Chapter 1: Meet Mr Wesley

For five years, the building had sat on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, as its curtains frayed and old woodwork began to erode without the protection of wards long since removed. It was barely possible to read the paintwork in its sad condition, to make out the letters on the sign that hang almost mournfully in the wind. Once every few months, some well-meaning villager would suggest something be done about it, that it was an eyesore in the generally homey village; but, just as with the shrieking shack, most simply chose to ignore it.

Over a decade prior, Madame Puddifoot's had been a prime location for the teenagers that ventured into their village every other weekend, drawn to the almost sickeningly saccharine building like kneazles to cream (though, many of the villagers recalled, they too had done the same in their time). The… distinctive… decorating style of the owner, her eyesight failing with her years, had been as much a part of the village as the Three Broomsticks, though perhaps not as adored.

However, the growing darkness of the Second War had decreased the shops clientele, and when Madame Puddifoot herself passed on not long after the Dark Lord's defeat, it was hardly surprising that her grandson chose to discontinue the business. And, as the Wizarding World began to slowly recover, no one seemed inclined to purchase a cramped tea shop, falling apart through lack of care.

Which is why the villagers were surprised, when one fine day they heard sounds from within the shop. Strange banging sounds, like furniture was being moved –or thrown – about. Ripping, tearing, and even smashing. And the occasional sound of voices, or muffled laughter. But as hard as they tried, no villager could catch a glimpse through the boarded up windows, and they began to assume a poltergeist was at work, and wondered if it was at all linked to the sounds that once came from the fabled Shrieking Shack, many decades in the past.

Then, one bright summer morning, the villagers arose to see the site transformed. It was as if an illusion had been lifted, an illusion so subtly and expertly crafted that even the best among them could not sense its presence, for such work could not have been accomplished in a single night. And where the dilapidated skeleton of Madame Puddifoot's once stood, there appeared a cosy wooden building, with a clear glass front, smoke issuing from the rebuilt chimney, and a simple sign in golden lettering:

CORNISH CAKES AND DELICACIES

Overcome by curiosity, and perchance hoping to see some more of the powerful magic that had concealed such work from sight, if not sound, the villagers of Hogsmeade began to trickle into the café, which seemed simultaneously so familiar and so very different. The circular tables that once crowded the small dining room were gone, replaced by a couple of long benches that left a feeling of space, while fitting near as many people. The walls were papered in soft shades of blue and white, decorated with soothing scenes of country and ocean, leaving the visitors immediately relaxed, even in such strange surroundings.

And, from the large swinging door at the far end of the room, came the tantalising smell of food.

Each burning with curiosity, yet unwilling to be the first to speak, for several minutes the villagers milled in the bright and spacious room, murmuring quietly amongst themselves at the amazing change in the old building. Then, just as they were beginning to believe the place deserted, they heard the sound of footsteps, followed by the appearance at the door of a complete and total stranger.

Wizarding Britain, in itself, was a fairly small community, and Hogsmeade even more so. And, with their proximity to the institution where most magical youth were educated, it could easily be assumed that almost any magical individual in the country was known by someone. But not this man. From his long, black hair – a throwback to past generations, despite his middling age – to his hazel eyes and worn face, to the slight hitch in his leg, as though still suffering from old injuries, this man was a complete stranger, with the accent and attitude of an Englishman. It was strange.

Deliberately ignoring the concerted stares he was receiving, though certainly aware, the gentleman carried a steaming tray to the nearer of the two tables, easily dodging the customers to place it gently on the deep blue tablecloth, revealing a selection of unfamiliar yet appetising confections. His voice quiet, yet somehow easily reaching every ear, he said, "My name is Blake Wesley," before returning to what they now assumed to be the kitchen, without another word.

Sharing befuddled looks, the villagers nevertheless carefully tasted some of the new owner's confections. And, they admitted, though the man himself was confusing, the food was better than any Madame Puddifoot once served.

Weeks progressed, and before long you would be hard pressed to find a resident of Hogsmeade who was not known to frequent Mr Wesley's Café, sampling the very finest examples of danishes and strudels and some strange cake called profiteroles, numerous confections both sweet and savoury. But few saw much of the enigmatic Mr Wesley, who avoided every question, seeming to prefer to stay in his kitchen.

However, one thing confused the villagers more than anything else. For all that Mr Wesley certainly knew about the Wizarding world, and the frequent visits of the young defence professor indicated a friendship that the man, still viewed with some contempt towards his father's actions, would be unlikely to find with a muggle, Mr Wesley was never once seen to perform magic. Not in his cooking, for some of the younger children had dared venture into his kitchen to discover chopping boards and ovens and piles of dough and fruit, received through a weekly delivery using the Knight Bus of all things. Not in his cleaning, for he could often be found with cloth and spray, hard at work on some irritating stain in the woodwork. Nor with carrying, or mending, or even warding, with the building seeming to look after itself, much to their bemusement.

No, the villagers eventually decided, shaking their heads in pity, this gentleman must be a squib, doomed to be trapped between two worlds, unable to fit in either. It was sad, to think of a man forced to spend his life doing everything the hard way, while about him his friends and neighbours achieved the same results so quickly. Because, of course, no Wizard would ever forsake magic, and muggle methods would most certainly never be superior…

Yes, Mr Blake Wesley was a squib, with the fortunate patronage of the very skilled Professor Malfoy allowing him to subsist in their world. And, for all that none of the villagers would ever follow Voldemort's ideals, they made little attempt to contact him after that, preferring to observe from afar.

And Mr Wesley preferred it that way.