weeks.

It had been as long since my ad had been placed in the paper. No one had replied to it, though a few former students and colleagues from Hogwarts prank-called me on the Muggle telephone to see if it was really me. When I picked up the receiver, they would breathe for a minute, ask if they had reached the office of Samuel Snape, hear my assent, falter and begin to say something, (or, as in the case of the Weasley twins, giggle insanely) then think better of it and ring off. It became most tiresome after a while to the point that any time the infernal machine rang, I would feel like chucking the thing out the window. However, that would not do very well for business, I suppose, so I had to consent to learning to deal with it.

Finally, about midday, just after I had showered and poached an egg for some fashion of a lunch, there was a timid knock at my door. Even this did not greatly catch my attention. I had ordered some books from online, and I expected them either that day or the next. "Come in," I called.

I watched the grubby brass doorknob jiggle, startled, as someone grasped it, and it slowly turned. Then the door opened.

A small, middle-aged Muggle woman stood there. She was very petite; her expressive china-doll-perfect face was well made up. Her physique was slight, though the clothes she wore, a tweed skirt and jacket, hardly emphasized the fact. Her hair was a soft brunette with streaks of grey here and there, and her eyes were two copper pieces glinting on the sidewalk at sunset. She grasped a tweed purse agitatedly. Overall, she gave me the impression of one who tried her best to look smart, but who didn't very much know how to. I judged, based on her standardized generic make-up, that she probably sold the stuff for a living. I myself stood and politely pulled out a second chair for her, placing it directly across my desk.

"Do come in," I said as amicably as I could manage (I hoped, for her confidence's sake, that I didn't still reek of the two pints I had downed this morning earlier.) With a small smile, the woman sat down on the heavy leather chair that I proffered in a way I thought looked professional. I observed that, on the corner of her purse, was inscribed the name 'E. Dorkas." I settled back down in my own chair. "Well Ms. Dorkas," I said, using the "startle and impress" approach on the woman. "What brings you here today?"

As I expected, the little woman was unfathomably amazed by my simple conclusion. Her expression entirely changed from somewhat nervous to completely astounded. "My word!" she said stupidly, several times over. (She's one of the only few people I know of who actually use that phrase anymore…just an interesting piece of trivia for you…) Finally, when she finished gawking at me as though I had suddenly announced that I was the newly-declared king of Peru, she said something else. This something else consisted of: "Well, are you Sam Snape, the detective? Am I in the right place?"

That struck me as somewhat hilarious. Perhaps it doesn't affect you in the same way, but that's how it appeared to me. And I nearly laughed, but I refrained, being rather anxious to retain my strong impassive image.

"Yes, I am Sam Snape. And yes, since you inquired as to such, you are in the right place." I extended my hand and she shook it languidly, with a sigh.

"Well, I'm all right, thanks to my newly-installed security alarm." This is what she said.

"You had an attempted burglary?" (That much was far too obvious, and I wasn't even trying to use the startle-and-impress method…)

Again, however, she gaped at me innocently, as though I had turned into a butterfly. Which would be very bizarre, for I feel that I have absolutely nothing in common with butterflies. If I were to turn into any animal, I should think I would either become a coyote or a raven. Maybe even a spider. But that's beside the fact. Wait…I just realized those last two sentences rhymed…what a coincidence…but now I'm TRULY going off-topic. Back to what I was saying.

So she looked at me for a long time. Finally, she got the nerve to say, "Well…yes…now, that was amazing!"

I gave her a smirk and looked down at her in an almost-superior manner. "Now, madam, would you be so kind as to explain to me the purpose of your visit in a timely manner? I'm quite a busy man, you know."

(That was not a mistruth; there was a discussion on Yahoo! just then that I was anxious to join, about…well, it's not important, so why should I tell you?)

Then Ms. Dorkas smiled genuinely. "Of course, I'm so sorry," she said quickly, and she hastened to explain.

"Well, I own a bakery down on Piccadilly," she began quickly.

"Madam, please do not hurry yourself. I would prefer that I understand you rather than have you say everything you need to within an impossibly small amount of time. It would be best not to mumble and look at your feet like a bashful schoolgirl, either, just for your information; posture improves one's annunciation considerably. Now I have…" (I made a grand spectacle of checking my appointment book…which at the time, only held the times for my dental appointment later that week with the mediwitch…what, so I still go to the wizarding dentists though I live in the Muggle world, nothing wrong with that is there…but anyhow…so I checked my appointment book) "…quite the most of an hour before my next client arrives."

"Is that enough time?"

"It usually is sufficient, yes, exceptional cases unconsidered."

"Oh, all right," she said nervously. "Well, it all began yesterday."

I collected my pen and posed it meticulously over a cheap bright yellow notepad, raising one eyebrow at Ms. Doraks as I did so. After a moment's awkward pause on her part, I sensed that she didn't exactly know how to begin.

"Now, what happened yesterday?" I prompted her gently.

"Well," she floundered, "Yesterday I came into the bakery as usual--"

"—I beg your pardon," I interrupted. "But would you enlighten me as to which bakery?"

"Oh, how silly of me, of course!" the woman muttered, "The bakery I and my husband own."

So much for the cosmetics-saleswoman theory. I was instantly glad I hadn't alluded to that.

"I see," I murmured, starting a rough sketch of a bird on the paper with my pencil. It was very entertaining to see how I held her in suspense as I stared so intently at my paper while I drew. Some small amounts of alarm, curiosity, and suspicion were in her alert eyes. Finally, I gave up on that segment of the wing and turned back to my client. "Go on," I said dramatically.

"So I came into the bakery," she said carefully. "Al was already in there, 'cause he always does the heavy baking by night, when we don't have customers."

"The full name of your husband is Albert Dorkas?" I asked suddenly. I came to that easily, from knowing that Al was a common abbreviated name for Albert, and that this Mrs. Dorkas was…well, his wife.

She looked at me. "Yes, how on earth did you know?"

I stared at her. "It is called observation and deduction, my dear lady."

She nodded in awe, shifting uncomfortably under my scrutiny. "Astounding."

"But what is your Christian name, just for my information?" I just realized that she hadn't exactly given me this information really in this rather roundabout conversation.

She slapped herself hard on the head. "Of course! I'm so sorry, how forgetful of me! My full name is Eleanor Agnes Dorkas, there you go."

"Don't slap yourself, madam, if you deem my advice worth considering; it kills brain cells, which can be very instrumental in performing daily activities." I just had to tell her, even though I was (correction…AM) a slave of the habit of hitting myself also. Well, that's my worst vice of nowadays--besides my alcoholism, of course—but that's really not much considering that I did, in my youth, cut myself on purpose. Dumbledore, who was acting as somewhat of a counsellor to me at the time, advised me to slap myself instead of cutting myself when I was angry at something I had done. His idea, apparently, was to wean me onto something still destructive but less violent, and then to get me off of even that. I never did get over the slapping part, though. It's somewhat hilarious; whenever I slap myself in his presence, he winces, because he knows that he's at fault for that habit of mine. He's talked to me about it before, told me to stop it, and he was, in fact, the one who informed me of the fact that it was damaging to the brain. But the habit has become too ingrained for him to do anything about it now. Well, as I said, it's better than keeping a razor in the sole of one's shoe and running off to a secluded closet to streak one's arm with red scratches. But I see I've really gone off topic. How is it that I am able to write so fluently about these things when I haven't discussed them with a soul for years? Bizarre. All right, I must focus on the narrative again….ahem. ANYHOW.

She looked very peaked for a moment, but she said nothing. I scribbled down her name and her husband's, just in case I randomly forgot them, not that I had any intention of doing so.

"Tell me…about your bakery," I said, finally.

Mrs. Dorkas' eyes lit up. "Well," she said, (I noted on the pad that she used the word 'well' far too often when beginning her sentences) "Al and I set it up when we were first married. It was, and still is, a lovely little shop, the perfect place for one to stop by for a leisurely afternoon tea, the old fashioned way."

I nodded. "Indeed, many find it difficult to reserve time to have their tea properly, myself included. It is a rare day when I am able to find the capacity to have anything other than tea at work." This was entirely true; I never had enough pocket cash ready to be able to indulge in such frivolities as afternoon tea at a restaurant, at least on a normal basis. Mainly, I simply boiled my tea, served myself a few stale crackers from a box that had been open for weeks, and had it at the computer.

Mrs. Dorkas smiled shyly. "Well, sir, if the Mrs. and yourself ever--"

Here, however, I broke in again. "There IS no Mrs., madam."

She looked at me a bit closer. "Oh, really?" she said, tilting her head to the side, as a bird does when it looks at you curiously. "You seem as though you would be the family type."

Here I could not restrain a snort of contempt. Me, married, a family? A constantly depressed, often inebriated, ever-scowling, ex-death eater who hated life and the world in general? In her dreams, the foolish woman. But then, she didn't know any of this unless she was better at deduction than myself, which I very much doubted. For her presumptuous comment, I 'let her off' easily, however; she was merely scathed by a glare and an uncomfortable comment on my part.

"Indeed not. But is this truly relevant to the case at hand?" I tried to seem as aloof as I could.

The flustered woman shook her head quickly, her hair whipping across her face as she did so. "No, no, of course not." She took a breath. "Remember what Al said to say…remember…"she murmured to herself under her breath. Raising one eyebrow at the woman, whom I was learning to disdain increasingly with every passing second, I leaned back in my chair. Perhaps she would come to her mind someday.

It did take her a full five minutes to collect her thoughts and then, finally, turn back to me. "All righty," she said, more confidentially than she obviously felt. "Well," (again) "Basically, I need you, sir, to find my burglar."

"Ah." That was all I considered necessary to say. I hoped to Merlin that she would continue of her own accord.

Thankfully, she did…after a momentary pause and an expectant glance from me. "You see, I came into the bakery as usual yesterday morning."

I was surprised and rather impressed. Apparently, this woman had replayed the entire conversation in that five minute lapse of time she had spent silent, and was able to remember the exact sentence she had gone off her mark. This, I decided, was the first more favourable element of this woman. I did not like her at all yet, I simply realized that there was more to her than I had thought at first glance. I decided, in my head, to classify her as the epitome of a Hufflepuff. Better them than Gryffindor, anyhow.

She went on. "When I came in, as usual, and Al had left to go sleep at home, I set the burglar alarm on the perimeter of the store to prevent any early-bird hooligans who had been up all night in the bars and such from breaking in."

Scratch, scratch, my pen running across the paper. Now I was drawing the head of the bird.

"I see," I encouraged, when she seemed to expect a response.

"Well, so I did that, and then went to the back to decorate the pre-order cakes that were being picked up that day. Then, suddenly, the burglar alarm went screaming. I ran out to the front of the store and I figure ran right past me from behind a shelf. They dashed out through the skylight in the lavatory, climbing up a rope they had brought, I guess. I tried to go after him, but I didn't have a rope. Then I dismantled the alarm and ran out to the street to see if I could see the burglar from the street."

She paused breathlessly. Apparently, the only way the woman could recount experiences were by speaking extremely fast and unintelligibly.

"I didn't see him. He had gotten clean away." Here she sounded almost happy about it, as though she relished the fact. "Well, then I went back inside to see what he had been trying to steal. I then saw that the door to the office had been thrown open. I hurried in there, and, to my great shock, saw that the safe's lock had been severely damaged."

She paused dramatically. I looked at her and prayed she would continue without my saying anything. Talking disturbs my thought process.

"I approached it and examined it. I saw that someone had tried to rifle the safe, but that they were unable to. The crowbar they had been using to pry it open lay forgotten on the floor. I opened the safe, properly, and saw to it that its contents were undisturbed. Nothing had been taken, so then I went back to the phone and called the police."

I looked at her. She had purposefully, I knew, evaded answering the question of what was in the safe. To be blunt, I asked her. "…And what was in the safe that was so important, may I ask?"

The woman looked positively nervous. "I wouldn't want to tell you that, sir," she said.

I stood up, a dark look coming onto my face. "Are you sure of that, madam?"

The little Mrs. Dorkas nodded uncertainly.

"Then I suggest," I said coldly, "That you put an end to this nonsense and remove yourself from my office."

"Wait, I didn't mean it like--" she quailed, flinching.

I interrupted her. "--If you will not be so kind as to inform me of all the facts, withholding none that are relevant to the case, then obviously the matter is not as important as it would seem. In that scenario, this appointment…" (though it was definitely not pre-appointed in any sense of the phrase) "…is a perfect waste of both my and your time." I strode angrily to the front door and threw it open. "I wish to bid you good day, madam." All this was a simple stratagem of course. As much as I disrespected her, I wouldn't throw her out without giving her a chance to talk. This was merely a conspiracy on my part to get her to talk quicker.

Mrs. Dorkas looked at me, looked at the door, looked at me again, and cracked. "Mr. Snape," she said feverishly, "If you think it is so important what we kept in that safe--"

"By Mer—er, God, it is!" I nearly had forgotten to curse in a Muggle fashion.

She looked at me rather oddly; I'll grant you she had the perfect right to do so, as well.

"Well, all we keep in that safe," she said slowly, "Are my recipes."

I stared her down as I closed the door and made my way back to my desk.

"Yes, I know, it sounds rather bizarre, but some of those recipes are older than me. My great-grandmother was a fantastic baker, and she passed down all of her priceless baking tips down to my grandmother, then my mother, and then to me. I am, myself, endowing them to my niece."

I nodded as I leaned back in my chair again. Seeing her expectant look, I hastily grabbed my notepad and sketched a very detailed eye to the bird.

"So," I said finally, "There is nothing in the safe save these recipes?"

"No, Mr. Snape, nothing."

"I see." More scratching. This sketch was coming out to be quite good, actually. When I finished it, I decided to scan it and put it on the internet. With the money generated from its sale as a graphic, I might just be able to pay my rent this month.

"Now would you tell me, who exactly would want to steal your recipes and why? Are there any particular recipes that any particular person might desire?"

"Well…" the little lady thought, "Nearly every baker I've come across has always asked for my Secret Ingredient Chocolate Caramel Crumb Coffee Cake Supreme."

What a horribly tedious name for a simple coffee cake. I said nothing, although I did start to form the beak of the bird. By a slight mishap, my pen slipped, causing it to become terribly contorted. Ah well, it would be a vulture now.

Almost on cue, there was a knock on the door.

I rose and stalked across the room, surprised. I had lied when I said that I had another client coming, of course; for a moment I was rather startled. With a curt, "Just a moment, Mrs. Dorkas," I threw open the door.

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To be continued! Please rate and review if you care about me. sniff