Chapter Text
Slug & Jiggers was always a few degrees too warm. The smell of herbs and boiled nettle clung to the air, and a faint mist hung over the rows of glass jars. Behind the counter, Severus Snape was counting bezoars, trying to ignore the name-tag pinned to his robe. Management insists, his employer had said that morning, all sunshine and trust. The man was too cheerful for Knockturn’s doorstep neighbour, but he’d been the only one willing to hire Severus when every other shop in Diagon Alley turned him down. Severus wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he respected him for that.
The bell over the door rang.
Someone confident had entered — quick, sure steps, the sort that expected things to work out.
“Good afternoon,” said the man, setting a hat on the counter. “I’m after something restorative. A tonic, perhaps. My hair could use encouragement.”
Severus didn’t look up from the scales. “What kind of tonic?”
The man considered. “The sort that convinces you life is still worth living after signing too many forms.”
Severus glanced up. He looked to be in his late forties, well-dressed, self-assured, with faint laugh lines that refused to be bitter. “For mood or appearance?”
“Both,” the man said, brightening. “Can one bottle do both?”
“Not legally,” Severus said. He pointed to two shelves. “Gentian infusion for nerves. Sleekeazy’s concentrate for hair. Don’t mix them.”
“Understood,” said the man cheerfully, already reaching for both. He twisted both lids off at once.
“Don’t—” Severus began.
Too late. The liquids met in mid-air and exploded. A spray of green-gold foam shot upward, coating the counter and most of the man’s sleeves. Severus reacted on instinct: wand drawn, containment charm, one swift arc. The blast sealed itself into a glowing bubble that hissed and sank harmlessly to the floor.
Silence followed, except for the faint crackle of dissolving potion.
The man blinked through the slime, then started to laugh. “Well. I haven’t been this sticky since the Dueling Gala of ’38.”
Severus frowned. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“You saved my skin,” the man said, shaking a drop from his cuff. “I should thank you properly. Let me buy you tea.”
“That’s unnecessary.”
“Exactly,” the man said. “Which makes it a rare pleasure.”
Before Severus could refuse, his employer appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Take the break, lad! We’ve all earned a cup after that show.”
The man smiled at Severus as if the matter were settled. It clearly was.
“Fine,” Severus said. “Half an hour. Then I’m back.”
Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour was busy for a weekday afternoon. The tables along the street shimmered under sunlight and chatter. Severus took the farthest corner, half in shadow. His companion ordered tea and ice cream with the confidence of someone born to both.
“I should apologise,” the man said when the waitress left. “I imagine you get explosions often.”
“Not from customers.”
“I’m a retired Auror,” he said. “Defused hex-bombs for a living. I’m afraid of very few things, but thinning at the crown is coming for me with an axe.”
Severus raised an eyebrow. “That explains your technique.”
The man laughed quietly. “Sharp tongue. Good sign. Hogwarts?”
“Yes,” Severus said. “Going into seventh year.”
“Ah. Ambitious.”
“Poorly paid,” Severus said.
That earned another laugh. The man had an easy way of talking that made Severus wary. Around them, people had begun to notice. The stranger’s good looks and clear laughter drew glances; his companion’s dark robes made an odd contrast.
The waitress brought tea. They drank. The man kept the conversation light. Work, ingredients, small details that somehow didn’t feel like interrogation. For a moment, Severus almost relaxed.
Then a flash went off near the door. A photographer was lowering his camera, and a woman with a notebook stepped forward.
“Sir!” she said brightly. “A few words for The Daily Prophet, if you please? First public outing since the separation—how are you finding freedom?”
The man blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Lord Potter,” she said, triumphant. “You look splendid! And who is your companion?”
Severus froze. So that’s who he was.
The man recovered smoothly. “My companion is trying to have his tea,” he said. “Good day.”
She didn’t move. “Just a name?”
“Of course not,” Severus muttered.
“Perfect,” she said, scribbling anyway.
The man gave her a smile sharp enough to cut paper. “Madam, if you’re going to invent the story, do try to spell it correctly.”
The reporter left, flustered but satisfied.
“They’ll print it by morning,” Severus said.
“They print something every morning,” Potter, though Severus still refused to use the name aloud, said easily. “Might as well make it interesting.”
They finished their tea in silence. When Severus stood, the man insisted on paying. He didn’t argue; it wasn’t worth the effort.
At the apothecary door, the man straightened his coat. “Thank you, Mr Snape. For saving my life and tolerating my company.”
Severus frowned. “How did you…”
He tapped the hated name-tag. “Occupational hazard. I read things.”
The shop was quiet except for the faint burble of something brewing in the back room. Severus stood behind the counter, restocking a shelf of powdered dittany, when the door burst open and a delivery boy stumbled in, ink on his fingers and a copy of the Prophet under his arm.
“Hot off the press!” the boy shouted. “Big one today!” He slapped the paper down and left before Severus could throw something at him.
The headline blared across the front page in gold ink. Severus stared.
LORD POTTER TAKES TEA WITH MYSTERY YOUNG MAN
His own face, blurred but unmistakable, poured tea while the older man smiled in perfect composure. The caption: “Society’s most charming bachelor enjoys a quiet afternoon with a promising scholar.”
The air in Severus’s lungs turned to lead.
By Celestina Quillfeather, Senior Society Correspondent
In an unexpected display of post-divorce cheer, Lord F. Potter—distinguished Auror, inventor, and long-standing member of the Wizengamot—was seen yesterday afternoon taking tea at Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour with a mysterious dark-haired young man of scholarly appearance.
The pair, seated in full view of Diagon Alley, were observed sharing not only tea but conversation—and, witnesses insist, laughter. Those close enough to hear report that the young man, described by one onlooker as “severe but oddly compelling,” poured tea for Lord Potter with an ease suggesting more than casual acquaintance.
This outing marks Lord Potter’s first appearance since his amicable separation from Lady Euphemia earlier this summer. Sources within the Department of Magical Lineages confirm that the gesture, public refreshments with a companion of similar availability for marriage, could, under traditional etiquette clauses, be interpreted as a formal expression of intent.
Neither Lord Potter nor his mysterious companion could be reached for comment by press time, though when asked directly if this meeting signified a new chapter, Lord Potter merely replied, “Goodness, such a fine young man? I should be so lucky.”
More on page five: “Modern Love in the Age of Etiquette. When Does Tea Mean Commitment?”
Severus read the article once, twice, then a third time, slower. Each word crawled across the page like a curse: distinguished Auror, formal expression of intent, a new chapter.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of course they’d-”
He looked toward the door, half-expecting the sound of laughter from outside. Gossip would already be spreading along the Alley. The shopkeeper next door would see it by lunch. The Slytherins by dinner. Lily would see it. and .. Merlin.. The Marauders!
He folded the paper carefully, like evidence at a crime scene, and pressed his fingers to his temple. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”
The bell rang.
He didn’t need to look up. Only one man in Britain walked with that particular air of good humour and complete immunity to disaster.
“Mr Snape,” said the man, stepping up to the counter, “it seems the Prophet has decided our afternoon was significant.”
Severus held up the paper like a charge sheet. “Significant? They’ve implied I’m your fiancée!”
The man blinked mildly. “Have they? I haven’t read that far down.”
“They’ve named me a ‘mysterious young man’ as if I’m - ” He broke off, words failing under the weight of sheer disbelief. “Do you have any idea what this means?”
“Well,” the man said, considering, “you’ll have to endure some polite speculation. I’ll have to learn to look bashful. Hardly the end of the world.”
“This is my world,” Severus snapped. “And it’s small enough without being mocked across the Alley.”
The man’s tone softened. “They’ll tire of it soon enough. These stories burn fast.”
“I can’t afford to be in any story,” Severus shot back. “I should never have agreed to that tea.”
He shoved the folded paper across the counter. “Here. Congratulations on your ‘new chapter.’ I hope it’s worth the catastrophe.”
The man glanced at the paper, read the headline, and gave the faintest huff of amusement. “Efficient, though,” he said. “Saves paperwork.”
Severus stared at him, incredulous. “You find this funny?”
“A little,” the man admitted. “If it helps, I’ll write a statement denying the engagement.”
“Good. Do that.”
“But,” he added lightly, “you may find that denying things only makes them more interested.”
“Get out,” Severus said, voice low.
The man inclined his head with perfect courtesy. “Until next time, then.”
When the door closed, Severus stood very still, knuckles white against the counter. Outside, the Alley hummed with the ordinary noise of shoppers, but every voice seemed to carry a whisper of laughter. He reached for the broom and began sweeping a patch of floor that didn’t need it.
He would never, ever, have tea with anyone again.