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Harry Potter was proud to call himself a drinker of tea. A connoisseur of the hot, leafy beverage. A veritable maestro of the brew.
At university he’d been witness to his best-friend Ron’s crippling reliance on Iced Caramel Macchiatos, brought twice a day from the campus Starbucks. Harry had been of the private opinion that those sticky, syrupy coffees had done more damage to his friend’s bank balance and waistline than all of the beer he’d quaffed back in the union bar.
During the holidays Harry had sipped quietly at his rose-petal Lapsang Souchong while Sirius, his rock-star Godfather, had drank cup after cup of black sludge-like tar. “Can’t start the day without my coffee,” Black had always remarked, wrapped up his dressing gown while smoking his third fag of the morning. Harry hadn’t agreed, though he’d said nothing.
Harry didn’t care that tea wasn’t masculine or hard-bitten. Tea was ethereal, light and forever worked its charms, making him feel better about whatever the day might have waiting in store for him. Indeed, his year teaching in Japan after university had made Harry more particular about tea than ever. His cupboards were filled with Jasmine leaf, Ceylon Orange and Darjeeling. When ignorant friends asked instead for a coffee Harry could only raise an eyebrow behind his wire-framed specs. After all, he was an unabashed tea-snob.
Therefore, it would have no sense to anyone who had ever known Harry Potter to see him entering A Latte Fun, the brightest cafe on Camden High-Street.
This establishment was a diehard coffee aficionado’s paradise, with an unpronounceable menu full of Lattes, Mochas and Espressos. As for tea, A Latte Fun committed the worst of all sins: their range consisted solely of “with or without milk.” Quite honestly, it was a tea-infused horror show.
But what A Latte Fun did have was a very specific man behind their counter.
Their host was called Draco Malfoy. This blond-haired, sharp-chinned character was Harry’s childhood nemesis. Draco was the greatest enemy of Harry’s life: his hated schoolboy rival.
The very first time that Harry had visited the coffee shop had been in the depth of winter, and Harry had dived in the cafe without even reading the name of the place. Malfoy had been stood behind the counter, his always-perfect hair artfully tousled as he wiped down each surface. Harry had watched, fascinated while Malfoy wiggled neat hips to the poppy tune of Shake It Off.
Really, Harry had decided. It was scandalous that barrista uniforms should fit so well.
Harry had recognised his childhood enemy immediately. Draco had been the only son of a rich London banker, insolent and spoiled. They’d been in opposing school houses, vying for top-dog position on both the Rugby field and during Fencing duels. Malfoy had never been shy about mouthing off, telling all and sundry that Harry’s birth family had been dirt poor.
Malfoy had claimed Harry could only afford to attend Eton because of his wealthy Godfather, a 1970s rock-star infamous for hard drugs and love affairs. Followed everywhere by acolytes, Draco had been relentless in his harassment of Harry and the only person that could truly get under Harry’s skin.
Their enmity had finally reached its crescendo one grey day in an abandoned toilet.
Harry had punched Draco, drawing blood that had cascaded down the other boy’s shirt. Only days later, Lucius had been arrested: a disgraced criminal that had ripped off his bank for millions. Draco had left Eton in shame.
“What can I get for you?” Malfoy asked, interrupting Harry’s chain of thought. Harry felt himself flush with embarrassment. Memories had been running rampant through his brain and Harry hadn’t realised that he’d been staring at Draco.
“You’ve been gazing at the menu for a minute. There’s a lot to choose from.” Malfoy’s voice was low and silky; nothing like the petulant whine that had so grated on Harry at school.
“Erm… A coffee, I suppose?” Harry had replied, flushing an even deeper pink when he realised how amateur his answer had sounded. “Yes. I'll have a coffee, please. You do have coffee?”
“We most certainly do,” Draco had answered, amusement glinting in his grey eyes. “Lattes, Mochas Americanos and even Frappuccinos if you were feeling brave. You’re not scared are you Potter?” Draco asked, drawing attention to their shared history for the first time. “I can make you a nice Flat-White if this is all a bit new to you. How does that sound?”
Harry had nodded mutely, surprised to feel a little overwhelmed.
Harry supposed he must still dislike Draco. That much was obvious by the butterflies that had filled his tummy and the terrible urge he had to dive out the door. Draco looked pleased and set straight to work making a frothy, foaming concoction that Harry knew would make him buzz all afternoon even if he only took a sip.
Harry paid, placing five pounds in Draco’s hand. The barrista’s hands were lithe, his fingers long and elegant. “Thank you,” Draco had said, giving Harry his change. “Hope you enjoy your coffee.”
Harry hadn’t. Even the smell had been enough to turn his stomach and when he found himself back on the High-Street, Harry decided to bin the offending drink as soon as he reached the nearest litter bin. He’d brew himself a nice lemon-infused Chai tea as soon as he returned to work.
It had been so odd, seeing Malfoy again. A vision from the past, present and alive and just as infuriating as ever. Why was the man working in a coffee shop? Harry decided he might as well go back one more time. Next time, he’d be brave enough to actually converse with him. Ask Draco what had brought him to A Latte Fun. Tomorrow, Harry decided, he’d wear his slightly better-fitting jeans. That would annoy Malfoy no end.
It wasn’t until Harry was about to bin the paper cup that Harry noticed a message scribbled on the side of the cup in Draco’s elegant handwriting.
“Nice to see you again, Potter xx”
~@~
The next day, Harry wore his best jeans and even made a concerted effort to style his hair. Considering that he’d not gotten a brush through that birds-nest since he was sixteen, this really was no mean feat, but Harry was determined to show Malfoy he could still look attractive.
Taking a deep breath, Harry strode into A Latte Fun: only to be faced with a beautiful girl with jet-black hair. His disappointment felt terribly crushing and he struggled for words.
“Just a small Americano,” Harry managed, looking up at the board. “No milk or sugar.”
“Is that right?” rumbled a familiar voice from the next room. “You’re already sweet enough?”
Draco walked in on them both, not looking even the slightest bit embarrassed for having used the cheesiest line in all of human history. He looked even better than the day before, wearing a thin green wool jumper that looked incredibly comfortable wrapped around his body. He smiled easily at Harry. “You came back. My Flat-White coffee tends to have that effect on men. You go in the back Pansy,” Draco said. “I’ll serve Mr. Potter here.”
“I’d never have imagined you as a barrista, Malfoy,” Harry replied, making a careful effort to keep his voice from sounding too warm. “I’d have imagined you as a Captain of Industry, sat in some pristine chrome office-”
Draco laughed. “Nah. Pansy- the girl you just met?- she’s my partner. A Latte Fun has been my baby since school. Never fancied working for anyone else. Here I work whatever hours I want… I’m my own boss. Plus, I get to meet some fabulous repeat customers.”
Draco surprised Harry then, giving him the most obvious wink.
Draco Malfoy, flirtatious and affable? Wonders would never cease.
“It’s good to see you,” Draco continued, grinning widely. “I know we left on bad terms but that punch? In the toilets? I know I had it coming-”
Even though Harry had only thought about the event the previous day, he rushed to interrupt. “It was a long time ago, Malfoy. Water under the bridge.”
Draco shook his head. “I was a first class arse back then. Christ, I was jealous to death of you. That was why I ragged on you all the time. Thought you were so lucky to live with your Godfather. I used to play his records, pretend I had your life. How awkward is that?”
Harry shook his head, feeling the knots of a dozen years of antagonism start to loosen. “Not at all. Everybody loves Sirius. They haven’t met the real man, though. Haven’t had the joy of his evil coffee breath.”
Harry handed over another five pounds. Perhaps it was his imagination, but this time Draco’s hand seemed to linger. “You’re getting an expensive habit,” Draco said. “Do come again, Potter. I’ll make you the next drink free.”
Outside, Harry read the message that Draco had hurriedly written upon his cup:
“Potter! What do you say to a fresh start?”
~@~
The next day Harry walked into A Latte Fun feeling resolute.
He hadn’t been able to sleep the previous night: visions of Malfoy’s soft, pliable lips and elegant jaw had plagued his thoughts and even a gorgeous cup of Lapsang Souchong hadn’t improved matters. If Draco Malfoy wanted a fresh start, then who was Harry Potter to deny him?
Harry matched down Camden High-Street, and pushed open the door of the cafe. As he entered, Draco gave him a wide grin. Draco’s apron was a soft purple today and his hair was pulled back into an artful top-knot. The other man efficiently dealt with several customers before Harry found himself placed at the front of the queue.
“So,” Harry began, feeling his confidence evaporate. “It’s just… I wanted to say-”
“Whether I’d make you one of my specials?” Draco questioned, his face joyful and open. He gestured to all the choices on the board. “I can make you a roasted caramel Cappuccino if you’d like? Or a pumpkin-spiced Latte?”
“None of those,” Harry broke in. “Look, Draco… I’ve got a confession to make. The truth is well… I hate coffee. Always have. I’ve got to admit: the only reason I came back yesterday was you.”
Harry decided that now was the time to out his plan into action. Taking his back-pack off, Harry reached inside for the small tea flask that he had brought back from Japan. “And the only thing I’d like today is an empty cup, please,” Harry asked.
Draco handed an empty container over, his perfectly manicured eyebrows raised questioningly. Harry scrawled his message on the side of the cup before filling it carefully from the flask.
“Rose Congou,” said Harry, placing the drink in Draco’s hands. “It’s from Eastern China and it tastes like Turkish Delight and flower petals. I hope you like it, Draco. You… Well, you spend you whole life making other people drinks. So, today I thought I’d share one that I loved with you instead.”
Draco sipped the drink slowly, his eyes opening wide in appreciation. “It’s so delicate,” Draco said, “and delicious. Nobody has ever through to make me a drink before. I love it.”
“That’s not all,” Harry replied. “Read the side of the cup.”
Draco did. “A fresh start sounds brilliant, Malfoy,” Draco read aloud. “Or perhaps you’d even consider a date?”
“I’d love to,” Draco said, placing the cup on the table. He took Harry’s hand in his own, squeezing each finger lightly. “And don’t worry. I always knew you hated coffee. Barristas know these things, Harry. It’s a sixth sense. Our one magic power.”
They arranged their date and Harry was soon on his way home. He felt lighter than air and more optimistic than he had in a very long time. Somehow Harry knew their meal was only going to be the start of something life changing.
Harry daydreamed the whole way home, before brewing himself a scrumptious Darjeeling to celebrate.