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Just when Draco thought his Monday couldn’t get any worse, the espresso machine at Jitter Bug croaked its final gout of steam into the world and died with both a bang and a whimper. The bang came from the espresso machine – the whimper came from Draco. He’d so been hoping that today would be a good day. It seemed like his whole life was fighting the stigma of Mondays as the worst day of the week (the worst day of the week was actually Thursdays, thank you very much). Draco was a veritable one-person cheerleading squad for Mondays.
This Monday, however, had machinations working in direct contrast to his pro-Monday agenda. Draco’s alarm had blared into the 3 A.M. silence and darkness with a shrillness that it had never before possessed. He was usually so good about his Sunday night routine – cooking a big batch meal for easy lunches throughout the week, a long bubble bath, and drinking tea while reading or watching a show before climbing into bed at 6 (7 at the latest). But last night, Draco didn’t find the warm embrace of his covers until nigh on 8:15 P.M. (It was the finale of Love Island – no one could blame him for pushing his strict bedtime for that!)
But not-so-bright and early the next morning, Draco did in fact blame himself. He blamed himself as he stared mournfully at the dark circles under his eyes. He blamed himself as he lost valuable time having to run back into his apartment to grab his pre-packed lunch that he almost left sitting desolately on the counter. He blamed himself as he sped through his opening routine (which always left him frazzled). And he blamed himself as he slogged through the small pre-dawn rush Jitter Bug always got right after opening. The only light in the darkness for Draco to focus on was that reinforcements were coming. Blaise would be in at 6:30 and Draco would be able to steal away for 10 minutes and down more espresso shots than was frankly advised before battling his way heroically through the pre-work rush. (A note here regarding the pre-work rush: since opening Jitter Bug 4 years, 7 months, and 13 days ago, Draco had noticed that the rushes would come as follows – 5:30 A.M. the post open rush, where the early birds on their way to early morning workout classes, the night shift workers getting off shift, and the distance commuters would come in for something to keep them awake [this was usually a pretty subdued crowd]; the 7 A.M. rush, which was filled with the office workers getting coffee and occasionally breakfast before going in to their office jobs [this rush started at a decent clip, but had a tendency to dissolve into madness the closer to 8 A.M. it got and the more frantic the customers became about getting their coffee and getting to work on time. Draco usually only allowed his more seasoned workers to open for this reason, but occasionally would schedule a newbie for an early morning their first week as a baptism by fire]; following the end of the 7 A.M. rush, there would be a lull until about 10 A.M. when the office workers would need a top off [or, if they didn’t dare to brave the 7 A.M. rush, their first coffee of the day]; after this, business would be pretty consistent once the college kids got up and moving. While it may seem manageable, the Monday mutation of the 7 A.M. rush was known around Jitter Bug as the Hell Rush. No one was worse than the office workers [who absolutely detested Mondays] trying to get coffee while fighting back the panic of starting another dreaded week in their awful jobs.)
So, needless to say, Draco was anticipating some well-deserved time to calm his frazzled nerves before wading into the Hell Rush with nothing but his best friend, his trusty espresso machine, and his perfectly coiffed hair. However, at this moment Draco experiences his first betrayal in the form of a text.
But not just any text. A text at 6:15 A.M. from none other than Blaise Zabini, his best friend, telling Draco’s he’s gotten food poisoning and can’t be more than 20 feet away from his bathroom for the next 24 hours at least . As he reads the message, Draco starts to hear a ringing in his ears. He distantly registers that the edges of his vision are going white and then, quickly, black. It seems as if the world is spinning off its axis, tottering round and round, threatening to send Draco careening off into the cold, heartless expanse of space.
Draco is going to have to face the Hell Rush alone.
Exactly 1 hour and 27 minutes (and 4 shots of espresso shot in one gulp – extremely ill advised, Draco would never sell that to a customer [unless the customer was Pansy, cramming for her linear algebra final and bribing Draco with an obscene amount of homemade baked goods]) Draco experiences his second betrayal of the day: his trusty espresso machine kicks the bucket. Draco freezes with his hand on the handle of the portafilter and stares in horror at the softly ticking espresso machine. He wasn’t even aware that espresso machines could tick, he thinks distantly.
“What's the hold up?” a short, gruff man in a suit with a crooked tie barks at Draco from the register where he’s waiting to order.
“My espresso machine... it’s... it’s broken,” Draco mumbles brokenly.
“And?” the man grouses. “Don’t you have another one right there?” As he says this, he points approximately three feet to Draco’s right at the shop’s second espresso machine. Draco hears what the man says distantly and takes a second to register it.
Unfortunately, this seems to be entirely too long for the businessman to wait for a response and he does the unforgiveable: he snaps rapidly in Draco’s face to get his attention.
Immediately, Draco’s heartbreak is forgotten as it is promptly replaced with rage.
“Yes, you absolute moron, we do have another machine as you so helpfully pointed out,” Draco hisses in a tone as scathing as the steam coming off the frothed milk for lattes. The man blinks several times rapidly, his face going ruddy as he prepares to fire back at Draco for his tone. Draco, obviously, does not let him. “However, you invertebrate, that machine has not warmed up yet today. And, not that you would know anything about joy, but this one was my favorite . So, if you don’t want me to kick you out on your ass and ban you for life, you’ll give me a goddamn moment to mourn my son before immediately trudging on in this capitalist hellscape!” Draco only realizes how loud his voice had risen when he hears the oldies station softly playing through the absolutely silent cafe. The man stares at him, mouth dropped open with shock. He splutters a few times, no doubt trying to figure out a response that will salvage his no doubt enormous ego, when the man behind him in line slings an arm corded with wiry muscle around his shoulder.
“C'mon now, Robards, you better shut your mouth before you start catching flies,” the man says jovially as he uses his free hand to push his truly unruly hair off his forehead. He’s wearing round glasses that only serve to highlight how green his eyes are. The smooth, brown skin of his forehead is marred by a scar that starts at his hairline and fractures like lighting across his forehead, through his eyebrow, and down past his eye. Draco is so momentarily transfixed he almost doesn’t catch the comment. Almost.
“Listen here, I run a high quality establishment. There have not been, and never will be, flies for which this neanderthal could catch with his truly cavernous gingivitis infested mouth,” Draco seethes at the attractive man. How dare he insinuate such a thing? Of all of the reactions Draco could have expected, he somehow does not expect laughter. To his surprise, the handsome man tilts his head back and laughs.
“I would never dream of insulting your coffee shop, no matter how delightful your angry blush makes you.” Draco splutters, realizing he’s still holding on to the handle for the portafilter, knuckles white with how tight his grip is. This time, he’s the one cut off before he can say anything. “Please, take all the time you need to get your second favorite child up and running. Feel free to ignore Robards here, his daddy never made him work with the public so he has no sense of decency.” Draco is almost expecting a wink to come at the end of this veritable tirade of flirting, but none comes. Strangely, he finds himself disappointed with that fact. Horror follows quickly on the heels of the disappointment as Draco realizes he would have welcomed a wink. He shuts this thought down so quickly and brutally it’s like he’s trying to erase its existence.
“Thank you for your generosity, O Chosen One,” Draco sneers at him to cover up his floundering confusion. “But the last time I checked, this was my cafe and I didn’t need permission from anyone to do anything.” He narrows his eyes at the man. This once again causes him to laugh, this time accompanied by raising both his hands as if to show he means no harm. Still glaring, Draco moves over and fires up his second espresso machine. (Draco may have embellished slightly – of course his second machine was ready to use. He’s a professional, not an idiot. He just prefers to use his favorite, go ahead and sue him! [Except don’t actually – while Draco doesn’t talk to his family frequently, that doesn’t change the fact that they have excellent lawyers.])
Several hours later, after Draco has successfully survived the Hell Rush, he experiences his third, and final betrayal: his perfectly coiffed hair, which has held itself up throughout the onslaught with such bravery, succumbs to exhaustion and flops messily in his face. When Pansy clocks in at 10:30, Draco promptly retreats to the walk in and screams.
Three days, and one unreasonably expensive espresso mechanic later, Draco’s favorite child is back up and running. (If his espresso machines are his children, Draco wonders idly, does that mean he’s infringing on child labor laws? Draco decides not to ponder this to avoid a philosophical spiral. It’s been his New Year’s Resolution to avoid them when possible for 3 years running and he has a good feeling about his odds this year.)
Of course, Blaise walks in right as Draco is leaning his face against the cool chrome of the machine and cooing at it. He freezes, jacket half off, by the register and stares. Draco, refusing to be embarrassed, makes deliberate eye contact with Blaise but doesn’t lift his face.
“Blaise! You can finally leave the loving embrace of your toilet!” Draco crows at him, now running his hands along the drip tray of the machine.
“Ugh, thank god for that,” Blaise says as he unwinds his scarf, deciding to ignore Draco’s moment with the espresso machine. “At one point, I really thought that I was about to -” he stops talking at Draco’s raised hand.
“Please, Blaise, for the love of god, do not finish that sentence. I do not want to tarnish our friendship with whatever disgusting food poisoning story you were about to tell me. Plus,” Draco finally lifts his head and places his hands on either side of the espresso machine, “won’t you think of the children? They have delicate sensibilities.” At this, Blaise scoffs and clocks in.
Draco and Blaise have been friends for longer than they haven’t, and it shows in how well they work together. They move easily around each other as they open the store. To an outside observer, they might look like dancers in an elaborate ballet with how effortlessly they work without communicating (or so they assume, they once tried to watch the CCTV footage of them working and were so horrified seeing themselves on camera they turned it off after 47 seconds and promptly put it out of their minds).
So, it’s no surprise that they make it through the post open rush with ease, good humors still intact. Their good moods (or, more precisely, Draco’s good mood) last until halfway through the pre-work rush.
(A second note about the morning rushes. While Monday’s rush is the most chaotic, most aggravating, and most zombified [hence the moniker, Hell Rush], Thursday’s pre-work rush is a close second. Call it Hell Rush Jr, if you will. Thursday is the day of the week that is almost at the end, but not quite there. Friday is close, but there’s still two full work days between the customers and the weekend. And usually, Wednesday is the day that they sink into their work week dread and may tend to stay up a little later [curse you, Revenge Bedtime Procrastination] to reclaim just a snippet of free time to power through the rest of the week. Thus, the needs for coffee on Thursday morning tend to be greater than other mornings.)
Draco’s good mood evaporates like so much steamed milk when halfway through Hell Rush Jr. he hears a jovial voice quip: “It looks like your son is back up and running! Hey – if your espresso machines are your kids do you think that violates child labor laws?” Draco freezes and slowly looks up from the latte he just finished pouring and finds a pair of green eyes, creased with laughter, staring back at him. Mild distress floods through him as he realizes the absolute idiot in front of him (who is objectively easy on the eyes, Draco isn’t dead , of course he notices) had the exact same thought Draco had had upon the glorious return of his son. Guess that private school education didn’t do much, did it Father? Draco thinks snidely, not for the first time.
“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” Draco mumbles under his breath. Maybe not as quietly as he thought, based on how the green eyes creased (even more? How was that even bloody possible?) at the corners.
Draco scoffs and promptly ignores the man, in favor of placing the lid on his freshly completed latte. He continues to ignore the man as he slides the latte to the pick-up counter.
“French vanilla latte for ‘Senorita Awesome’,” Draco drawls drily. He smirks as a blushing girl comes forward and meekly takes the latte, still chagrined from Blaise's cackling reaction when she ordered under that name. By the time Draco turns back to the espresso machine, Blaise has taken the annoyingly handsome (and just straight up annoying) man’s order. Instead of moving with the rest of the herd to wait by the pick-up counter, the man is standing directly in front of Draco’s favorite espresso machine – only held back by the mere suggestion of a wall.
“My heartfelt congratulations on the return of your son to the workforce, though. I wanted to send flowers but wasn’t sure who to address them to,” the man says leadingly, clearly hoping Draco would give his name. Draco continues to ignore him. Unfortunately, it does not have the desired effect and the man continues to stare patiently at Draco. With a long-suffering sigh, Draco taps his index finger twice against his nametag.
“Surely you know how to read,” Draco says, raising an eyebrow. The man opens his mouth, surely ready with some charming retort ( not that Draco finds him charming. Exactly the opposite, thank you very much!) when a second unwelcome voice evaporates the little measly foam of Draco’s good mood.
“Potter! Did you get our drinks yet? Kinglsey said he needs us early for a debriefing.” Draco watches in horror as the snapper from earlier in the week reappears in front of him and claps his hand jovially on the man’s should (Potter, Draco supposes).
“No worries, Robards, I already ordered them. Draco here is working his magic as we speak.” Potter turns towards Draco as he says this last part and seems slightly taken aback at the thunderous look on Draco’s face. The other man – Robards – doesn't even have the decency to look shameful after his conduct a few days prior.
Draco curls his lip, rolls his eyes, and promptly returns to ignoring Potter while making the two drinks. (And, no , he does not tamper with them. Draco is a consummate professional and would never deign to step so low as to tamper with the products of his life’s dream. Let these two imbeciles feel like the worms they are for their rude treatment of him when they taste their perfectly made coffees! [ Except Potter hasn’t exactly been rude to you, he even scolded his friend for being rude , Draco’s brain tries to supply unhelpfully. Draco shuts this traitorous thought down.])
Draco continues ignoring Potter as he places their drinks at the pick-up counter, calling out a cursory “Potter” curtly.
Draco ignores Potter all the way out the store. And if he looks up slightly to watch his broad back retreating out the door, so what? And if Potter casts one last-minute glance through the window and gives Draco a small smile when their eyes meet, who needs to know?
Friday comes and goes with nary a peep of green eyes and teasing smiles. Not that Draco was hoping for it. Draco locks up Jitter Bug on Friday night and walks away determined to enjoy his rare weekend off. He’s going to see his mother and glad of it. So there.
Monday morning dawns much, much too early. (But it doesn’t really dawn, because Draco’s alarm goes off approximately 2 and a half hours before even the bravest of the sun's rays will pierce the night.) Draco pulls himself from the warm cocoon of his bed and much, much too soon he’s preparing once again to face the Hell Rush. Luckily, though, he won’t be doing it alone this time. This time, he has Pansy to back him up.
If Draco and Blaise move like a matched set around the coffeeshop, Draco and Pansy move like one consciousness in one body. (Draco truly is so blessed that his two best friends in the world were foolish enough to join him in his crazy endeavor. He would never say that though. What do you take him for? A sap?)
Before long, Pansy clocks in and she and Draco move seamlessly around the small prep area, pulling plastic wrap from tubs and lining up jugs. It’s as Draco is starting up the espresso machine (NOT his favorite one – the spare to his heir) and telling Pansy about his mother’s new hobby (peacocks? Really? Who even breeds peacocks?) that he miscalculates. With a flash of pain, Draco burns the ever-loving shit out of his hand. And thus, Draco is stuck working register (not where his skills lie) while Pansy rushes around making drinks (not where her skills lie). Draco is slowly writing a name on a cup with his left hand (could things get any worse?) when he looks up and see that indeed they can get worse. The door has just opened to let in two more customers – Robards and Potter. Potter, who Draco had spent the weekend resolutely not thinking about. Draco absolutely did not wonder if Potter came into the coffeeshop and was disappointed not to see Draco. Nope. He did not wonder about it in the slightest.
Draco can feel Potter’s eyes on him as he works through the line, taking orders and slowly handling money without the full use of his dominant hand.
As Potter and his unfortunate companion reach the register, Robards huffs an irritated sigh (at the wait, no doubt).
“Do not even start with me, you cretin,” Draco snaps at him before he can say anything. Robards opens and closes his mouth for a few seconds before huffing out a breath and staring petulantly at the menu board (like he would order anything other than a black coffee). Potter raises his eyebrows at Draco, clearly ready to make some quip at him. Draco, who has spent all weekend NOT thinking about Potter, is not in the mood.
“What can I get for you?” Draco asks flatly, not even attempting to put on a friendly face.
“I’ll take an iced americano and a black coffee,” Potter says, looking curiously at Draco. He continues to stare as Draco reads off the total and his expression only changes when Draco instinctively reaches out with his right hand (much bandaged) for the cash and has to quickly pull it back to use his left hand instead. Potter hesitates, the money held over Draco’s palm, but not yet released.
“Are you okay, Draco? What happened to your hand?”
“I was rescuing a kitten from a vat of acid and had to sacrifice my hand so that the kitten would remain unscathed,” Draco says in a tone that is clearly inspired by the acid in his story. Potter’s eyebrows were already hovering at a considerable height and at this they practically shoot into the stratosphere.
“Really?” he asks, too-green eyes boring into Draco’s. The sincerity makes Draco instantly want to look away, but he refuses to cede ground to a man who has absolutely, positively never once occupied a thought in Draco's head.
“No, not really,” Draco snarks. “I obviously burned it with the steam wand this morning.” Potter’s eyebrows drop down a fraction and the sincerity is in his eyes now, too. Draco refuses to acknowledge the gentle thrill that runs through him at Potter’s concern.
Potter opens his mouth to say something but Draco cuts him off by wiggling the fingers of his still out-stretched hand. Potter seemingly realizes he’s still in front of the cash register and that Draco is still waiting for the money. He lightly places the bills in Draco’s hand and looks intently at him. Draco refuses to look back (which is entirely different than looking away first. Draco cannot cede ground if they weren’t making eye contact in the first place). Draco hands back the change, writes the names on the cups, and calls out a loud “next” all without looking at Potter.
While working through the next few customers, Draco feels two sets of eyes on him. One, he can feel from across the counter and ignores (he doesn’t need sympathy for making a dumb mistake. And he doesn’t like the idea of Potter seeing him in less-than-ideal conditions [Draco wonders idly if this is an aftereffect of Potter meeting him on his most hectic day in the shop to date. He shuts this thought down once he realizes he’s ruminating on Potter]). The second, however, is on his side of the counter and boring into him with a well-practiced intensity. Draco glances over and catches Pansy’s eyes. She lifts her eyebrows quizzically and darts her eyes over to where Potter is standing and chatting idly with Robards. Draco scoffs and rolls his eyes, attempting to affect an air of annoyed indifference. Pansy, having known him half his life, doesn’t buy it. Her eyebrows drop dramatically to sit low over her now-narrowed eyes, and she purses her lips at him. Draco narrows his eyes back and sneers. He realizes as he does it that this is a mistake. Pansy’s eyes widen with glee and a slow smile is creeping across her face. Draco glares at her so forcefully it’s almost a tangible thing. But it’s too late – Pansy has cut through all the layers of Draco’s Not Thinking About Potter and looks like a cat tucking into a fresh bowl of cream. As he turns back to the line stretched out in front of him, Draco wonders why he ever thought it was a good idea to open a coffee shop with his best friends.
Draco is resolutely refusing to look at Pansy now, too, (lest she find anything else out, the witch) when he hears her shout out Potter’s order. Unable to resist, he glances down the counter. He sees Potter, a cup in each hand, leaning in slightly to talk to Pansy. Draco feels a sinking in his chest that continues down through his stomach. Of course, he thinks numbly, that Potter is interested in Pansy. Anyone with eyes (and a sexual orientation that swings that way) is interested in Pansy. Draco can already hear the wedding bells in his head and sourly pictures standing at the altar next to Pansy watching her say her vows to the rangy man with the wild hair and the lightning scar. Draco starts to turn back to face the register, but his eyes are moving slower than his body. He’s almost fully facing the line, his head slowly beginning to turn to greet the next customer, when Potter looks over Pansy’s shoulder and fixes Draco with a blazing look. Draco feels frozen – but just for a moment. A tendril of shame is slowly uncurling in his belly – shame for trying so hard to lie to himself and avoid thinking about a man who clearly wasn’t even interested in him in the first place. Draco’s sure some of this must show on his face because Potter’s dark eyebrows drop down and pinch together. Draco stares back, just for a moment, before Pansy clearly says something and Potter returns her attention to her. Draco lets his eyes linger for one second, two seconds, before looking back and the register and swallowing hard.
“What can I get you?” Draco asks the next customer, suddenly feeling very tired.
Draco is leisurely scarfing down his lunch in his cramped back office when he hears a knock on his door. He inwardly groans, knowing it can only be one person – Pansy. Draco braces himself, because he knows he’s been mopey for the last few hours, and because he knows that Pansy means well but has all the tact of a blunt battle-axe when it comes to discussing feelings.
“Come in,” he says wearily. He sets down his last few bites of sandwich as he says it, knowing he won’t be able to finish eating it while Pansy is talking at him (they’ve been friends long enough that Draco has tried that many times and been accused of caring more about his food than their friendship. He’s learned to just set his food aside and wait it out at this point). Pansy strolls into his office with her hands held behind her back. Which is curious.
“That's curious,” Draco says to her. Pansy ignores him, knowing he’s attempting to throw off her flow before she’s even gotten started.
“So, what are you moping about then,” Pansy says to him with no preamble, lifting her chin slightly. The words themselves form a question, but Pansy’s delivery makes them a statement.
“I’m not moping ,” Draco says with a scoff. “I’ve literally never moped before in my life and I’m not about to start now. As if I would ever stoop so low as to mope! Please! Do you even know me?” Pansy eyes him shrewdly throughout his tirade.
“And I’m the Queen of Egypt,” Pansy deadpans.
“I’m fairly certain the phrase is ‘the Queen of England’ not ’the Queen of Egypt’. They didn’t have queens, they had pharaohs Pans,” Draco comments wryly as he quirks an eyebrow at her.
“Good god, why would I want to be the Queen of stodgy old England? Isn’t it bad enough I already have to live here? No, no, I’d much rather be the Queen of Egypt. Furthermore, you will not distract me by being pedantic, Draco Malfoy.” Pansy points a threatening finger at Draco as she says this, narrowing her eyes. Draco, used to her theatrics, notices she still has one hand behind her back. He thinks he might have even heard a slight crinkling of paper.
“What's behind your back?” Draco asks evenly.
“Do you even listen? I just said you won’t distract me, you debased hooligan.” Draco rolls his eyes, but Pansy forges on. “I return to my earlier question: why are you moping?”
“Your earlier statement contained the word why, but it was absolutely not a question. And I return to my earlier answer – I'm not moping.”
“Oh? Is that so? So, then, your not-moping has nothing to do with a certain hottie with hair that’s never seen a brush a day in its life?” Draco, knowing Pansy would take this line of questioning, had braced himself for this.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says stonily, keeping his face carefully blank.
“Oh, I’m sure you don’t,” Pansy fires back drily. “And I’m sure you weren’t making eyes at him last week, either.”
“I was not making eyes -” Draco splutters, only realizing his mistake when Pansy crows in triumph at his admission. “How would you even know if he came in last week?” Draco seethes at her.
“Blaise, obviously,” Pansy says with a roll of her eyes and a toss of her hair over her shoulder. Still, however, keeping one had resolutely behind her back.
“You talked to Blaise about him?” Draco practically shrieks. This, unfortunately, only makes Pansy’s grin grow wider.
“Blaise texted me telling me to keep an eye out for a guy who is exactly your type with a gigantic scar across his forehead and to text him any updates. He’s quite invested in your love story, you know.”
“Well, you can tell Blaise to stick it up his arse because there is no love story as that scar-head was clearly flirting with you this morning. I’m sure he’s hoping for a spring wedding.” Draco hisses all this at her but loses steam the longer he goes. Belatedly, he realizes that Pansy’s typical battle-axe tactic has worked again.
“Ahhh, so that’s why you’re moping,” Pansy hums in understanding. “You think ickle Potter-kins has a crush on dear old Pansy. Well, cheer up my oldest pal, this ought to change your mind.” With that she finally brings her hand from behind her back, revealing a brown paper bag. She sets it on Draco’s desk with an over-exaggerated bow. He cautiously picks it up (one isn’t lifelong friends with Pansy Parkinson without having a few hidden bug surprises given to them) and peers inside. Luckily, there’s no bug. Instead, there’s a tube of burn cream with a post-it note stuck to it. Draco furrows his eyebrows as he pulls the tube out of the bag. The post-it note is a horrendous shade of fluorescent orange. Draco shudders before reading the note.
“Soz about your hand – hope this helps. If not, maybe I could kiss it better?
-Harry Potter”
Draco gapes at the note, opening and closing his mouth repeatedly in silence. Pansy pats his shoulder.
“Dearest Harry-kins wasn’t flirting with me Draco, he wanted to know how long you’d be at the shop today. He wanted to make sure to get this to you before you left.”
Draco, who is usually so composed, is well and truly flabbergasted.
Draco didn’t see Harry for two days after that. Which meant Draco stewed, overanalyzing every interaction they’d ever had, for two days. If it weren’t for the burn cream sitting like a sentinel on his bathroom counter, Draco would be convinced he’d made the whole thing up. Well, if it weren’t for the burn cream, Blaise, and Pansy, he’d think he made the whole thing up.
Blaise and Pansy had been positively unrelenting in their teasing of him. Every time he gingerly used his healing hand, whichever miscreant he was working with would ask him how the burn cream was helping (and if it was Pansy, she’d go on to ask if maybe Draco needed a different sort of cream to aid in his healing process). Every time he would hear the bell above the door chime and jerk his head up to look, he’d be followed by obnoxious kissy noises for the next half hour. The idea of working with anyone else was intolerable, but the idea of continuing to work with Blaise and Pansy was beginning to drive him quite mad. Draco’s only hope was that they would eventually get tired of ribbing him about the whole thing and let it drop.
Unfortunately, that did not happen before Harry came in again.
It was Thursday and it was absolutely pouring buckets. The storm had been brewing all day Wednesday – starting as a dark smudge on the horizon before a swift wind kicked up and blew it steadily closer and closer. Draco went to bed Wednesday night checking his weather app in the still, humid air wondering when the storm would break open upon him.
The storm breaks at 1:45 A.M. with bolts of lightning striking so close to Draco’s apartment that the glass in his windowpanes trembled. Naturally, this startled Draco awake. And naturally, he was not able to get back to sleep.
The rain, unusually cold, did not let up by the time Draco was shambling out his door to open the shop. As he drove, squinting through the blur of his windshield wipers, Draco hoped fervently that the rain would quell the worst of Hell Rush Jr.
Two and a half hours later, Draco’s wish was granted. Sort of. In the way a masochistic genie would grant a wish. The storm had decreased the size of the crowd, this was true. It had, however, increased the attitudes of the crowd that was there. Pansy, running the register again now that Draco’s hand was mostly back up and running, had slowly started losing her customer service voice before dropping it all together. Draco only heard snippets through the squeal of the espresso machine, but Pansy’s tone was enough to tell him he should be glad to be back making the orders instead of taking them.
Distantly Draco heard the bell over the door chime, oddly in time with a crack of thunder, but was too absorbed with carefully pouring a latte to look up. While he couldn’t utilize his eyes at that precise moment, he could use his ears. And the sudden switch of Pansy’s tone from no-nonsense and curt to what could only be described as devious caused the fine hairs on the back of Draco’s neck to stand up. Draco carefully set the latte down on the pick-up counter with a perfunctory “Penelope!” before turning to see what had Pansy as pleased as punch. (He already knew – of course he knew.)
As Draco turned, the first thing he saw was a head of hair that even when sopping wet stuck out in wild curls. Then he saw the bright green eyes, crinkled in a smile, behind rain spattered glasses. Below that, a gray button up was darker on the shoulders from where it had gotten soaked with rain. The top few buttons were undone, showing just a hint of some truly spectacular collarbones (highly underrated, collarbones, in Draco’s opinion). It was at this point, Draco belatedly realized, that Potter was soaked because he had neither an umbrella nor a coat. The tosser.
Draco only realized he was staring when he saw Pansy turn in his peripheral vision. He reluctantly dragged his eyes away (was that a little peek of chest hair? No, no, must focus, Draco) and looked at Pansy. Her grin could only be described as devilish. Straight from the rings of hell (Draco didn’t know for sure which one, but it was definitely one of them). The grin shook Draco from his daze. Ears slightly red, he turned to the order screen to start prepping the next drink. He thought he heard a laugh that brought to mind a creek tumbling over rough stones mixing in the air with Pansy’s high cackle.
He was halfway through making the iced Americano when he read the name on the cup. Of course, it was Harry’s. What an absolute idiot – why would he order an iced drink when he was already walking through a rainstorm without an umbrella?
As Draco poured the coffee into the cup, he noticed movement across the divider from him. He glanced up quickly and saw Harry staring at him with something like amusement in his eyes. This close, Draco could see individual drops of water slowly dripping from the ends of Harry’s curls onto his already saturated shirt. Draco couldn’t help but to scoff.
“Something funny?” Harry asked with a cocked eyebrow in a tone of voice that hinted he already knew what Draco was scoffing at.
“You are an absolute tosser,” Draco said by way of reply as he poured in a carefully measured amount of cream.
“Oh, am I now? What did I do this time?” Harry asked in a teasing tone after letting out an indignant chuckle. This caused Draco to scoff even louder.
“It is positively bucketing down outside,” Draco began, not raising his eyes again as he deliberately mixed sugar into the drink, “and you come in with no coat, no umbrella, and you order an iced coffee! Are you trying to catch your death?” Draco fastidiously affixed the lid to the plastic cup and slid it into a little cardboard sleeve before looking up at Harry. When their eyes locked, Draco saw Harry’s eyes creased at the corners and an amused smile fixed firmly on his slightly chapped lips.
“Didn't check the temperature before I left,” Harry said with a nonchalant shrug. “Plus, I forgot my umbrella at work the last time it rained.”
“And you only have the one?” Draco asked wryly, raising his eyebrows.
“Well, yeah – can't use two umbrellas at the same time, can you?” Harry answered completely serious.
“You are absolutely unbelievable,” Draco said as he cast his eyes heavenward.
“Is that so?” Harry asked, one corner of his mouth quirking higher than the other. “Spend a lot of time thinking about me, do you?” As he said this, Harry placed his forearms on the divider separating them and leaned in slightly, tilting his head back the smallest amount to maintain eye contact with Draco. Draco resolutely did not get pulled in by Harry’s bright green eyes (so vivid when they were dancing with laughter like they were now) and turned around, Harry’s drink still in his hand.
“Wait over there,” Draco ordered over his shoulder as he hiked his thumb to the pick-up counter. He heard what could only be described as an indignant squawk come from behind him that had Draco’s lips curling into a self-satisfied smile. He let the smile linger as he rummaged quickly through a half-empty box in the office, letting out a quiet “ah-ha!” as he found what he was looking for.
One hand held behind his back and Harry’s drink in the other, Draco made his way back to the pick-up counter. Continuing to hold his hand behind his back, Draco set Harry’s coffee gently on the counter and said evenly “Harry.” Harry looked at him with a curious gleam in his eyes, clearly trying to see what Draco had behind his back without physically peering around him.
“Draco?” he said, matching Draco’s conspiratorial tone.
“You better not forget this one at work, or I won’t forgive you,” Draco said as he pulled his arm from behind his back and set a Jitter Bug branded umbrella on the counter. Harry stared at it in shock for a few moments before letting out a guffaw so boisterous a nearby retiree jumped and glared.
“Thank you, Draco,” Harry said chuckling as he picked up the coffee and the umbrella. “But how am I meant to get it back to you?” he asked, looking up from under his lashes in a way Draco frankly thought should be illegal.
“Absolutely helpless,” Draco said drily as he reached out to take the coffee cup out of Harry’s hand. Their fingers brushed ever so slightly, and Draco thrilled at the warmth of it.
Looking directly at Harry, Draco fished a marker out of his apron pocket. With a put-upon sigh, Draco uncapped the marker and began to write on Harry’s cup sleeve.
“Guess you’ll just have to text me and see when I’m working next, won’t you?” Draco said slyly as he handed the drink back to Harry.
Harry looked down at the cup sleeve and broke out into a wide grin. “Guess I will then.”
“Guess you will,” Draco said with a wink, turning to make the next order.
As the bell tinkled to signal Harry leaving the coffee shop, Draco glanced up. He managed to see Harry holding the umbrella handle against his chest with his chin so he could carefully slide the cardboard sleeve off the coffee cup and place it in his pocket. Before Draco glanced away, he saw Harry look gently up at the umbrella with a small, sweet smile.
A few hours later, when the storm had finally broken and the shop was quiet, Draco’s phone buzzed against his desk to signal a new message. Draco looked over at it while a small bubble of hope formed in his chest. He breathed out quickly as he unlocked his phone to see a new message from an unknown number.
Hey – it's Harry :)