"We've all got both light and dark inside us.
What matters is the part we choose to act on.
That's who we really are."
-Sirius Black

Best Served Cold
Chapter One: "Coffeehouses & Cauldrons"

It started off, like many things, with a levitated tea kettle.

Had Olivia Charles been a witch, or even dimly aware of the existence of magic, this would have been a perfectly reasonable happenstance. But she was not, nor was she even remotely aware that numerous eleven-year-olds were annually carted off to a castle in the Scotland highlands to master the art of levitating many a kettle. She was, therefore, a Muggle, and did not appreciate when kitchenware took flight.

Or the fact that strange things like these often happened to her.

It had been equal parts startling and exhilarating in the beginning, when she was a youngster and she'd imagined the bogies Matthew Locke was ferrying from his little crusty nostrils to his little gaping maw to become bona fide honeybees. Unfortunately for Matt, insect venom caused him anaphylaxis, and so a moment or two after she had this mildly nefarious thought, he found himself puffing up like a red-headed cabbage. Fortunately for Liv, no one in the vicinity was a Legilimens to discover that it was, indeed, her four-year-old brain that had transfigured toddler boogers into a swarm of very confused bugs.

It escalated from there, but only intermittently. These episodes stretched throughout periods of time, often so much as a year, that many an occurrence she chalked up to her imagination running amok—charming a stranger's Fu Manchu to braid itself, however, had swiftly squelched that theory.

Time passed. And as these phenomena ranged immensely in terms of strangeness, Liv was left growing up with quite the complex, one wherein she believed that she was a Literal Freak of Nature. Then the notion occurred to her that maybe she wasn't the only freak of nature to have accidentally transfigured their mother's sleeping pills into high potency laxatives. Surely there was a perfectly legitimate reason behind these uncontrollable abilities, but as she never received a letter from a particular school of witchcraft and wizardry on her eleventh year, Liv remained none the wiser, and vowed to never speak of these incidences in fear of being institutionalized and living in a padded room with nary but a bedpan and twelve imaginary cats named Doyle.

Now, nearly two decades of repression later, Olivia Charles had blossomed into quite the misanthrope, and so she deemed this shit was getting old.

"This shit is getting old," Liv muttered, chin propped atop her folded arms. She sat at a kitchen table, covered nearly head-to-toe in flour.

Scones were baking in the oven. The scent of almonds wafted in the air. The gauzy rays of dawn filtered through crocheted curtain panels and, there, wavering above the sink, was her grandmother's old copper tea kettle. Suspended. Floating. In midair. A line of steam was erupting from its spout, emitting a long banshee wail although it was quite clearly nowhere near an open flame.

Liv pointed at the teapot. "Stop it," she commanded. "Stop it, I say."

It did not stop. Liv inched her fingers towards a battered rolling pin, wherein the tea kettle's shriek faltered when her fingertips skimmed the wooden handle.

"That's right. You may have been granny's favorite kettle, but I will take–you–out. Yakuza style."

Liv took a deep, cathartic breath and closed her eyes.

"I'm talking to a tea kettle," she breathed. "A gravity-defying tea kettle. And threatening it with Japanese underground crime syndicate violence. Lovely."

The tea kettle commenced to shriek.

A loud commotion resounded from behind, which involved that of crashing, thrashing, the unmistakable upturning of several chairs, and a litany of expletives before the image of Essie Finch stumbled into Cloverdilly Coffee's small backroom kitchen. She was clutching her head, swaying, possibly still drunk as it was only half-past four in the morning. A dressing gown hung from one arm and trailed behind, jerking with her movements as did the silver-lavender curls that framed her face in a halo of bed-head frizz.

"Liv?" she murmured lethargically. "I get that you run on baker's hours and you're busy, but why the hell does it sound like you've lit a cat on fire?"

"Three hundred and fifty-one," Liv replied.

"Pardon?"

"Three hundred and fifty-one days since something like–" Liv gestured wildly to the tea kettle, "has happened."

Essie regarded the kettle, blinked twice, and sighed. Pulling a stool opposite Liv, she burrowed her head into her arms with an uncoordinated thump, which caused a small mushroom cloud of flour to explode between the two girls.

Essie Finch constituted of poorly dyed hair and the tapering hazel eyes one found in a Botticelli painting. She was balletic and olive-toned, often bedecked in chic summer dresses or oversized dungarees splattered in grease. What made Essie compelling was not that she was free-spirited by default, a jumper of paradoxes that kept her from filling any societal mold, but it was that she was oblivious that she did so; Ester Finch simply was. That, and the fact that she kept a 1000W smile at-the-ready for strangers and friends alike and possessed the otherworldly optimism to match, convinced Liv that she farted stardust.

More importantly, she was the only person who knew the truth of Olivia Charles. This made her much more than trustworthy, but invaluable. Like quality toilet paper.

Olivia Charles, in comparison, was quite the opposite of Essie Finch. Tiny, grumpy, with a shaggy mop of brunette hair and a penchant for combat boots and stress baking to Tchaikovsky violin concertos. Opposites attracted, apparently, because they had been best mates since primary school and roomies since graduation. Their initial meeting at the ripe age of five had involved a local bully named Tabitha Tuttle, who was also known locally for being an exceptionally hairy twit, and who had ripped apart the daisy chain wreathed into Essie's hair on the first day of school. Liv, who was still small for her age but aging well into her grumpiness, refused to stand by and allow someone to take that kind of shit.

She had only meant to point at tufty Tabby and unleash a cutting wisecrack, but within a blink of an eye, Tabby found herself straddling the branch of a nearby tree, as follicle-free as a naked mole rat. Liv was equal parts horrified and humiliated that someone had witnessed her abilities. Tabby's acrophobia was thus born. Essie was awe-struck. Their friendship immediately blossomed.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" came Essie's discombobulated voice.

"What is?"

"You're cursed."

The tea kettle whistled louder, evidently agreeing.

So much for otherworldly optimism, Liv thought, then muttered, "Bollocks."

Essie laughed, lifting her head and palming a cheekbone. "Well, you are the one that stole a tangerine from that old gypsy lady's bag when we were thirteen."

"I was hungry," Liv shrugged.

"You're always hungry."

Liv nodded. "This is true. And why I'm also co-owner of this jolly little cesspit of a coffeehouse," she continued, then turned to the screeching kettle whose enthusiasm knew no bounds. "Oi, Freddie Mercury, will you give it a bloody rest?"

Essie offhandedly drew a triquetra into the layer of flour on the tabletop, looking momentarily pensive. She bit a lip, hesitant, before breaching into a subject that held the taboo equivalence of a no man's land.

"Have you thought of what I mentioned before?"

"I'm not living in a cardboard box under a bridge."

"I meant speaking to your father about this," Essie ventured, gauging her friend's reaction. "He is a doctor."

Something flickered within Liv's eyes—a medley of hurt and anger, and maybe something more. Which sent red flags flying. Olivia Charles was a persnickety creature by default, which meant the words 'fuck off' often concluded their tête-à-têtes when speaking of Ludovico Charles.

Surprisingly, Liv merely snorted.

"Of pediatrics. I'm well past the age of shatting in nappies, I thank you."

"That's debatable."

Liv's answering smile was impish and lopsided, which immediately created a set of dimples to appear. But then her dark eyes turned somber and she glanced away, huffing so that her bangs fluttered. Slowly, her small hands curled into white-knuckled fists, a telltale sign this conversation was, indeed, approaching restricted territory. Then she sighed.

"He retired years ago. And what am I going to say to him? 'Ay, daddio, we haven't spoken in years because you agreed to the terms set by a harpy of an ex-wife that you wouldn't contact your one and only child? No birthday card, no ugly Christmas sweater, no address so that I could at least write to you?' Or how about this: 'Greetings, tis I, your spawn, who has not so recently been experiencing strange magical powers. Oh, I have a calcium deficiency? Grand. I'll remedy that by buying a fucking milk cow. Ta."

"You've had that prepared for a while, haven't you?"

"Ja."

"Well, speaking of these idyllic family chats," Essie continued, redirecting the topic towards somewhat friendly waters, "Your mum called last night."

"Of course, she did," Liv responded, grabbing a nearby whisk. She brandished it towards Lucy accusingly, causing gobs of royal icing to fling between them. "You said her name three times in the mirror, didn't you? That's why you took so long in the bathroom."

The sound of the front door unlocking hushed both girls. Essie glanced at the old clock above the sink whilst Liv took the moment to glower derisively at the kettle. Soon, the coffeehouse's main lights were turned on, illuminating the kitchen with a soft, golden phosphorescence. Not long thereafter the quiet rumblings of a masculine voice could be heard, then the scraping of several chairs being put a right.

"Why does Will have to be so damn punctual?" Essie hissed in a whisper.

"This is just a shot in the dark so, please, tell me if I'm wrong," Liv replied. "But it's probably because he owns this coffeehouse, too. Don't take my word for it. I'm untrustworthy. I suspend tea kettles midair with my brain."

"Liv, not helping."

"Fine. They levitate."

Essie raised a brow. "And you care to explain to Will why it's levitating?"

The tea kettle whistled louder.

"Shit, you're both right."

The two blurred into motion, flurrying around the table and bolting for the tea kettle. Essie, still within the thralls of a hangover, miscalculated her reach and missed the pot entirely—effectively thwacking herself in the face instead.

"Ouch!"

Liv laughed. "Brilliant."

Liv fared little better, however, considering her fingertips barely skimmed the copper bottom, even when going full en pointe. Essie, having regained control of her physical faculties, returned to her friend's side with a broom in hand. She snickered, brushing Liv aside.

"Let me get that, you little Halfling," she snickered, taking aim and knocking down the kettle.

Liv caught the tea kettle, which mercifully had decided to cease and desist of all whistling. She cast a withering gaze to her left.

"Did you just call me a hobbit?"

"Ja."

Liv glared. "Touché, Gandalf."

"Are you saying that I'm reputable and wise?"

"No, you're older than me and have the beginnings of what will someday be an impressive beard."

Essie didn't bat a lash. "Imagine all the braiding I could do!"

At that moment William Ennis meandered into the kitchen, stopping within the threshold at the sight before him: a shroud of flour settling between Essie and Liv, who were frozen in place as they stared owl-eyed at him, one wielding a broom like a weapon of old, the other clutching a tea kettle to her chest.

Slowly, Essie waved. Will raised a brow.

Liv sighed.

William Ennis was rugged and tall, but nearly everyone was tall in Liv's eyes, who capped little over five feet. His late teens were spent wrestling in underground tournaments, which left him heavily scarred, tattooed, and muscled. At twenty, he could be deemed handsome if he weren't so intense, with his hair cropped short and sporting a scruffy beard and crystalline blue eyes.

He had been a late addition to Liv's life, having met just three years prior at a farmer's market, somehow initiating a good-natured argument over what the correct spelling of a fried dough confectionery was.

"It's doughnut, dammit! It's made out of dough, not do," Liv had admonished vehemently. "Donut is for goddamn wankers."

Then, Liv had not been aware such a response had caused Will to laugh for the first time in years. Nor that he had instantly admired her chutzpah and the unerring spark in her eyes, and even more so for the fact that she refused to be intimidated by him one iota. Their discourses escalated from there, and they fit cozily into the crannies of each other's lives. And because nobody baked better pastries than Olivia Charles, nor brewed better coffee than William Ennis, they morphed their friendship into business.

Now, Liv was not aware of the friction between Will and Essie. Nor that he felt her best mate had something hidden up her sleeve, something that made the hairs on his arms stand on end because he knew—deep down, instinctively—Essie Finch was whitewashing some tremendous secret, and that he was dedicated to ferreting out what. Having been part of a fight club meant crossing off more names on his shit list than adding them, and so William Ennis had vowed that whatever threat swung above Olivia Charles's head would never gain enough momentum to drop.

Unfortunately for Will, his gut feeling was horribly misdirected.

Fortunately for Liv, this would bite her in the ass at a much later date.

"Finch, prudent as usual," Will greeted, stepping into the kitchen and nodding towards the dressing gown still attached Essie via a sleeve.

It was still draped on the ground, exposing her nightwear, which involved a laced chemise that left very little to the imagination. Which, frankly, many a man would kill to see. But as Essie Finch never lacked with that particular brand of attention, nor entertained it, she shrugged.

Meanwhile Liv had taken the opportunity to regain composure, and so she busied herself by filling the tea kettle with water and setting it to boil atop the stove. Essie still held the broom aloft like a sword, so Liv tugged it free and, being the uncontrollable clean freak that she was, sent it careening into the nearest corner of the kitchen. Her heart was still racing.

Act normal, she thought heatedly, willing the adrenaline to abide. Don't let it show. You've perfected the art of pretenses. Roll with it, Charles.

Her face burned, realizing how close a call it had been and wondered, not for the first time, what the hell she was going to do about these freakish incidents. On the bright side, her aptitude of magically manipulating everyday people, places, and things hadn't developed in terms of strangeness, or become more and more frequent within the past eighteen years. But concealing bat-shit crazy powers was taxing on one's mental health, because one slip-up meant things could turn physical.

On a completely unrelated note, Liv had read about the Salem Witch Trials.

Yeah. No, thank you.

A shadow fell across the counter where she was setting up a tray for morning tea. It was Will, of course, because even his shadow was looming, and he perpetually smelled of espresso and worn leather. This pulled her from the sea of fatalistic thoughts, thankfully, but Liv had to think twice about keeping the quiver out of her hands when setting down a pair of chipped teacups.

Turning, she met his gaze, which was serious and made stark by the brightness of his eyes.

"Liv," he said in way of greeting, voice cavernous, and nodded towards the oven. "Scones?"

She laughed shakily.

"Yeah, almond. Tried my hand at rakvicka, but botched them so badly I'll probably soon be rotting in a Czechoslovakian prison. Tanveer also delivered an absurd number of blueberries I forgot I'd ordered, so maybe you could make your legendary secret blueberry muffin recipe? You're our resident muffin man, after all."

"Ha," Essie snorted. "Muffin man."

Liv smirked at her. "His secret ingredient is love."

"Gross."

Will frowned, crossing an arm across his chest, while the other he reached forward to tilt Liv's head upward. As they were both creatures of habit and this display of physical contact was not habitual, this sent her mind scuttling about for understanding. And failed. Cleverly, she froze.

Gossamer morning light fell across her face and she saw Will's brows descend further. Behind, unbeknownst to them, Essie rolled her eyes.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asked, eyes lingering on the dark shadows beneath her own.

Essie raised her hand. "Oh, oh! I know!" she offered, and was ignored.

One fact about Olivia Charles: she was unreasonably independent—a trait rare and special amongst teenagers worldwide. But having been abandoned at the age of eleven by her father, then kicked out of the house at sixteen so her mother could start a new family, her survival instincts and bullshit detector had been honed into a fine point of distrust. She excelled at being autonomous.

So, although Will's genuine concern warmed her heart, Liv bristled.

"If I wanted to be coddled, Ennis, I would go to my moth—oh, wait, no I wouldn't. My mum doesn't possess maternal instincts. If I wanted to be coddled, Ennis," she reiterated, tapering off, "I'd...I'd...I'd rent a mother."

Essie snorted. Even Will's mouth quirked to the side, backing off and removing his hand to shove into his other pocket, because even he knew not to gallivant into uncharted territory.

A melodramatic sigh had both Will and Liv turning their attention onto Essie, who was now adding a top hat onto the flour-etched triquetra and glancing slantwise at the pair to see if they were looking or not. Realizing she had Liv's full attention, she broke out into a sly grin.

"Well, it's official," she started. "You haven't slept in days, you botched a recipe—hey, don't look at me like that—and you've fallen so far as to make lame-ass little zingers. Olivia Eve Charles is officially in the mood."

"What the hell," Liv folded her arms across her chest. "are you talking about?"

"That sounded sexual, didn't it?" Essie laughed, and laughed harder when Will scowled at her. "And now I'm getting the look–" There was a moment of silence, then: "That also sounded sexual. Well, fuck. Literally."

"Question," Will said, turning to Liv. "Whose idea was it to unleash her onto the unsuspecting masses?"

"Hey!"

"I'm still wondering which damaged part of her brain coined the term 'lame-ass little zingers'," Liv responded, one side of her mouth lifting into a smile.

"Hey!"

Will laughed, a rare, thunderous sound. "Maybe she's just acting out for attention."

"Yes, someone rub my belly," Essie quipped, waggling her brows. "Sexual innuendo intended."

Liv snorted. "Nerd, come here."

"Why?"

"I need to give you a wedgie."

The trio broke out into quiet, comradely laughter. Essie's grin was ethereal and infectious, and Will's wide smile warmed the intensity straight out of his eyes. For the first time all morning, Liv was given a moment of peace, surrounded by the only two people in the world that could pluck at her heartstrings. Tucked inside a small, cozy, cobbled kitchen within a small, cozy, albeit shabby coffeehouse on the outskirts of London, life felt safe and contented for the first time in a long time.

The levitating tea kettle fiasco felt nothing more than a distant memory.

Somewhere in the cosmos, however, Fate was cackling diabolically, knowing it was about to clock that feeling straight out of Liv's ass in precisely fifty-seven minutes when she strolled into a small, cozy, albeit dank pub called the Leaky Cauldron.

"Liv, I think I know what Finch is getting at, and she's right," Will said, breaking the silence. Upon noting the expression of surprise on Essie's face, he amended, "In her very special way."

"What do you mean?" Liv narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Go. Go back to the flat. Get some rest. I'm pretty sure you're pushing 40 hours."

"I'm not leaving, Ennis," she challenged, refusing to be pushed around by a man who could crush her skull with one hand. She poked him. "This is my shop too, mate, and I'm not jumping ship when we've just started accumulating a steady stream of customers."

"Finch volunteered to waitress. Go."

"I did?" Essie wrinkled her nose.

Liv glared. Will regarded her coolly.

"Go."

Liv whined, "William," and debated whether or not she was personally above stomping her feet like a child.

"Olivia."

"Shit, busting out full names usually works."

He must have read something on her face, because the perpetually stony expression on Will's softened a little, which made Liv eyeball him with the utmost of suspicion; the duo got along famously because of their stubbornness, not their ability to back down. But then Will surprised Liv once more by closing the gap between them, reaching forward and wrapping an arm around her. Her mind failed to comprehend any meaning behind this and reacted by displaying a very challenging self-defense technique, and froze.

He merely pulled at her apron's string, however, and when they unraveled, he caught the apron, abruptly tossing it into her face.

Liv's answering glare was impressive.

Will snorted.

"I've known you long enough to know your ways, Charles. Stop needling," he said. "You're exhausted and you have lemon zest in your hair. You're also twitching, which means you're hiding something but too tired to realize you're overcompensating. Which I'll ask you about later. Now go."

Liv groaned, then peered around his shoulder. "Essie, back me up?"

"Two words," Essie said, who had been in the midst of licking frosting from a spoon. "Tea—kettle."

Olivia Charles sighed, knowing quite well when she was defeated. Normally she'd continue arguing and perpetuating the idiom of beating a dead horse, but she didn't like the questioning look Will was casting her way. Instead, she flung the apron over her shoulder and strode towards the doorway.

"Alright, alright. I'll take a mental health day," she said. "But burn my scones and someone's face will meet the business side of my cheese-grater. I'm looking at you, Finch."

"Hey!"

Several minutes later saw Liv slamming the front door closed, having trundled up to the flat above Cloverdilly Coffee that she shared with Essie to grab her jacket and bag. Had she'd known—exactly—what the series of events that would spiral out of control in less than an hour's time entailed, she may have prepared herself better.

Or cowered in the bathtub, tinfoil hat bedecked, because if the government could read her mind, they'd discover that she was not a one-woman freak show, but there were thousands out there just like her. But educated. With wands.

And so, Olivia Charles ventured out onto a busy London street, drawing the hood of her jacket up and shaking the bangs out of her dark eyes. Twenty-nine minutes of introspective strolling (—honestly, Liv, a tea kettle. A levitating tea kettle. Really?!) from street to street later, hands shoved into her pockets and avoiding catching the eyes of passersby, Liv halted before the space between an old bookshop and record store on Charring Cross Road.

She cocked her head to the side.

"Since when has this been here?" she asked aloud, only to receive a series of strange glances from a couple who moseyed past.

Liv did not know that said couple were, indeed, Muggles, who saw only a young, scowling girl talking to the uninviting sight of a broken-down shop before her. To be fair, Liv too looked upon the timeworn facade of a very old building—but only she saw through the door's yellowed windowpane and looked upon a silhouette moving about within the glimmering of light, a light which felt both warm and welcoming to her. And only she saw the iron-wrought bracket above the doorway, one that bore no sign of the establishment, but a mere rusting cauldron that swayed to-and-fro.

Liv eyed the cauldron a moment longer, then the brass doorknob below. Her fingers twitched.

Sighing, she stepped forward.

"Fine, but if I walk in there and discover a coven of witches brewing some eye of newt potion," Liv said, steeling herself. "I'm officially going to be having a really bad day."

Author's Note: I own naught but a few silly, mildly inappropriate characters. Rated M for language, then later for sexy times. And truth be told, I've rationalized writing this to pieces, because more than anything I need to breathe life back into my other Sirius fic. But this is too damn fun to give up. Thank you for reading!