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Tom Riddle did not believe in habits.
Habits were for people who lacked control, people who needed rituals to anchor themselves to a life they did not command. Tom preferred precision, intent, and decisions that carried weight. Every movement in his day had purpose. Every meeting, every contract, every word spoken in the polished glass tower that bore his company’s name was deliberate.
And yet, every morning at 7:42 a.m., he crossed the street.
The bakery had no business surviving where it did.
Wedged between a laundromat with flickering lights and a cramped stationery shop that smelled faintly of dust, it stood in quiet defiance of the sleek corporate buildings surrounding it. Its sign, Prince & Co. Bakery, was hand-painted, the gold lettering slightly uneven. The windows were always spotless, though, and the display never failed to be arranged with a careful, almost obsessive symmetry.
Tom noticed details like that.
He noticed the way the pastries were lined up by color gradient. The way the chalkboard menu was rewritten every morning, not because it needed to be, but because the handwriting mattered. The way the bell above the door gave a soft, clean chime—not shrill, not dull.
And, most of all, he noticed Severus.
Severus Snape did not look like someone who owned a bakery.
He was too sharp for it. Too severe. His black hair fell in deliberate disarray, as though combing it properly would be a concession he refused to make. His pale face carried an expression that hovered somewhere between irritation and disinterest, and his eyes—dark, calculating—missed nothing.
He moved like someone perpetually annoyed by the world but determined to outdo it anyway.
Tom appreciated that.
“Late,” Severus said without looking up one morning, as Tom stepped inside.
Tom paused mid-step.
“By two minutes,” Severus added, finally glancing at the clock mounted above the counter.
Tom allowed himself the smallest tilt of his head. “You’ve been keeping track.”
“I keep track of everything,” Severus replied, already turning back to the tray he was arranging. “It’s the only way to ensure things are done properly.”
Tom stepped forward, setting his leather briefcase down on the counter. “And what conclusion have you drawn from my two-minute delay?”
“That you’re either careless,” Severus said, voice dry, “or something inconvenienced you.”
Tom’s lips curved faintly. “And which do you believe?”
Severus slid a tray of croissants into the display case with precise alignment. “You don’t strike me as careless.”
A compliment, then. Subtle, but deliberate.
Tom accepted it without acknowledgment.
“The usual?” Severus asked.
Tom leaned one elbow against the counter, studying him. “You already know the answer.”
Severus exhaled softly, as though long accustomed to this exchange. “One black coffee. No sugar. No milk. And—”
“The almond pastry,” Tom finished.
Severus gave a slight nod and turned away.
Tom watched him move.
There was something almost surgical about the way Severus worked—every motion economical, controlled, efficient. No wasted effort. No hesitation. It was the same kind of discipline Tom demanded from his executives, though none of them possessed it so naturally.
It was… intriguing.
“You’ve burned it.”
Severus froze for half a second before glancing over his shoulder. “Excuse me?”
“The batch in the oven,” Tom said calmly. “The second rack. It’s slightly overdone.”
Severus stared at him, eyes narrowing. “You can’t possibly-”
The faintest scent of caramelized sugar-just past perfection-began to seep into the air.
Severus turned sharply, crossing the room in three swift strides. He opened the oven, pulled out the tray, and inspected it with a critical eye.
“…It’s not burned,” he said after a moment, though there was a hint of irritation beneath his tone.
“No,” Tom agreed. “But it’s not how you wanted it.”
Severus set the tray down with a quiet clatter. “Most people wouldn’t notice.”
“I’m not most people.”
That earned him a look.
For a moment, the air between them shifted-something sharper, more electric.
“Clearly,” Severus said finally, turning back to prepare the coffee.
Tom watched him in silence.
There was something deeply satisfying about these exchanges. The subtle challenge. The quiet acknowledgment of equal footing. Severus did not defer to him the way others did, not even when Tom’s name carried weight far beyond this small street.
In here, Tom Riddle was simply a customer.
He found he didn’t entirely dislike that.
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The first time Tom stayed longer than necessary, it was raining.
A sudden, heavy downpour that turned the street into a blur of grey and silver. Tom had already finished his coffee, his pastry reduced to crumbs on the plate, but the rain showed no sign of letting up.
He could have left.
He had meetings waiting. Calls to take. Decisions to make.
Instead, he remained seated by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass.
“You’re still here.”
Severus’s voice cut through the quiet.
Tom glanced up. “Observant as ever.”
Severus crossed his arms. “You’ve been finished for ten minutes.”
“And yet, I haven’t been asked to leave.”
“I don’t rush customers,” Severus said stiffly. “Even… lingering ones.”
Tom’s gaze flickered to the empty chair across from him. “Sit.”
Severus blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sit,” Tom repeated, as though it were the most natural request in the world.
Severus hesitated.
It was brief-barely noticeable, but Tom saw it.
Then, with a quiet exhale that suggested this was a terrible idea, Severus pulled out the chair and sat.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable.
It was… deliberate.
“You run a successful business,” Severus said after a moment. “Why come here, why noy send someone to pick up?”
Tom considered the question.
He could have given a simple answer. The pastries are good. The coffee is better. It’s convenient, he admires the baker.
None of those would have been true enough.
“Because,” Tom said slowly, “you care about what you do.”
Severus frowned slightly. “That’s hardly a clear answer”
“It is,” Tom said, voice quiet but certain. “Especially at your level.”
Severus’s expression shifted-just a fraction.
“You assume quite a lot,” he said.
“I observe,” Tom corrected.
“And what else have you observed?”
Tom’s gaze held his. “That you don’t belong here.”
The words lingered between them.
Severus’s eyes darkened. “And where, exactly, do you think I belong?”
“Somewhere larger,” Tom said. “Somewhere that demands more of you.”
A pause.
Then, softly-dangerously-Severus said, “You think this doesn’t?”
Tom leaned back slightly, studying him. “I think this is beneath what you’re capable of.”
For a moment, it seemed Severus might argue.
Then he looked away.
“You’re wrong,” he said, though there was no conviction in it.
Tom did not press.
Not yet.
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The visits continued like always,
Every morning. Same time. Same order.
But something had shifted.
Conversations lingered longer. Silences grew more familiar. There were moments—brief, almost imperceptible—where Severus would look at Tom not with irritation, but with something quieter. Something thoughtful.
Tom found himself adjusting his schedule.
Meetings moved. Calls rescheduled. All to ensure he could be there at 7:42 a.m.
It was… inefficient.
He did it anyway.
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One morning, the bakery was closed.
The sign read: Back soon.
Tom stood outside for exactly thirty seconds before crossing the street to his office.
He did not like disruptions.
At 8:15, he was in a meeting.
At 8:17, he was no longer paying attention.
“Mr. Riddle?” lucius said, worry laced his tone
Tom blinked, refocusing on the room.
“…Continue,” he said curtly.
But his mind was elsewhere.
At 8:30, he stood.
“We’ll resume this later.”
And then, without explanation, he left.
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The bakery door was unlocked.
Tom pushed it open.
The bell chimed.
Inside, the lights were dimmer than usual. The display case half-filled. The air thick with the scent of flour and sugar-but something else, too. Something unsettled.
Severus stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair more disheveled than usual.
“You’re closed,” Tom said.
Severus didn’t look up. “Clearly not well enough.”
Tom stepped closer. “What happened?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
Tom’s gaze sharpened. “I’ll decide that.”
Severus let out a sharp, humorless breath. “Of course you will.”
He set down the mixing bowl with more force than necessary.
“The supplier didn’t deliver,” he said. “Half my ingredients are missing. I have orders I can’t fulfill, customers I’ll disappoint, and—”
He cut himself off.
Tom was silent for a moment.
Then: “I’ll fix it.”
Severus scoffed. “You can’t fix-”
“I can,” Tom said, voice calm. “And I will.”
Severus finally looked at him.
“Why?” he asked.
Tom met his gaze. “Because I don’t like seeing you fail, you are my favorite after all severus”
The words were simple.
But they landed
Severus stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression.
“…You’re insufferable,” he said finally, a slight smile on his lips
Tom’s lips curved faintly. “So, I’ve been told”
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By noon, the ingredients had arrived.
By one, the orders were back on track.
By two, the bakery was running as though nothing had happened.
Severus leaned against the counter, watching as Tom adjusted his cuffs.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
Tom glanced at him. “I know” brushing flour off his shirt
A pause
“…Thank you,” Severus added, quieter
Tom inclined his head slightly.
Then, after a moment, he said, “Come work for me”
Severus blinked. “What?”
“You have talent,” Tom said. “Precision. Discipline. Vision. You’re wasting it here”
Severus straightened. “This is my business.”
“And it’s small,” Tom said bluntly. “Limited. You could build something far greater”
Severus’s jaw tightened. “Not everything needs to be ‘greater’”
“No,” Tom agreed. “But you do”
".... "
Silence
The air between them felt heavier now.
More dangerous.
“You don’t get to decide that” Severus said quietly.
Tom stepped closer.
“No,” he said. “But I can recognize it, and you do too”
Their gazes locked.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Severus looked away.
“…I’ll think about it,” he said.
Tom smiled
That was enough
For now, soon he'll have tasted the sweetness of severus
That was not his pastries