Chapter Text
Draco would kill for a cup of coffee (and, for a man who saw enough murder in his youth to last a lifetime, that's saying something).
It's all he can think about, though, as he steps through the Floo without his usual travel cup in hand. He’s running late, having overslept after pulling an all-nighter. He'd been awake reading over a new set of case files, trying to commit every name, every picture, every detail to memory because Head Auror Robards would be handing out case assignments today, and he’d rather die than be caught unprepared for a case. He can't bring himself to regret his lack of sleep, but he has to admit that he’s exhausted and really wants a cup of coffee.
He also really, really wants a good case assignment because he’s not sure what he’ll do if he is scheduled to patrol Diagon again. He's been on the force for nearly two years. But, despite receiving top marks during Auror training, he’s never been elected to do anything more than act as the wizarding world’s glorified security guard. It turns out that towering over kids shopping for Hogwarts and stopping petty thieves from breaking into Gringotts gets old fast, and Draco can't help but want more.
He often thinks that getting a decent assignment would be easier if he had a partner, but he’s never been paired up with one. Robards claims it is because he graduated from an odd-numbered cohort, but Draco knows it is because no one wants to work with the ex-Death Eater. Even now, seven years after the war, he can't really blame them.
So, he’s on his own. This doesn't bother Draco nearly as much as it did when he first graduated from Auror training, but it does annoy him that he's had to put in at least twice as much work as anyone else to even be considered for a high-profile case. He'd even had to agree to a date with Mary, whose shrill voice is absolutely insufferable, to even get his hands on the case files. If it gets him the case, though, it will have been worth it.
He makes his way into the briefing room. It’s half-full of other Aurors who are laughing with each other, clutching at the Daily Prophet and steaming paper cups of the tepid shite the Ministry calls coffee. He’s desperate enough to want a cup, but there isn't enough time to swing by the break room and get back in time for the meeting, and he really can't afford to be late—not today.
The other Aurors ignore him. It doesn't matter, though. Not when Draco has more important things to focus on. He busies himself with the case files, despite knowing that he could probably recite their contents after an Obliviate with how many hours he’s spent poring over them. It's a potions case, and everyone in the department knows that Draco’s ace at potions. They haven't had to deal with one since he was still in Auror training, so Robards has to give this one to him, he’s the only one who makes sense for the job.
Robards is late, the bastard. Even Weasley makes it in earlier than him, which is a shock because everyone in the department knows Weasley never makes it in before breakfast. He’s the only one besides Robards who really acknowledges Draco, so he’s not surprised when Weasley gives him a nod in greeting—no more or less than what he’d give any other colleague—as he makes his way across the room. It's more than Draco deserves, especially with how he’d treated the man in school, apology or not.
Robards finally saunters into the room with the easy confidence of a man with nothing to lose, and Draco, whose future is caught in the other man’s throat, feels himself thrumming with anticipation at the sight of him. The room is still, silent, and all eyes are trained on him as he makes his way to the front of the room, and Draco thinks someone must've charmed his heart into his ears with how loud it's beating.
Robards points his wand to his throat, casts a Sonorous, and starts barking out orders, voice booming across the cramped meeting room like an explosion. Aurors begin to spring into action, leaping out of their seats and scrambling to follow his instructions in a desperate frenzy of activity. The room is in complete chaos around Draco, and it's hard to focus on Robards amidst all the movement, and he isn't quite sure if the sudden buzzing in his ears is from his exhaustion or the adrenaline or the fact that he hasn't had a single cup of coffee since yesterday morning or if it's because Robards just shouted,
“Aurors Weasley, Mosbey—the potions case is yours.”
Weasley gives him a look that verges on apologetic, and Draco feels as though the world is ending.
Robards assigns him to patrol Diagon.
He begs him to reconsider, offers to work overtime and holidays and even tries to give him the deed to Malfoy Manor, which now lays abandoned but is worth a pretty penny now that it isn't being occupied by an evil megalomaniac. All Draco wants is to act as consultant, if anything, but Robards recites a line from the Auror Code of Conduct that Draco has memorised: A maximum of two Aurors will be assigned to all open cases unless special clearance is given.
As he prepares to Apparate to Diagon for his shift, Robards’s words echo in his mind. He thinks about what it would be like to have a partner himself, like Weasley or any of the other Aurors. To have someone to walk around Diagon with, to fill out paperwork with, to solve a case with. Sometimes, when he's sure he's out of range of anyone's Legilimency, he wonders what it would have been like if Potter had joined the Aurors with Weasley and himself, the way everyone thought he would after the war. Would he have been Weasley’s partner? Could he have been Draco’s?
He’s still thinking about it when he lands in Diagon, wondering what it would be like to have Potter walking beside him in a matching maroon robe. He imagines them leaning against the walls of the Leaky Cauldron together, daydreams about Potter with his lips to his ear, whispering in-jokes, laughing softly at the biting comments Draco can't help but throw his way. He can almost feel Potter’s shoulder against his own, making him feel like it's just the two of them against the crowds of Diagon, against the world.
Draco takes up his post, an empty space next to him because, in reality, it would take an alternate universe for Potter to be his partner. In this one, the man seems to have dropped off the face of the earth completely. Draco hasn’t seen him since his trial after the war. Not even the Daily Prophet knows where he went, though rumours about him still circulate constantly. Some think he’s slipped away into dreary Grimmauld Place, wasting away in the shadows of his grief. Others suspect that he's joined Charlie Weasley in Romania, to tame dragons and get over one Weasley with another. Draco can't help but think that he’s closer than they all think, that he’s been hiding right under their noses all along.
Diagon Alley is excruciating. He’s grateful he gets to work the day shift—Merlin knows how much worse the night shift would be. That said, his lack of sleep seems to have caught up with him, making him feel unbearably lethargic. Time under the unyielding August sun feels drenched in honey, and the hours stick onto his body, heavy weights that have him nearly hunched over at his post. He’s dozing. Each blink feels longer than the last, and his neck aches from his chin slipping down, over and over again, towards his chest. It’s hard to focus on the bustling crowd around him; it's all the same this time of year, anyways. A blur of parents, children, and even a few professors preparing for the upcoming school year.
The work is a bit humiliating, too, but he's gotten quite good at ignoring the hot flush of shame that runs through him every time someone glares at him or sends a minor hex his way. He’s not welcome here, that much is clear, but it's not like he has any right to be. No amount of Auror work would allow him to make up for that, not that the Auror Department seems interested in letting him try.
It's almost evening when his shift ends, and a couple of young, newly-graduated Aurors take his place. They never send anyone his age to replace him, and he's smart enough to know that's an insult in itself. He’s so tired, though, so close to sleep that their loud voices seem to wake him, that he doesn't bother dwelling on it. All he wants to do now is go back to his flat, curl up in bed and sleep.
It begins to rain as he makes his way to one of the Ministry-sanctioned Apparition points. Fantastic, he thinks, the perfect ending to a shitty day. The rain has him nearly drenched in seconds, wet hair curling around his ears and droplets of water running down his face in long rivulets. His robes become thick and heavy around his shoulders, its red deepening into an even darker maroon. He begins to walk a little faster, his shoes sounding too loud on the alley’s uneven cobblestones. He doesn't want to cast an Impervius because even with the Auror robes, people tend to get nervous whenever he pulls out his wand.
He almost doesn't see it, the tall, looming storefront which has now occupied the abandoned building that used to sit across from the Apparition point. It's hidden around a corner and would have been invisible to him from his post near the Leaky. No, not a storefront… a café? Its sign reads Accio Latte. The building looks unrecognizable, uncharacteristically bright with a fresh coat of paint and new light fixtures that spill warm light onto the street before him. The sounds of conversation and music drift out from its open windows, barely discernible over the rain that pounds down around him.
Despite the weather, he hesitates in front of the entrance, unsure if he should just go home as he’d planned. But he can't help but think of the cup of coffee he’d so desperately craved this morning, shivering under the dark, thunderous clouds which have overwhelmed Diagon Alley. He can imagine it, the strong scent of coffee in the air, his fingers wrapped around a hot mug, a rich, bittersweet brew sliding over his tongue.
His desire to go in intensifies when the front door opens, suddenly, and the café’s bright lights burst into the dark plaza like a Patronus chasing after a Dementor. A couple steps out, their laughs mingling with the jingle of the door bell as they make their way out into the rain, dashing through the rain towards the Apparition point behind Draco. The pure, unadulterated happiness on their faces finally draws Draco through the door.
The door jingles loudly as he steps in, but no one pays him any mind, too invested in their own lives to bother. He’s grateful, happy to have this tiny pocket of anonymity within a world that despises him. He hopes it lasts.
It's rather cozy indoors. The walls are painted a pale blue and lined with photos that make the room feel old, in a comfortable, lived-in sort of way. The lights are dimmed, and most of the room is illuminated by candles and string lights that cast the room in a soft, warm glow. Something seems to slot into place within Draco as he takes in the room, his breath leaving him in a long exhale, the tension of the day flooding from his shoulders. He feels at ease here, as though he's lived here his whole life.
He makes his way up to the long counter in the back, sidestepping tables full of people, a waiter, and a stray cat who seems to have made his home here. There's a huge pastry case on display, practically brimming with scones and pre-made sandwiches that manage to look delicious, despite not being fresh. A closer look gives him a glimpse of a few Cauldron Cakes and Pumpkin Pasties tucked to the side and, for a moment, he's hit by a wave of nostalgia. The memory of trying a chocolate Cauldron Cake—which his parents had called ‘artificial, sugary rubbish’—on the Hogwarts Express for the first time is painfully clear in his mind at the sight of them. Again, he's struck by the feeling that he’s meant to be here, somehow.
“What can I get for you Auror—Malfoy?”
Draco’s gaze snaps to the man behind the counter—it's… it's Potter.
“What the fuck.”
Potter seems to be at a loss for words too, mouth gaping open for a few moments before he bursts into a startled laugh, “It's nice to see you too, Malfoy.”
And then, Draco’s brain short circuits, because there's no other plausible explanation for the way his heart stutters in his chest, the way his eyes zero in on Potter’s smiling face. He’s overcome, suddenly, with the realisation that Potter is bloody attractive. Striking green eyes set off by dark skin, and a body that's filled out quite nicely—all broad chest and sinewy arms, a jaw so chiselled that Draco’s worried it could cut a man in two. Merlin knows the sight of it has already sliced his brain into pieces.
“Malfoy?”
“Sorry?” replies Draco, shaking his head to snap himself out of it. A small smile still lingers on Potter’s face, tugging his features into something soft rather than mind-meltingly attractive. Heat rushes to his cheeks at the thought of being caught distracted.
“I asked if you wanted anything to drink?”
“But—why are you here? How did you manage to start working here without ending up all over the Prophet?”
Potter’s eyes sharpen a bit at his questions, piercing into him as if they're searching for something, some sort of sign. He replies after a few moments, apparently satisfied with whatever he sees, “Look, Malfoy, it's a long story. I’ll tell you later, alright? Order something, stay for a bit, and I’ll meet you after my shift.”
A small part of Draco wants to argue, to push back, but the more tactful side of him compels him to stay and listen. Besides, there seems to be a long queue forming behind him, and he really can't afford to give the general public another reason to hate him. He glances at the huge menu board behind the counter. A long list of drinks line its surface, each coupled with an animated drawing which must’ve taken hours to charm. The café serves everything from earl grey to more complicated concoctions he can hardly begin to pronounce. He orders a mocha on a whim.
He pays quickly and heads to the front of the café, to an empty booth he’d seen by one of the front windows. He feels Potter’s gaze on his back as he makes his way over, and he's suddenly conscious about how he must look. Auror robes drenched, hem dripping rainwater on the floor, and hair a mess. His boots could use a good Polishing Charm, too. Fuck.
By the time he settles into the booth, Potter’s no longer at the counter. Draco wonders if he’s in the back somewhere, making his drink. He can't help but think about how strange this all seems. What were the odds that he’d stumble upon a new café in Diagon and that the barista would be Potter, of all people? It all feels like a weird dream. Is it a dream? Draco pinches himself.
He’s still rubbing his arm when a waiter drops his mocha off at his table, hot and steaming from its tall mug. He wraps his fingers around the smooth ceramic of the mug, taking comfort in the warmth that emanates from its surface. He’s quite cold, nearly shivering, still swaddled in wet robes. He’d usually cast a Warming Charm, but there's something particularly tantalising about the idea of letting your drink warm you up from the inside, so he doesn't bother. Instead, he brings the mug up towards his lips and takes a sip.
It's delicious. Bitter coffee runs smooth down his throat, tempered by cream and sweet chocolate. It's rich, all-encompassing in its flavour, but Draco can't stop himself from taking another sip, and then another, and another. He feels more awake than he has in years.
He’s always been rather picky about his coffee. He never liked coffee growing up. It had always been too bitter for his sweet tooth, too watery to fill him up, but it had become a habit during the long hours of Auror training he had to endure, something he had grown into after he had found a tolerable blend of grounds from a market in Hogsmeade. Later, once he had worked up the ability to stomach the Ministry’s piss poor brew, it turned into a peace offering during training to soften the blow of having to work with a former Death Eater. Now, it’s something he relies on to talk to the other Aurors during breaks. It had been nothing more than a necessity, a means by which he could keep his exhaustion at bay and fit in with the others.
But, this… this is an indulgence. It's difficult to believe that he feels so strongly about a simple cup of coffee. He surreptitiously casts a few Auror-grade charms on it, checking for love or lust potions, Calming Draught or Cheering Charms, but they come up clean, and he gives in. He decides to take his time with it, to sink into the corner of his booth, hands clinging to the mug and savour the taste of coffee on his tongue. He’s sure that the next time someone brews Amortentia, he’ll be smelling this.
He’s draining the last few drops from his mug when Potter appears at the edge of his booth, an apron tossed haphazardly over his forearm. He looks down at Draco, who’s now cradling his empty mug as if he owns it, and asks, “I take it you like it?”
Potter looks infuriatingly smug. Draco wants to lie. He can't. “I loved it.”
“Oh,” replies Potter, looking a bit bewildered by Draco's honesty. He drops into the seat across from Draco and rests his forearms on the table. Draco’s surprised by how strong they look, all veins and sinewy cords of muscles. It reminds him that he still has no idea where Potter's been all these years, much less how he got so fit.
“Did you make it?” asks Draco, with a pointed glance towards his empty mug.
“I did.”
“I must say, I never expected to find you working as a barista.”
“Why?” asks Potter, back straightening, voice teetering on a snarl, “Being a barista is too lowly a job for the Saviour, is it? Too close to poverty for a Malfoy to associate with?”
It's bait. It's a test. He clamps down on the part of him that's constantly itching for a fight. That's always looking to win. All he says is, “I said I liked the coffee,” and it's as if a switch flips. He’s passed. The tension floods out of Potter, his shoulders sloping downwards, posture relaxing.
“I’m sorry.”
“It's fine,” replies Draco, in the voice he uses to soothe victims at work, “but tell me how you got here. I didn't even know this place existed.”
“Well, it didn't. Not until a few weeks ago, really. I’ve spent the last few years travelling around a bit and wanted to settle down. England’s always been home, y’know?”
It's vague, but it's enough. He couldn't have expected Potter to tell him his entire life story, anyways. “And, the cafè?”
“What about it? It was ‘Mione's idea, and I told her I’d try it out. I mean, the recipes were easy enough to follow. It used to be owned by an old witch down Knockturn, but the business was clearly struggling. So, I bought it off her, changed locations, and here we are.”
“Here we are,” repeats Draco, still processing. It seems awfully convenient, a struggling coffee shop popping up as soon as Potter arrived back in town. But he knows what Knockturn is like these days. Half of the businesses which had thrived there before the war had shut down before Draco had even graduated Auror training. “I thought you’d be more inclined to enter Auror training or something.”
Potter barks out a laugh, his smile a bit strained at the edges, “Like everyone else, yeah? After the war, all I wanted was to settle into something easy. Making coffee is mindless work.”
He sounds almost wistful, then, and it strikes Draco as odd, considering that the man is currently living his dream, isn't he? Doing something easy. He almost comments on it but is distracted when Potter gestures at his mug and says, “Would you like another?”
He says yes without really thinking about it, and in the span of a blink Potter is gone, off to brew another cup. He glances around the shop only to find it completely empty, lights dimmed except for the string lights hanging up around him, the shop devoid of all noise except the low hum of the coffee machines from the back. He’s been so engrossed in Potter that he hadn't noticed the whole shop closing around them. The thought embarrasses him.
Potter seems to be taking his time with the coffee, so Draco pulls out his Muggle laptop, which he had shrunk and stuffed into the pocket of his robes before his shift. Using it for work is something he picked up from Pansy Parkinson, his closest friend from school, who uses the device to edit articles for Witch Weekly. Draco had resisted using it at first, finding it hard to believe that so much information could be stored on such a small device without magic, but he has grown to love it. Draco is now highly proficient at Microsoft Excel and spends most of his time on the computer making spreadsheets to organise his life. He starts to fill out the one he uses to log his hours at the Ministry.
Potter's back, two mugs in hand now. He passes one to him, and settles back into the seat across from Draco, something expectant in his eyes. Draco takes a sip, nearly having to bite back a moan at the rich taste of coffee. There's something else in there, too, smokey and trailing fire down his throat as he swallows.
“Is there Firewhisky in this?” he asks, looking up from his screen.
Potter is gaping at him. No, actually, he seems to be gaping at the laptop. Draco glances down at it. It’s a newer model, sure, but nothing to gape about. “Hello? Earth to Potter? Firewhisky?”
“Are you using a Muggle laptop?”
Draco gives him an unimpressed stare, “Yes, I am. Do you have something to say about it? I honestly thought that you of all people would be better about this sort of thing. I mean, really, didn't you grow up with—”
“No, no, I don't have a problem. I guess I’m just… surprised, that’s all. I like it. It's modern.”
“I do like to consider myself a champion of modernity,” says Draco, to draw attention away from the blush he can feel blooming on his face. Potter laughs. Neither of them mention Draco's ideological views from before the war.
“Firewhisky?” he repeats, holding up his mug.
“I thought you’d like it,” replies Potter with a wide smile. He taps his own mug against Draco’s, “Cheers.”
They slip back into conversation easily, catching up on lost time as if they'd spent their time apart as friends rather than enemies. They navigate around their shared past and instead, share bits and pieces of their lives now. The last couple of days, weeks, months. Nothing too serious, but enough to keep the stories flowing between them. Draco’s laptop lies abandoned on the table, pushed aside and forgotten.
Harry—because at some point in between learning about his prized collection of Snitches and how much he loves his godson, Potter becomes Harry, in Draco's head—is charming. Draco finds himself wrapped up in his stories and breathless with laughter at the way Harry emphasises his points with wild gesticulations. He’s kind, too; it's clear in the way he speaks about others, the way he pokes fun at himself just as much as he does his friends.
He pulls a few chuckles from Harry himself, peppering Harry’s stories with sharp, sarcastic comments that have the other man smiling into his drink, angling his body towards Draco’s. It pleases him more than he’d care to admit.
There’s something magnetic in the air, something that pulls Draco closer and closer to Harry with each passing second. Draco’s taken by the sight of Harry like this, chatty and warm under the glow of the lights strung up around them. His eyes catch on the shadows playing in the hollow of Harry’s throat, the tantalising way light glances off his cheekbones, the glint of his teeth when he smiles.
He has to go, eventually, because it's getting late. Because he has an early morning tomorrow. He’s definitely not leaving because he’s so hopelessly besotted by Harry that he has the urge to have a good wank about it.
He’s about to step out the front door when he turns and says, “Potter.” It doesn't sound like it had when they were in school, spat out in courtyards and corridors, full of adolescent angst. It’s softer now, affectionate, even. Easy out of his mouth, as though he’s been waiting for a moment like this for years.
“Yeah?”
“Why didn't I hear about this in the Prophet?” He gestures at the shop around them, which surely would’ve made headlines.
“Ah,” starts Harry, running his hand through his hair, looking rather sheepish. His eyes seem to pierce into Draco’s, though, when he says, “No one really knows I work here.”
“What do you mean?”
“There's a charm on the door. I had an old friend set it up. Only the people who I’ve met before are able to really see me here. Everyone else just sort of sees past me. Kind of like a Notice-Me-Not Charm.”
“You have friends?”
“Very funny, Malfoy.”
A smile tugs at his lips and he says, “This is an Auror-grade charm, isn't it though? Not authorised for civilian use.”
Harry glances down at Draco’s Auror robes, and then back up at him, eyes sparkling, “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
He looks so earnest, and the child in Draco is practically shouting with joy. This was all he’d ever wanted when he was younger—to be on Harry Potter’s good side, to be in on all his secrets. And the adult in him knows what it feels like to be hunted by the public, by the press. He knows how much he values his privacy, how much Harry must value his own. It's an easy decision to make.
Draco shakes his head, no, and Harry gives him an utterly charming, boyish smile that makes his heart constrict in his chest. He steps out the door, a smile on his face, and hears the bell jingle as he makes his way towards the Apparition point.
It sounds like a good omen.