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Okay, so you can all thank the anonymous person who recently asked about my progress with the Marriage Arc, because I got some ideas that have allowed me to start the next mini-arc of the story. I believe this particular mini-arc will go for about three chapters. And I have no idea when the next one is coming. But I am hoping soon. And I do hope that that anonymous person is reading this! *loves lotsly*
I call this one The Planning Mini-Arc. ^_^
Title: No Such Cake
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: PG
Summary: What would a proper wedding be... without the proper cake?
Disclaimer: So not mine. Geneviève (pronounced Zhahn-vee-ev, by the way, tee hee, I love French) and her charming business are, but the rest of the people? No.
Marriage Arc parts One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight
Part 9:
No Such Cake
The day had started out so nicely for Pâtisseries de l’Angleterre: warm air currents drifting in through the open French doors, the sweet sound of Singing Cinnamon Snails coming from the massive kitchens, and the one and only Harry Potter, here with his fiancé for a cake sampling. Geneviève Camberlane thought, patting a few stray grey strands of hair back into the safety of her chignon, that this might very well be the reason she’d begun the business of running a bakery after all.
She smiled indulgently and snapped her fingers, offering the newly appeared platter to her newest of patrons. “Now, we do have this lovely blend of rum-cream. It’s a particularly agreeable filling for the ginger cake.”
Draco Malfoy, resplendent in form-fitting black, dipped a finger into the dollop of cream. Geneviève raised her eyebrows ever so slightly; only a Malfoy could look so refined while licking his fingers like a child. “Oh, that is delicious. Harry—”
Harry Potter took a conservative sample using a spoon; Geneviève thought that the more formal approach suited him. She’d never met Potter before, but her sixteen year old granddaughter Elisabeth Martinique Amalia Culpepper the First Because There Would Most Certainly Be Others Once She Was Finally Old Enough To Actually Propose Marriage To That Keeper From Ballycastle Oh Merlin Grandma He Is So Dreamy – Lissy the First talked about Harry Potter whenever she wasn’t talking about That Keeper From Ballycastle, and had she not been grounded for sneaking out to throw pebbles at That Keeper’s window, she would have been at yesterday’s Quidditch practice, learning the finer points of Seeking.
As it was, Lissy was home moping over a boy who barely noticed the existence of the entire female sex in favor of a couple of Quaffles. Geneviève did not approve; she had already packed up three slices of Cocoa Crème Cake, Slithering Satin Mousse, and Death By Disappearing Chocolate for a much needed girls’ night.
“It’s very good,” Harry Potter said, with a smile.
“Perhaps you would like to sample it with the ginger cake to taste the full effect?” She was about to snap her fingers again, when the third member of the cake-tasting party lifted her chin and sniffed.
“I detest ginger.”
Geneviève had been in the business for a long time. She herself had designed the fifty-tiered wedding cake for the LaCoeurs’ youngest daughter’s marriage to the third son of the Merovia family of Venice back in 1964, and had overseen the catering of one thousand eight-hundred and thirty-two pureblood and mixed marriages over the last half of a century. And if there was one thing she had learned – the only absolutely fool-proof rule for weddings – it was that inviting one’s future mother-in-law to a cake tasting was not often the wisest course of action.
But, considering this particular mother-in-law, Geneviève supposed it was out of Potter’s hands entirely. She’d designed Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy’s wedding cake too, after all. And hadn’t that been peachy.
If only the trio had been in good moods when they had first entered the bakery. If only the other customers hadn’t utilized their supreme talent for staring. If only Potter had not approached Minnie Templeton first.
“Hello, I’m Harry Potter. I have an appointment for a cake tasting this morning.”
Minnie had beamed at Potter. “Yes, indeed, Mr Potter, sir. It’s usually customary to bring your fiancé along.”
Draco Malfoy – the perfect alabaster blending of mother and father if Geneviève didn’t say so herself – lifted his chin and drawled, “That would be me.”
Minnie looked at Malfoy expectantly for a moment, then turned back to Potter and gave Geneviève a fantastic reason to sack her on the spot. “Oh, goodness, I thought you were with that Ginevra Weasley! She’s such a lovely girl. You two made such a cute couple; my sister always predicted you’d marry.”
The look on Draco Malfoy’s face was eerily reminiscent of a cobra’s. But it was Narcissa Malfoy’s sneer that lowered the temperature in the room by at least five degrees. The Sicilian Custard Bars would have gone bad, had they been the direct object of her ire. “Yes, Harry, dear, I’d always predicted such a… prosperous match as well.”
And just like that, the nice day threatened to perform a Wronski Feint: Draco Malfoy was now glaring at his mother with enough potency to crack glass, Harry Potter was gripping the counter top hard enough to break his knuckles, and Minnie was foolishly grinning as if she’d just been the object of fifteen cheering charms.
It had taken less than a second for Geneviève to exert her owner’s prerogative.
And now the four of them sat in the terrace alcove away from prying customers and idiotic salesgirls, discussing the cake that would please all three of them. Geneviève was beginning to think there was no such cake.
“There’s no need to make a final decision just yet,” she said, smiling in her patented calming manner. She had yet to find a customer that it didn’t work on. Even the various members of the noble and most ancient House of Black had been unable to remain properly miffed about being seen in a bakery that catered to Muggle-borns as well as purebloods. “Remember, you have four tiers to work with.”
“Madame Camberlane,” Narcissa Malfoy said, “I would be pleased to know if you offer any designs of ancient pureblood origin.” She flipped a page of the enormous wedding book with the tips of her nails, not even glancing at the cake designs. “From the Madeleine D’issy line, perhaps.”
Of course. Narcissa had wanted a D’issy, but Lucius had settled them with the more grandiose Verklempen Floating Tiers.
“I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with… that style,” Potter said in a low voice. Narcissa’s lip curled, but her son interrupted coolly.
“Well, I, for one, am familiar with that style, and we are not getting a D’issy, Mother. I would like the guests to eat the cake, not the other way around.”
Well. That settled it, then: it had not been Draco Malfoy’s choice to bring his mother either. Certainly Harry Potter had not invited her; the looks currently being exchanged between the Wizarding Saviour and the dowager of the Malfoy line were probably curdling the cream she kept down in the cold-cellars. She had begun to think badly of Harry Potter for being fool enough to betroth himself to the imitation of Lucius Malfoy. But come to think of it, Geneviève was having a harder and harder time associating this tall young man with the memory of his father.
“I think something simpler. Perhaps from Marguerite Trujillo’s second decade, with jasmine garnish.” Draco Malfoy reached casually across the table as he spoke, and laced his fingers with Potter’s. Narcissa’s pale cheeks blossomed into two livid red spots.
Well, well. It seemed Draco Malfoy had inherited his father’s talent for manipulation at least.
Potter leaned forward suddenly. “Do you have anything with fruit?”
“Raspberries,” Draco supplied quickly. “And triple sec.”
“Absolutely not,” Narcissa said in the flattest voice a pureblood holder of millions of Galleons and a giant estate could manage. Geneviève could relate: she had been ordered about by many, many pureblood holders of millions of Galleons and a giant estate.
Always before they realized she also held millions of Galleons, a giant estate, and the fate of their priceless D’issys and Verklempens in her hands.
Draco Malfoy took a deep breath. Had Geneviève not seen it before, she might have missed the very poised, very proper, very publicly acceptable grinding of the teeth. “Mother,” he said in a voice dripping with more sugar-coated malice than her infamous Too Tart Tortes, “may I remind you that it is not your wedding cake we are selecting?”
Narcissa matched her son simper for simper. “And may I remind you, darling, that you will never afford a Trujillo, second decade, without continued access to the family vaults?”
“I beg to differ, Narcissa,” Potter grated.
“Oh, you always do, dear,” Narcissa sneered.
Potter smiled tightly at her and began to twist the lovely gold and silver ring around his left ring-finger. Geneviève admired the craftsmanship. What she did not admire was the inexplicably ugly scowl that marred the elder Malfoy’s face.
Intriguing. Lissy would enjoy the bakery gossip tonight. She’d have to bring some of the Fairy Winged Fudge home to share as well.
She snapped her fingers again and an array of fruit in tiny china cups settled itself delicately on the table. “As you can see, we have quite a collection of choices.”
An hour later, three of the four tiers had been finalized. Potter was in the act of tasting the strawberry mousse with pixy sparkles; he gave a soft groan. “Oh, Draco. How do you feel about this?”
Malfoy took a miniscule bit of the mousse, then smiled at Potter. “Tastes wonderful.”
“Dearest, what are you talking about?” Narcissa said indifferently. “You know you’ve always hated strawberries.”
The surprise on Potter’s face and the malevolent glare Malfoy directed at his mother told Geneviève more than enough about how worthy Draco Malfoy was of the Wizarding Saviour. A strange urge including runny whipped cream and Narcissa Malfoy’s blue silk frock tickled at her mind. Nonsense. Geneviève folded her hands gracefully on the table. “Perhaps you would prefer our dark chocolate mousse, then. It goes splendidly alongside the Bitterroot Buttercream on the second tier.”
Draco Malfoy’s eyebrows rose in a pleased fashion, but Narcissa’s eyes glittered. Potter glanced at her.
“Actually, I… hate dark chocolate,” he said.
Geneviève was just recovering from the blow of meeting a person who hated chocolate, when Malfoy turned and scrutinized Potter through narrowed eyes. “Harry, you nev—”
“Splendid,” Narcissa cut in. She touched her napkin to her already pristine mouth and smiled. “The fourth tier will be dark chocolate filling. Now, that’s settled, we really must not keep the Pemberly Hall coordinator waiting. Draco, would you be a dear and help me with my cloak?”
Draco Malfoy stood with the sinister elegance of a snake, and smiled courteously at his mother. His voice was as sweet as the icing on the platter between them. “I would rather suffer Cruciatus, Mother.” He turned to Geneviève and took her hand. “Thank you ever so much for your assistance, Madame Camberlane. It’s been a pleasure. Is there anything else you require before we depart?”
Geneviève shook her head. “No, that will be all, Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter. I will send you a copy of our contract for your signatures within the week.”
Draco inclined his head. “Then if you’ll please excuse me, I believe I’ll peruse your delightful coffee menu.”
Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes were cool as ice. She nodded stiffly to her son as he passed her, and then, ignoring Potter entirely, settled her mink cloak over her shoulders and swept from the terrace.
Potter watched Narcissa’s departure with a twist of dislike on his face. The woman strode through the door, letting it close behind her with a slam. Geneviève was about to offer her condolences when Potter’s expression morphed into an odd smile. He stood slowly and winked down at her.
And scooped a sizeable dollop of dark chocolate frosting onto his thumb.
“Thank you again, Madame Camberlane. Your bakery is fantastic.” He grinned and followed Draco to the front counter, licking his thumb.
Geneviève smirked. Yes, she definitely liked Harry Potter.
...
Part 10: Seal of Approval
...
Thanks for reading!
I call this one The Planning Mini-Arc. ^_^
Title: No Such Cake
Author: me
Pairing: H/D
Rating: PG
Summary: What would a proper wedding be... without the proper cake?
Disclaimer: So not mine. Geneviève (pronounced Zhahn-vee-ev, by the way, tee hee, I love French) and her charming business are, but the rest of the people? No.
Marriage Arc parts One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight
Part 9:
No Such Cake
The day had started out so nicely for Pâtisseries de l’Angleterre: warm air currents drifting in through the open French doors, the sweet sound of Singing Cinnamon Snails coming from the massive kitchens, and the one and only Harry Potter, here with his fiancé for a cake sampling. Geneviève Camberlane thought, patting a few stray grey strands of hair back into the safety of her chignon, that this might very well be the reason she’d begun the business of running a bakery after all.
She smiled indulgently and snapped her fingers, offering the newly appeared platter to her newest of patrons. “Now, we do have this lovely blend of rum-cream. It’s a particularly agreeable filling for the ginger cake.”
Draco Malfoy, resplendent in form-fitting black, dipped a finger into the dollop of cream. Geneviève raised her eyebrows ever so slightly; only a Malfoy could look so refined while licking his fingers like a child. “Oh, that is delicious. Harry—”
Harry Potter took a conservative sample using a spoon; Geneviève thought that the more formal approach suited him. She’d never met Potter before, but her sixteen year old granddaughter Elisabeth Martinique Amalia Culpepper the First Because There Would Most Certainly Be Others Once She Was Finally Old Enough To Actually Propose Marriage To That Keeper From Ballycastle Oh Merlin Grandma He Is So Dreamy – Lissy the First talked about Harry Potter whenever she wasn’t talking about That Keeper From Ballycastle, and had she not been grounded for sneaking out to throw pebbles at That Keeper’s window, she would have been at yesterday’s Quidditch practice, learning the finer points of Seeking.
As it was, Lissy was home moping over a boy who barely noticed the existence of the entire female sex in favor of a couple of Quaffles. Geneviève did not approve; she had already packed up three slices of Cocoa Crème Cake, Slithering Satin Mousse, and Death By Disappearing Chocolate for a much needed girls’ night.
“It’s very good,” Harry Potter said, with a smile.
“Perhaps you would like to sample it with the ginger cake to taste the full effect?” She was about to snap her fingers again, when the third member of the cake-tasting party lifted her chin and sniffed.
“I detest ginger.”
Geneviève had been in the business for a long time. She herself had designed the fifty-tiered wedding cake for the LaCoeurs’ youngest daughter’s marriage to the third son of the Merovia family of Venice back in 1964, and had overseen the catering of one thousand eight-hundred and thirty-two pureblood and mixed marriages over the last half of a century. And if there was one thing she had learned – the only absolutely fool-proof rule for weddings – it was that inviting one’s future mother-in-law to a cake tasting was not often the wisest course of action.
But, considering this particular mother-in-law, Geneviève supposed it was out of Potter’s hands entirely. She’d designed Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy’s wedding cake too, after all. And hadn’t that been peachy.
If only the trio had been in good moods when they had first entered the bakery. If only the other customers hadn’t utilized their supreme talent for staring. If only Potter had not approached Minnie Templeton first.
“Hello, I’m Harry Potter. I have an appointment for a cake tasting this morning.”
Minnie had beamed at Potter. “Yes, indeed, Mr Potter, sir. It’s usually customary to bring your fiancé along.”
Draco Malfoy – the perfect alabaster blending of mother and father if Geneviève didn’t say so herself – lifted his chin and drawled, “That would be me.”
Minnie looked at Malfoy expectantly for a moment, then turned back to Potter and gave Geneviève a fantastic reason to sack her on the spot. “Oh, goodness, I thought you were with that Ginevra Weasley! She’s such a lovely girl. You two made such a cute couple; my sister always predicted you’d marry.”
The look on Draco Malfoy’s face was eerily reminiscent of a cobra’s. But it was Narcissa Malfoy’s sneer that lowered the temperature in the room by at least five degrees. The Sicilian Custard Bars would have gone bad, had they been the direct object of her ire. “Yes, Harry, dear, I’d always predicted such a… prosperous match as well.”
And just like that, the nice day threatened to perform a Wronski Feint: Draco Malfoy was now glaring at his mother with enough potency to crack glass, Harry Potter was gripping the counter top hard enough to break his knuckles, and Minnie was foolishly grinning as if she’d just been the object of fifteen cheering charms.
It had taken less than a second for Geneviève to exert her owner’s prerogative.
And now the four of them sat in the terrace alcove away from prying customers and idiotic salesgirls, discussing the cake that would please all three of them. Geneviève was beginning to think there was no such cake.
“There’s no need to make a final decision just yet,” she said, smiling in her patented calming manner. She had yet to find a customer that it didn’t work on. Even the various members of the noble and most ancient House of Black had been unable to remain properly miffed about being seen in a bakery that catered to Muggle-borns as well as purebloods. “Remember, you have four tiers to work with.”
“Madame Camberlane,” Narcissa Malfoy said, “I would be pleased to know if you offer any designs of ancient pureblood origin.” She flipped a page of the enormous wedding book with the tips of her nails, not even glancing at the cake designs. “From the Madeleine D’issy line, perhaps.”
Of course. Narcissa had wanted a D’issy, but Lucius had settled them with the more grandiose Verklempen Floating Tiers.
“I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with… that style,” Potter said in a low voice. Narcissa’s lip curled, but her son interrupted coolly.
“Well, I, for one, am familiar with that style, and we are not getting a D’issy, Mother. I would like the guests to eat the cake, not the other way around.”
Well. That settled it, then: it had not been Draco Malfoy’s choice to bring his mother either. Certainly Harry Potter had not invited her; the looks currently being exchanged between the Wizarding Saviour and the dowager of the Malfoy line were probably curdling the cream she kept down in the cold-cellars. She had begun to think badly of Harry Potter for being fool enough to betroth himself to the imitation of Lucius Malfoy. But come to think of it, Geneviève was having a harder and harder time associating this tall young man with the memory of his father.
“I think something simpler. Perhaps from Marguerite Trujillo’s second decade, with jasmine garnish.” Draco Malfoy reached casually across the table as he spoke, and laced his fingers with Potter’s. Narcissa’s pale cheeks blossomed into two livid red spots.
Well, well. It seemed Draco Malfoy had inherited his father’s talent for manipulation at least.
Potter leaned forward suddenly. “Do you have anything with fruit?”
“Raspberries,” Draco supplied quickly. “And triple sec.”
“Absolutely not,” Narcissa said in the flattest voice a pureblood holder of millions of Galleons and a giant estate could manage. Geneviève could relate: she had been ordered about by many, many pureblood holders of millions of Galleons and a giant estate.
Always before they realized she also held millions of Galleons, a giant estate, and the fate of their priceless D’issys and Verklempens in her hands.
Draco Malfoy took a deep breath. Had Geneviève not seen it before, she might have missed the very poised, very proper, very publicly acceptable grinding of the teeth. “Mother,” he said in a voice dripping with more sugar-coated malice than her infamous Too Tart Tortes, “may I remind you that it is not your wedding cake we are selecting?”
Narcissa matched her son simper for simper. “And may I remind you, darling, that you will never afford a Trujillo, second decade, without continued access to the family vaults?”
“I beg to differ, Narcissa,” Potter grated.
“Oh, you always do, dear,” Narcissa sneered.
Potter smiled tightly at her and began to twist the lovely gold and silver ring around his left ring-finger. Geneviève admired the craftsmanship. What she did not admire was the inexplicably ugly scowl that marred the elder Malfoy’s face.
Intriguing. Lissy would enjoy the bakery gossip tonight. She’d have to bring some of the Fairy Winged Fudge home to share as well.
She snapped her fingers again and an array of fruit in tiny china cups settled itself delicately on the table. “As you can see, we have quite a collection of choices.”
An hour later, three of the four tiers had been finalized. Potter was in the act of tasting the strawberry mousse with pixy sparkles; he gave a soft groan. “Oh, Draco. How do you feel about this?”
Malfoy took a miniscule bit of the mousse, then smiled at Potter. “Tastes wonderful.”
“Dearest, what are you talking about?” Narcissa said indifferently. “You know you’ve always hated strawberries.”
The surprise on Potter’s face and the malevolent glare Malfoy directed at his mother told Geneviève more than enough about how worthy Draco Malfoy was of the Wizarding Saviour. A strange urge including runny whipped cream and Narcissa Malfoy’s blue silk frock tickled at her mind. Nonsense. Geneviève folded her hands gracefully on the table. “Perhaps you would prefer our dark chocolate mousse, then. It goes splendidly alongside the Bitterroot Buttercream on the second tier.”
Draco Malfoy’s eyebrows rose in a pleased fashion, but Narcissa’s eyes glittered. Potter glanced at her.
“Actually, I… hate dark chocolate,” he said.
Geneviève was just recovering from the blow of meeting a person who hated chocolate, when Malfoy turned and scrutinized Potter through narrowed eyes. “Harry, you nev—”
“Splendid,” Narcissa cut in. She touched her napkin to her already pristine mouth and smiled. “The fourth tier will be dark chocolate filling. Now, that’s settled, we really must not keep the Pemberly Hall coordinator waiting. Draco, would you be a dear and help me with my cloak?”
Draco Malfoy stood with the sinister elegance of a snake, and smiled courteously at his mother. His voice was as sweet as the icing on the platter between them. “I would rather suffer Cruciatus, Mother.” He turned to Geneviève and took her hand. “Thank you ever so much for your assistance, Madame Camberlane. It’s been a pleasure. Is there anything else you require before we depart?”
Geneviève shook her head. “No, that will be all, Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter. I will send you a copy of our contract for your signatures within the week.”
Draco inclined his head. “Then if you’ll please excuse me, I believe I’ll peruse your delightful coffee menu.”
Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes were cool as ice. She nodded stiffly to her son as he passed her, and then, ignoring Potter entirely, settled her mink cloak over her shoulders and swept from the terrace.
Potter watched Narcissa’s departure with a twist of dislike on his face. The woman strode through the door, letting it close behind her with a slam. Geneviève was about to offer her condolences when Potter’s expression morphed into an odd smile. He stood slowly and winked down at her.
And scooped a sizeable dollop of dark chocolate frosting onto his thumb.
“Thank you again, Madame Camberlane. Your bakery is fantastic.” He grinned and followed Draco to the front counter, licking his thumb.
Geneviève smirked. Yes, she definitely liked Harry Potter.
...
Part 10: Seal of Approval
...
Thanks for reading!
