The 28th was coming at an alarming speed and to say that Sander was panicking was the understatement of the century. They were two months into their relationship and he was still baffled by the thought. So he'd asked around, let Lala have her laughing fit for about an hour at him and gave Lester enough leverage over him to last a lifetime. All because Sander thought, for their two months celebration he should do something for Ellie.

So with the crazy witch's help and his arse of a brother's, he set up a little evening out. Les - through means he'd rather not be privy to - got him tickets to a photography exhibit's opening, some  Martin Parr[1] guy, or whatever his name was and Lala, after practically selling his soul to her, would turn the terrace of Dorothea's into a - as much as it pained him to admit it - really amazing rooftop dinner space, from what the sketches showed.

The problem was—the exhibit was pretty formal, and the last time Sander had worn a suit it had been for the wedding of one of his uncles. When he was 15. But Lala with her never-ending talking had once let out that their neighbor in 3E was a seamstress. Sure, he'd seen her around the building, nodded a greeting at her in passing, but he'd never actually talked with her. And he wasn't exactly known for making great first impressions... So with a plan in mind, Sander went 4 floors down, only to stop on the floor and realize how completely, utterly shite his planning was. He paced on the corridor, hands fidgeting with his shirt, muttering and grunting at himself for about 10 minutes before he went fuck it and started walking decidedly towards the apartment door.

He knocked (well, more like pounded) at the door, with a frown and his lips tight, hoping he wasn't looking like some suspicious murderer (he did, he so did) with a cup in his other hand. When the door opened, Sander's eyes narrowed, looking down at her with a complicated sort of expression. "Sander" he said, practically shoving his hand in her face. "I'm in 7U" he grunted in his specific monosyllabic way of talking, shaking her hand once with a little bit more force than... humans everywhere were used to. He dropped her hand and raised his other, a coffee mug in it, which—in retrospect he should've brought any other mug, because this was Lester's and it really wasn't helping him right now. He looked at the mug, her face, back at the mug muttered something to himself and let out a loud exhale.

"Can I borrow a cup of sugar" he finally dead-panned, no tone to his voice, no question, more like a command, no please... God dammit! This wasn't going at all like how he imagined it. It didn't even make sense... To go down four flights of stairs for a cup of sugar. It was creepy like hell, actually. And now that he looked at her more carefully, he totally recognized her from Alohomocha, and Jesus Christ what patissier didn't have any sugar at his place?! His face was doing all sorts of strange things from pained to murderous to glaring daggers, but really they were directed at himself. Bloody hell...

1.	British documentary photographer, photojournalist and photobook collector. Known for his photographic projects that take a critical look at aspects of modern life, in particular provincial and suburban life in England. Awarded with the Centenary Medal of The Royal Photographic Society in 2008.

Cora was busy packing her bag for her trip the next day.  Going to Paris was going to be an adventure that was for certain.   She had a lot of work to do for her grandmother during the day, but she was going to be meeting up with Thomas to see Sacre-Coeur and she wanted to make sure she was properly attired for it. 

Her clothes were strewn over her bed, shoes sitting on the floor, waiting to be picked out for the trip, and toiletries and things were also sitting out to be packed.  Cora herself was in a state of disarray.  Her hair was tossed above her head in a messy bun, decked already in her pajamas even though she wouldn’t be in bed for another four hours or so…

Grunting with aggravation, Cora threw down the dress she had been looking at frowned.  It was annoying.  She thought this would be easy!  She was almost glad that there was a pounding at her door and it almost gave her a heart attack.  At least it was a distraction.  “Coming!” she called out, practically launching herself out of the bedroom and toward the door.  She didn’t even look through the Peeping Tom. 

Throwing the door open (it felt like it might pop off its hinges), Cora blinked.  That… wasn’t what she expected.  She recognized the man who introduced himself as Sander not only from the apartment building, but he worked with Leon at the coffee shop, she knew she’d seen him there.  Surprised, however, at his bluntness, Cora looked up with her mouth in a little ‘o’ her expression did not fade when she caught sight of the cup. 

Oh my she tried not to frown and did her best to smile.  “I… well… I mean, sure!” she reached forward to take the cup, “I’ll just um… be a moment?” she didn’t quite like the idea of a mug that talked about killing people and then inviting him into her apartment… but she couldn’t be rude either.  “You can come in to wait,” Cora gulped, hoping that someone that looked like he did and glared like he did would embody more of his profession: bake cookies not people. 

She figured if she died, someone would notice in short order, and she motioned him in as she headed toward the cabinets. 

If Sander blushed at being... received in pajamas, it sure as hell didn't show through the almost hilarious furrow of his eyebrows. But he did turn his head to look anywhere but at his neighbor. This was such a failure. He sure as hell hoped Les or Lala, or Jesus H Christ, Ellie heard of it.

When she stuttered through a response, Sander turned his eyes back to her, eyebrows almost meeting his eyelashes and lips pursed into a thing line. Was she going to scream? Call the aurors? Oh God. He so didn't need that. When she invited him in the apartment, his expression relaxed a little and he nodded, a grunt - wanting to be a sound of approval - came from his throat. Pushing the mug into her hand, he stepped around her and entered the apartment.

He stood stiff and awkward near the doorway, not daring to look around or touch anything, so instead put his hands in his pockets, playing with a loose thread in his left one.This was the first time he had been in a girl's home that wasn't Lala (but that creature was not a girl) in quite a few years. And it felt so wrong being here. He was so used to living alone with his brother, that even Lala's apartment sometimes felt like a foreign environment, something to be seen in a museum and studied.

He opened his mouth a few times, abandoning the idea every time until eventually he cleared his throat and rocked on his heels a few times. "It's my brother's" he said, apropos to absolutely nothing. "The mug" he added eloquently. "He's eighteen" he nodded seriously, thinking that was explanation enough for most everything Les did. Why the hell didn't he look at what mug he brought with him? He was silent again, for a couple of seconds. "So, you're a seamstress" he stated, not even asked, looking towards the kitchen with a lot of intensity. That wasn't creepy at all, Sander. Well done... Bravo. Was she going to think he was some sort of stalker now? Jesus. What were words? How did you socialize?

Alright. 

Cora had sugar somewhere.  Maybe, if she got the sugar as quickly as possible, the potential murderer in her front hall would be so impressed with her speed in aiding him in his pursuit of the confection that he’d leave her completely intact and the landlady wouldn’t have to come and find her cold and lifeless body on the floor without a head that would have to be searched for via the Auror office. 

That seemed like a legitimate enough thing, and Cora threw open her cabinets, putting the creepy cup on the countertop.  Almost everything n this place was about ready to fall apart, she noted as the cabinets creaked and a splinter fell off and into the counter after being nudged just a little too hard.  Frowning, she got up on her tip toes: Sugar was not on the first shelf.
 
Now, this posed another problem because Cora was short.  She tried to deny it, but it was true: she was tiny and the shelves were high and she got an immediate flash of her wand sitting on top of the pile of clothes on her bed in the bedroom.  That’d waste time.  Looking down the hall, it seemed to be a poor choice to waste time. 

So, for whatever it was worth, Cora hiked her knee up to get leverage on the counter and started to pull herself up with a labored squeak.  She felt the counter shaking under her (rude counter! She hardly weighed that much), and shimmied her knees forward – softly – to make sure she wouldn’t topple backward as she tried to get higher into her shelving. 

But, the next thing she knew, she heard a crash and she involuntarily gasped. “Oh no!” she exclaimed, looking over her shoulder while holding onto the wooden cabinet for dear life, and swore under her breath.  She broke the murderers cup.  “I – um – oh, when I get my wand,” she started to babble, “I can fix it – I swear!”

When no answer came from the kitchen, Sander started to fidget and muttered something to himself. Was she owling the Aurors? Was she arming herself with a knife? Her wand? His life was finally turning around, hell no if he was going to die or be incarcerated today! With a grunt and a few confused mutterings to himself, he took a step forward, stopped, and balled his hands in fists in his pockets.

Finally, he took a long breath and took a step to walk towards the kitchen only to hear the sound of ceramic braking. His eyes did a thing, where they almost popped out of his sockets and he quickly rushed to the kitchen. “I can fix it – I swear!” Sander looked confusedly from the blonde to the shattered cup on the floor, then the girl again, eyebrows doing a funny thing because what was she even doing?

Finally he let out a soft snort, and crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head in amusement at the mug. "Huh... I never liked that mug" he said under his breath, feeling some of the tension pull away from his body. "Don't worry" he said, raising his head slightly, eyebrows up and a short shrug of his shoulders. "But I'd recommend avoiding Les for a while" he said seriously, nodding once. Damn, Les was going to pitch a bitch over it. It was worth it, tho, even if he'd have to set Lala on him.

"What did you need?" he asked, getting closer to her, almost eye to eye level, seriously towering over her if she hadn't been up on the counter. He looked expectantly at the shelves and raised his eyebrows in question at her.

When she didn’t hear an immediate response, Cora figured he’d either spontaneously combusted or that he was gearing up to wipe her off the face of the planet.  Forget about the headless corpse: the landlady was going to be finding a pile of dust that used to be Cora, she knew it.  Gulping almost comically loudly, Cora steeled herself: the long sleep was coming, she knew it. 

Her would be executioner, however, did not raise his wand at her, and her certainly didn’t curse her into her next lifetime.  Instead, he snorted.  “I can fix it,” she repeated lamely, biting her lip as he said to avoid his brother.  Though, Cora would be avoiding him anyway.  At least he wasn’t an angry murderer.  “I’ll give you one of mine,” she added, hoping that would be an okay substitute. 

Granted, when he approached and was as tall as she was kneeling on the counter, Cora grinned with an awkward laugh, shrugging her shoulders.  “I… the sugar,” she started – realizing how ridiculous she sounded, “the sugar is on this shelf,” she patted it and reached her hand in, feeling the sack.  She grabbed it and pulled it from the shelf, holding it out to him.  “I… needed to get it.” 

Lowering her eyes, Cora sighed.  “Take this,” she suddenly ordered her even tempered murderer before she climbed down from the counter, careful not to step on the ceramic bits – tripping a little as she had to extend her leg much farther than it was going to want to naturally go.  “I’ll be right back,” she informed him and dashed to her bedroom, trying not to be a complete idiot and grabbed her wand off the pile of clothes. 

She was the kind of girl who broke glasses.  Coming back out, she pointed the wand at the cup and announced “Reparo!” to which the glass started to come back together.  Unfortunately, she realized as she got closer, there were still cracks in it.  Ceramic didn’t break as neatly or without as much dust as crystal… she bit her lip.  “I… well… I’m sure I have a replacement for Les,” she shrugged meekly, looking at her cabinet full of brightly colored and cheerful mugs, “Maybe.”   

"Or..." she added with a sheepish smile, "maybe he won't even notice?" 

"It's fine" he said with a serious nod. Really, Les was way too smug when using that mug. It had been a gift from one of his mates, and it's not like they didn't have an entire cupboard full of snarky, or comical mugs... This had actually been one of the milder ones. "I'll just borrow one for now" he said in response to her offer of giving him one of hers. They really didn't need anymore mugs.

He took the sack from her with an amused sort of expression, raising one hand in surrender and nodding once. This was a strange woman, he decided when she had left the room for something. Perhaps he wasn't the only person decidedly lacking in the social department in the building. Not that he cared all that much, still... It did make one feel a little less weird.

"It's really not a problem" he insisted, a tad irritated by now. Les would just have to deal with it, and unless he actually told him the chances were he'd never actually find out. He had other shit on his mind. None actually important or anything, but yeah. "He probably won't" he added with a little snort. "Just... don't mention it to him."

"So... the sugar?" he asked, raising the sugar sack at her eye level. He looked around aimlessly for a second. "Lala says you're a seamstress" he said casually and apropos to nothing. "Ugh, Layla in 6T?" he specified, for good measure.

There was very little Cora could do right now, other than accept her fate.  Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be a real concern, except when he snorted at her, and Cora wondered if that was his secret note to self that he needed to kill her quietly because she talked too much or something. 

That wouldn’t have been surprising.  The awkward moments between everything that happened and now that there wasn’t really anything happening at all, Cora was glad to turn and grab one of the teal mugs from the cabinet, some suns painted on it, and then take the sugar from him to give him a cup.

Opening the sack, she poured it in the cup on the counter (it was much less likely to spill), she nodded as he suggested to not tell.  That’d probably be a good idea. 

She continued to pour, curiously looking over at him as he mentioned Layla – an acquaintance of hers, mentioned her job.  Nodding along, Cora affirmed, “Layla is right,” she smiled. 

“I’m a seamstress,” she clarified, finishing pouring the sugar into the cup and putting the sack on her counter.  She grabbed the cup and turned back toward him.  “Do you need something done?” she asked, not afraid to cut to the chase, since it was such a weird thing to comment on, unless he did, indeed, want something.  That would, at least, make him less of a creepy murderer and more of a… fashion-challenged project who required some help. 

He nodded a little bit too seriously, scratching mindlessly at his jaw before deciding to just shove his hands back in his pockets, before he did something he might regret. Like destroy the kitchen of this person he'd just met. He was prone to awkward limb movement when he had no idea what to do with his life. Such as now.

When she asked him the question he simply eyed her warily for a couple of seconds, his eyebrows doing a thing, a little dance almost, it was both creepy like hell and kind of funny. Finally, with an almost gutted expression he nodded slowly, opening his mouth to say something, instead taking a loud breath and looking at a very interesting minuscule crack in the ceiling. "I might need a–hmmm. Suit" he muttered, barely audible, leaning back on his heels, then quickly forward.

"Like with the jacket and the trousers" he said, getting his hands out of his pockets to gesticulate awkwardly to his current ensemble: very well-worn black jeans and an ancient Iron Maiden shirt. "And a tie" he added slower, chancing a glance at her, brows almost meeting at the middle of his forehead. He sat straighter and put his hands back in the safety of his pockets, clearing his throat a little and glaring menacingly at a drawer. "Do you... do that?" he asked ever so eloquently, still glowering about.

Raising her eyebrows, Cora wasn’t sure she heard him right.  Did he say suit?  What was this? Some weird sort of comedy radio show?  Did they send an ex-azzie murderer to her door so some one-time famous jokester could run in and tell her she’d be whiz’d or something?  Looking from side to side, she didn’t notice any floating ears listening in by the windows or anything, and then turned her eyes back to her very unexpected and sudden guest, who seemed to be completely serious. 

That was really what shocked Cora.  Blinking, she listened to him, her mouth hanging slightly open as he got further into it – and clearly more and more uncomfortable with each extra piece he mentioned.  He didn’t exactly look like the type to want to don a suit, she could see from the faded clothing he had on: comfort, it appeared, over style. 

But, who was she to deny a potential customer (especially one who she thought could possibly be a psycho murderer)?  “I do,” she cleared her throat, “I mean, I do that,” she coughed, reaching up and scratching the back of her neck.  “I could show you some sketches,” she offered, “or um… tell me what you think you’d like and let you know…?” 

It was difficult thing to do in her flat, but… she couldn’t let this go down badly.  “Or maybe you can tell me what you need it for?” she asked, curious, “and I can tell you what might work?”

The woman looked very suspicious of him and he couldn't –no, that'd be a lie, well, he could maybe understand why, but it was making him more nervous. As if this wasn't awkward enough without all the tension in his body, his stunted vocabulary and her mouth hanging agape like he was some sort of circus freak to be pointed at and laughed. He grunted something under his breath and regretted every decision that had brought him here. No. Actually, it was all Styles' fault. It always was... That woman deserved a pat on the head. With a hammer or a bat.

When she finally replied, he moved his eyes to her, eyebrows lowered and corners of his lips tugging downwards into a little scowl. When she mention something about sketches, his face became pained with confusion, because what the hell would he know about sketches? Or suits. He wore suits twice in his life, and both were hand me downs from either his father or his cousin, Ifan. Both had better figures and taste. Needless to say he looked like a total barmpot in both of them.

He opened his mouth to say something along those lines when she started talking again, and he closed his lips shut, hands squirming in his pockets. When she was done his eyes had grown bigger and bigger until they were eventually looking like they were going to pop out of his skull. His lips parted in shock, moving a little as he was attempting to get something out through them and he felt like his entire face was on fire, and he knew his blush would spread to his neck. He finally looked away, muttering something, hands balling up into fists inside his pockets and he let out a little huff.

"I—I'm—girlfriend. Ugh" he started ever so eloquently, scrunching the words through clenched teeth and let out another puff of air, shaking his head a little at his own inability to properly express himself. "Ellie, in—ugh, 6T, with Layla?" he asked, chancing a glance at her, before quickly looking back at the wall. "We're—umm—two months together, and—ugh" he swallowed nervously, urging himself to stop acting like a twelve year old confessing to his first love. "I'm taking her to a photography exhibit—it's, eh... fancy, and then—mmm—dinner" his voice cracked at the end, getting a little higher than usual and he stared daggers at the wall, because bloody hell this was ridiculous. He cursed under his breath and hissed at nothing in particular. This was going absolutely fantastic!

Oh! Well, that was a surprise!

Cora didn’t imagine very many serial killers had girlfriends, and usually, if they did (from what she’d read) they helped in the crimes, like some kind of weird cult thing.  She knew of the name – Ellie, through Layla, and Ellie did not seem like the accomplice or cultish follower of a boyfriend-serial killer. 

It instantly transformed him in her eyes.  No longer was he waiting to smash the ceramic cup on the counter and then slowly draw a piece of the chipped glass across her neck.  He was now a very strange guy in a t-shirt who just wanted to impress his girlfriend.  That was adorable.  The shadows of terrifying practically melted off of him and Cora grinned, renewed in her confidence that she wouldn’t die today and– through only a large amount of self-control – didn’t squeal.

Instead, she clasped her hands in front of her as tight as she could and nodded.  “So,” she chirped, not wanting to make him any more embarrassed than he already clearly was, “something not entirely formal – but not too casual either.”  She pursed her lips as she crossed her arms over her chest in thought. 

“You know, I think something in heather,” she said out loud, “with leather accents might suit you perfectly,” she announced, walking up to him and starting to circle – sort of like a shark in the water.  “I’m guessing you prefer blacks?” she asked, not really to ask, she could see it on him, “though, perhaps not leather trousers, yeh?” she also thought aloud, noting that they might be a flattering look on his seemingly slim legs, but dragon leather being on the rare side… probably pricier than it appeared the worn t-shirt sort might want to get. 

Which reminded her of something crucial, “Do you have a budget?”

He nodded. He wouldn't be able to wear anything ridiculously formal even if he wanted to. He was already scared of whatever not entirely formal might've meant. The purse of her lips and the way she crossed her arms, looked like she was about to get down to business and Sander swallowed loudly, taking a little step back. Jesus Christ what had he gotten himself into?

"Hea—heather?" he asked stuttering, eyebrows furrowed and one foot behind him, ready to sprint the hell out of there. What the bloody hell was heather? And leather? Oh my God, he needed to run away now. He had a sudden image of being dressed in leather from head to toe and he felt sleazy all of a sudden and his mind suddenly went to whips, handcuffs and—ugh. No. Nope.

He nodded slowly and surely, because nobody had ever managed to put Sander Blackwell in anything that wasn't dark enough to be thought some shade of grey or brown from a distance. And huh, he did actually own a pair of leather pants. Bran had made him buy it. He still regretted it. They were hidden at the back of his closet and hadn't seen the light of day since they've been purchased. "All the leather I wear stops at a jacket and a pair of boots" he said with a deep frown, eyeing the witch skeptically. Still, he shook his head in a fervent no, because he was not going to be the douche bag in the leather pants at their two months celebration.

"Not really" he replied with a little shrug. He had managed to save quite a bit of money, he just never got around actually spending them. He could probably afford moving somewhere better by now, or moving Les on his own... But he had gotten used to the little rundown attic, and he still didn't trust Les on his own yet. "Just—I'll probably wear this twice in my life. So—ugh" he shrugged again, getting one hand out of his pocket to scratch behind his head absently.

Watching someone having changed directly from a rabid wolf to a scared and wounded baby bunny was entirely too delightful for Cora.  She did not normally scare people – perplex them, embarrass them (and herself), or underwhelm them – but never scare. 

If she wasn’t so excited at the prospect of helping someone do something lovely, she might have reveled in the feeling of being feared for a moment longer.  Instead, she turned mind’s eye back to the vision she had in her head and it was something sophisticated, but not outrightly so. 

“Jacket works,” Cora said thoughtfully, “maybe as an accent,” she looked up at him, knowing he probably didn’t know what that mean.  “Kind of a decoration, like on the lapels,” she showed him on herself, tugging at the robe where lapels would go.  “Or shoulder patches,” she added thoughtfully, tilting her head to the side in thought before she violently shook it at her own thoughts.  She liked the idea of lapels much more than the shoulders…

He didn’t seem entirely enthusiastic though (the serial killer part of him coming through again) and Cora frowned.  “Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for,” she changed her tactic, “and I’ll draw something up.”  With a quick swish and flick of her wand, she had her notepad and quill in hand.  “I can sketch something and see if I can get it as close to what you want as possible.” 

She softened her look from lioness waiting to strike on her customer to a slightly more demure (and accurate) part of herself.  “You should like what you wear,” she informed him, “so that you want to wear the pieces more than twice.”   

"Accent? Like—ummm, gold leaf?" He knew that! His desserts had color and taste accents, like gold leaf accents. He nodded emphatically, face relaxing as she continued to prove him right and—finally! He no longer felt like the village idiot. But then what the hell where shoulder patches? He had a vague idea about lapels... but— This was ridiculously complicated. Who knew being well dressed required learning an entirely new language?

Still, after a few moments of staring at her with his mouth slightly parted he started shaking his head slowly. "I've no bloody idea" he replied honestly. "My younger brother's the fashion guy" he added with a little mutter. "A jacket, trousers and a shirt?" he finally said unsurely after a few second. I mean what the hell could there be more? Was there? More to it? But then he finally snapped her head back at her with eyes wide. "Just no wizarding folks' clothes" he said, voice a pitch higher, swallowing loudly. Because that was... that was just a huge no.

Sander doubted he'd ever like something that wasn't made out of denim hugging his legs, or maybe the odd training pants. "Not likely" he unconsciously said with a little snort, then raised his eyes at her and did a thing with his eyebrows. Finally he growled, taking his hands out of his pockets and shrugging violently. "I don't know about half the things you're talking about, I see clothes as something functional and my friends tell me I've the social skills of a rabid gorilla" he finally said exasperatedly, blushing fiercely and muttering to himself.

"I'll just—leave it to you." Since she was the specialist and all that and he felt like he was in an episode of Twilight Zone. Or X Files. Good times, good times.