Fic: Lupin's Magical Loaves (Get Your Buns and Alibis Here) for liseuse

[woldy]

Title: Lupin's Magical Loaves (Get Your Buns and Alibis Here)
Author: woldy
Recipient: liseuse
Rating: PG
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *none*
Word count: ~2900 words
Summary: In which there is uprising in the kitchen, kneading dough is not a euphemism, and Sirius devours sticky buns.
Notes: This is a scenario I have been wanting to write for years, so liseuse's wildcard prompt was the most glorious excuse. The baking details are inspired by Peter Reinhart's Artisan Breads Every Day, but if this fic is flat or crumbly then the responsibility is mine alone.


Remus wakes in the dark to the beeping of his alarm spell. He fumbles for his wand, casts a Finite, and then rolls over. The other side of the bed is empty. Sirius has not come home.

He slides out of bed, pulls on a heavy jumper and slippers over his pyjamas, and then pads down the stairs.

Waking up at five thirty in the morning is undeniably the worst thing about being a baker. In winter he spends hours working in the cold and dark, and there's nobody to keep him company in the small hours of the morning. Even the Wizarding Wireless doesn't start until six.

Remus opens the door to the bakery and spells on the lights. The shopfront is small but welcoming, and behind it is the much larger space of the kitchen. Now, the kitchen is an expanse of spotless counters and gleaming cooling racks. By nine-o-clock, those racks need to be full and the air should be rich with the scent of freshly-baked loaves.

With a sigh, Remus scrubs his hands, lights the oven, and sets to work.

Two kilos of flour, three tablespoons of salt, two tablespoons of yeast. He pauses to spell the water warmer before adding it, then stirs, his muscles working hard to push the wooden spoon through thick dough.

Where on earth is Sirius? The missions are secret, so Remus never knows the details, but Sirius has never been out this late before. If he'd gone back to his flat or to James' then he'd have sent Remus an Owl. Is he injured? Remus would have been told if Sirius was hurt, wouldn't he? What if he's worse than injured? If the mission has gone catastrophically wrong then there might be nobody to notify him until‑ no, he can't think of that. That path leads to madness.

He needs to focus on the task at hand. The worst that's likely to happen is that he'll need to provide an Order member or two with an alibi, and he can do that. It'll be fine. He just needs to focus on the bread. Remus pulls the spoon from the bowl, and moves on to the next task.

The first time he provided an alibi for the Order of the Phoenix, the Ministry were clearly unconvinced, because they sent two Aurors to investigate.

"This is your establishment, is it?" The older Auror asked suspiciously. "This is where you and Mr Fabian Prewett were kneading dough yesterday evening?" From his tone, Remus gathered that he suspected kneading dough to be a euphemism for something illicit, like shooting up or doing a line.

"Yes, this is my bakery," Remus said calmly.

The younger Auror frowned at him. "Nobody makes their own bread. People buy it from a shop."

"You're quite right," Remus said cheerfully, gesturing around him as he said, "I run the shop."

Both Aurors looked around suspiciously, taking in the display of bread, buns, and biscuits. Remus wondered what they had expected to find.

"Let's say I accept that you make bread here," the older Auror said, "that doesn't substantiate your claim about yesterday evening. Even I know that bakers make bread in the early mornings, not before midnight."

"That depends on the bread."

"Really?" the older Auror said in a tone of heavy skepticism. "What kind of bread requires nocturnal kneading?"

"Sourdough," Remus said promptly, and the Auror scowled at him. "It's easier to understand with some examples. Come into the kitchen and I'll show you around."

Both Aurors looked wary when he lead them into the large kitchen.

"This is where I make the dough," Remus said, gesturing at the counters, bowls, and flour sacks around them. "Most days we sell five kinds of bread: white and wholewheat loaves, of course, then a white and wholewheat sourdough. After that it varies. Some days I make rye, sometimes potato bread, or something a bit sweeter like a brioche. Each bread has different dough that‑"

"Wait a minute," the younger Auror interrupted. "What is sour dough?"

Remus paused mid-sentence to look at them. The young Auror appeared bewildered, while his colleague's expression was shifting from suspicion to irritation.

"All breads that rise require yeast. The yeast brewers use for beer is different to what we use for bread, but even for bread there are different varieties. Most bread nowadays is made with cultivated yeasts, but there's also naturally occurring yeast that lives on the skins of fruit and floats around in the air. Bread that uses natural yeast is called sourdough. This is my sourdough starter and you can see the bubbles from where it's rising, because the yeast is alive."

Both Aurors took a hasty step back.

"Alive, but very small," Remus qualified.

"Mr Lupin," the older Auror said, sounding tired. "The details of bread varieties are not germane to this investigation. We are trying to establish what you and Mr Prewett were doing yesterday evening."

"Making sourdough. The natural yeast works more slowly than cultivated yeasts, so it needs a longer rise time. I leave mine to rise overnight. In the morning it's risen, ready for me to shape it into loaves and bake it."

"So last night, you and Mr Prewett were making?"

"This," Remus said, leading them back into the shop and grabbing a loaf of sourdough. "Plus another, oh, eleven or so loaves. We've sold most of them but you're welcome to a sample."

The younger Auror extended his hand, then saw his colleague's expression and pulled his arm back quickly.

"Thank you, Mr Lupin, but that will not be necessary," the older Auror snapped. He looked around slowly, jaw moving as if he were chewing the air. "Aren't there charms to do all this? Kneading, and so forth?"

"Wizards have charms to do it, and Muggles have machines, but hand-kneaded bread tastes better. I like to do it properly."

The Auror fixed him with a piercing look. "Why, in your professional opinion, are the charms are inadequate?"

"Well," answered Remus, in the most innocent tone he could manage, "I imagine it's the same reason that you can't make a Calming Draught without patience and stirring. You'd need a professional potioneer to explain the principles, I'm afraid, not a mere baker. If you ask me, the transformation of flour and water into loaves of bread is as magical as anything Polyjuice does."

The Auror held his gaze for several seconds, as if waiting for Remus to crack, and Remus maintained a studiously neutral expression. Eventually, the Auror sighed and looked away. "Thank you, Mr Lupin. You've been very...informative."

The next time he provided an alibi for an Order mission the Ministry only sent one Auror to check up on him. It was the younger Auror from last time, who introduced himself as Dawlish.

"Sorry, Mr Lupin, but for the record could you please tell me where you were last night and what you were doing?"

"I was here making bread with James Potter and Alice Longbottom," Remus lied. "I didn't make a note of what time they left, but it was quite late. The church clock had already struck ten."

"And what were you baking?"

"Sourdough again. It has the longest rise times, so it's nearly always sourdough in the evening."

"White and wholewheat you said before. Was it the same again?" Dawlish asked.

"And rye, last night," Remus added, gesturing at the dark loaves on the shelf behind him.

"Oh, I like a bit of rye bread," said Dawlish. "My grandmother used to make it, but mum said she could never get the knack. I haven't had rye since she died."

"Here," Remus offered, plucking a loaf from the shelf. "Take one. Rye's really not difficult, so tell your mum she can Floo me for advice if she decides to have another try."

Dawlish hesitated, looking torn, and then took the loaf. He left with it tucked beneath his elbow. Since then, Remus hasn't had any more trouble with the Aurors. He suspects that he's become the most reliable alibi the Order have.

Today's sourdough is sitting in oiled bowls in the corner, each covered by a tea towel, but it's not time to shape it yet. Since it's Wednesday, Remus' next task is sticky buns.

Remus measures out the flour, salt and sugar, then adds yeast, warm milk, and butter. He almost forgets the final ingredient, but the yellow light of a passing car jogs his memory just in time. The lemon is cool and springy in his hand, and its tart oil is released as as he grates the zest. He kneads the lemon zest into the dough, inhaling the scent as he stretches the dough then folds it, repeating the movement over and over again. After several minutes of kneading the texture of the dough changes, and Remus rolls the sweet dough into a ball, drops it into a large oiled bowl, and sets it in a warm spot near the oven. Then he returns to the first bowl and starts to knead.

Usually the rhythmic motion of his hands over the dough is soothing, but it's hard not to fret about Sirius. What can he be doing? Is he with James? Are they fighting Death Eaters? Remus pushes down hard with the heels of his hands, pummelling his worry into the dough.

Some mornings, Remus thinks it would be easier to go on Order missions than to be the one who stays behind. For some unstated, twinkly-eyed reason, Dumbledore has always opposed it. Perhaps Dumbledore has greater plans for him ‑ something related to being a werewolf? ‑ or maybe Remus is just fated to spend the rest of his life providing innocuous cover stories. Given the number of Order members who claim to have spent an evening helping in his kitchen, the Ministry must think he's running a Baking Cooperative.

There are footsteps outside, and Remus looks up sharply. He sees a silhouette approach the door, pause, and then the door swings open.

"You up already?" Sirius calls.

Remus bites back the urge to ask where Sirius has been and what's he's been doing. "I'd kill for a cuppa," he says instead.

"You're not wrong. It's fucking freezing out there."

Sirius walks into the kitchen, rubbing his hands together, his cheeks pink with cold. He peers over Remus' shoulder at the dough, then shrugs and heads for the kettle. A moment later it whistles, and Remus keeps kneading until Sirius carries over the mugs of tea.

"What's the special today, then?"

"Sticky buns," Remus says, and Sirius grins.

"Excellent. Don't leave out the currants."

"I only do that to punish you, and the last time Mrs Dunleavy complained."

"A woman after my own heart," Sirius says, wrapping both hands around his tea mug and taking a swig. As he drinks it, Remus can see him warm up: his shoulders fall and move backwards, and his chin rises from where it was hunched into the collar of his coat.

"You're not drinking your tea," Sirius says.

"Can't. Doughy hands."

"There's no such word as can't in the Black dictionary."

Remus rolls his eyes and continues kneading, but Sirius puts his tea down and grasps the handle of Remus' mug. Carefully extending his arm, Sirius raises the mug towards Remus and angles it.

Remus inches away from the dough, tilts his head, and manages to slurp a mouthful of tea. It's not the most dignified manoeuvre, but the warmth spreads through him like a charm.

"See? I knew you needed a cuppa," Sirius says, tilting the mug again, and Remus slurps again. This time, a trickle of tea runs down his chin.

Sirius leans in and swipes away the droplet of tea with his thumb. His hand is warm and rough.

Remus can't seem to stop himself smiling.

Sirius puts down Remus' tea mug, but instead of taking his own, he steps behind Remus and envelopes him in a hug.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Sirius says. "Just ignore me and go back to your kneading."

"You are the most ridiculous‑"

"There's the dough, waiting to be kneaded. Such a shame when you could be‑"

Remus takes a cautious step forwards, half expecting a tangle of legs that will send them both tumbling to the floor, but Sirius manages to move with him and they shuffle up to the counter. Tentatively, he resumes kneading. Sirius' body presses against his back, warm breath huffing over his neck.

"I know you worry," Sirius murmurs, as Remus' hands stretch and fold the dough. "But I think of you here, safe, and it helps."

Remus doesn't know what to say to that, so he just keeps on kneading.

"I like coming home to you," whispers Sirius, squeezing him tighter.

Remus closes his eyes to savour the feel of Sirius' embrace. Here, mine.

"You should get some sleep," he says, after a moment. "I'll wake you when the buns are ready."

Sirius presses a quick, chilly kiss to Remus' neck, and squeezes once more. It feels a lot like I love you, too.

* * * * * * *

By the time the buns come out of the oven it's nearly nine-o-clock and Susan is busily preparing the shop.

For the first few months Remus ran the bakery alone, hurrying back and forth between serving customers and removing things from the oven. Then one afternoon Lily arrived wearing a serious expression and holding a folder.

"I've got a favour to ask," she said, and before Remus could enquire she continued, "You remember my case of the half-banshee fired under the Dark Creatures Act? We're still determined to take it to the Wizengamot, but I'm afraid she can't wait that long for an income. She's smart and resourceful and, well, I know you need an assistant, Remus."

"What?" Remus said weakly, as Lily fixed him with a firm look.

"I can't tell you what to do, but I'd be really grateful if you gave her a chance. It'll be a few months at most," Lily said, in the tone he used to think of as her Prefect voice and supposed he now had to call her Counsel voice.

"Um, okay," he'd agreed, and the next morning Susan arrived. She'd been there before opening every day since, and had become almost as integral to the business as the oven.

Now, Susan is carrying loaves from the cooling rack out to the the shop, where she arranges them on wooden shelves behind the counter. Steam from the warm loaves has fogged up the window, but that won't put off customers once they open. Remus has learned that the smell of freshly-baked loaves is the best way to lure people inside.

"Don't forget the Christmas cakes," Remus reminds her.

"Yes, I know. It's under control."

He moves to fetch the cakes for her and nearly collides with a tray of buns that Susan is Levitating.

"Shoo, Remus!"

Remus raises his hands in surrender and steps aside. Nothing in the kitchen needs attention for at least ten minutes, so perhaps this is his cue for a break. He collects the plate of sticky buns he's set aside for Sirius, and heads to the flat.

The stairs creak underfoot, but when Remus opens the bedroom door he finds Sirius asleep and rolled up inside the duvet like a hibernating bear in its den.

Gently, Remus sits down on the bed beside him and slides the plate close to Sirius' head.

Sirius twitches, and then stills.

Carefully, Remus breaks open one of the buns and places it back on the plate. The aroma of warm dough, icing, and currants fills the air.

This time, Sirius makes a low sound, rolls over, kicks a little, and then his eyes open.

"Morning," says Remus.

Sirius blinks, looks at the plate, and then at Remus. "You, Moony, are a life saver," he says, fighting his way out of the duvet and into a sitting position.

Remus watches as Sirius grabs a bun and takes a huge bite. In seconds it's gone and the only trace is the smear of icing around Sirius' mouth. Remus stifles a smile as Sirius devours another.

"Good?"

"Mmmngff!"

"You can go back to sleep afterwards if you want."

Sirius pauses and swallows. "Only if you join me," he says, licking icing off his fingers and shuffling closer. Remus can feel his warmth through the layers of fabric.

"I've got loaves in the oven."

"Susan can take them out."

Remus hesitates. Technically, Sirius is right, but what kind of example does that set?

"You don't get nearly enough sleep," Sirius says, shuffling closer and enfolding Remus in his slightly sticky arms. "And I sleep better when you're here."

For a moment Remus wrestles with his conscience, and then surrenders. They are, after all, both tired and starved of physical closeness. Who knows when he'll next get a chance to do this?

"Just half an hour," he says, lifting the plate of buns onto the bedside table and lets Sirius pull him closer, snuggling down into the duvet.

The scent of bread and buns fills the air as he drifts asleep, nestled beside Sirius.