This was written as part of the 13 drabble challenge for the Harry Potter Fanfic Club Discord server (read 'till the end to know how it ranked).
Each word prompt is used as the title of the corresponding chapter.
Every drabble is between 150 and 350 words, per the rules of the challenge.
This is a 1920s AU without magic.
Chapter 1. Crisp
Sunday, December 15th, 1929
The man in the window held his cup of coffee close to his lips. The soft vapour draped his handsome face, drowning his hairline in a tempered, contained, humidity. He took a sip, and another, and another—downing the burning cup like it was nothing more than a refreshing glass of water on a warm summer's day. The waitress hurried over, offering him a refill—he nodded absentmindedly, his eyes turning to the window.
Pansy inhaled sharply and hid further in the shadows. The dagger grew heavier in her hand, its edge sinking into her flesh, digging into her fingers, which now leaked warm blood down the sewer. She ignored the pain, her mind elsewhere entirely.
He wasn't what she had imagined when she agreed to take the job. Bellatrix had been clear and concise: he was a nobody, a man of flesh and blood, who enjoyed the occasional martini on Fridays, lovingly prepared by his wife—a redhead, she had been told, with gorgeous curls and a contagious smile. It would be easy to pull off, Bellatrix had insisted as she had placed the dagger on her chestnut desk, by the release form.
Pansy had reluctantly agreed. Poison was usually her weapon of choice—it felt human, feminine, like brewing a cup of tea, or making a soup. Daggers were a man's weapon—even one as dainty as the one Pansy held in her hand.
Slashing a throat was an intimate act.
She turned her gaze back to the man in the window. A flock of young women were staring at him intently, giggling amongst them, surely placing a bet as to who would catch his attention first. His hair was slicked back, and it was clear he had never worried about appealing to others, not for a single day, not even for a single minute. The edges of his shirt screamed of belonging, money and upper-class laundry detergent. They were crisp, blindingly white and well-ironed. No doubt thanks to his gorgeously red-curled and bright-smiled wife.
Today would not be the day he died.