On a Wednesday, In a Café
(For @phoebe-delia who puts up with me and lets me pop in to ask things like WHO INSULTED TAYLOR SWIFT’S SENSE OF HUMOR?? This is just a tiny little vignette inspired by Start Again. I think this also fits for @drarrymicrofic and the prompt “hope” - in a way.)
The café is weirdly busy for a Wednesday morning.
Draco is moderately disgruntled. He’s used to having the place to himself — his Wednesday mornings are sacred. It’s the one day of the week he can sleep in, as he doesn’t have to be at work until after lunch, and he loves coming to this small, cosy coffee shop. He always gets the same thing, the largest café au lait they serve with two shots of vanilla and whatever savoury scone they’re baking that day, and he always sits in the same place, one of the big comfy overstuffed armchairs in the corner by the fireplace. He reads whatever journal he’s brought along and he eats his scone and he drinks his coffee and it’s just. Really nice. That’s all.
Okay, at least today, no one is in the other armchair, so when Draco sits down and pulls out his journal, maybe it’s a little louder than usual, but things are still fine in his world. He’s managed to tune out the sounds of the people around him, reduced them to background white noise as he reads up on the latest innovations in cauldron technology (spoiler alert: InstantCauldron™ is a misnomer because it does not, in fact, do all the prep work for you even if it does brew in less than half the time a standard cauldron takes, so there’s really nothing Instant about it, not that Draco is bitter). In any case, he’s focused on what he’s reading which is why at first he doesn’t really register the words that he’s hearing.
“Did you hear about…”
“I read that…”
“Did you know he…”
And Draco doesn’t even have to look up to know what’s happened.
Potter is here.
Draco slowly lowers the journal to his lap and learns that he is, in fact correct. Standing at the counter in a pair of ratty jeans and a giant hoodie is one Harry James Potter. His hair is ridiculous and his trainers have seen far, far better days, but he is, as always, infuriatingly handsome.
Except for the tension that Draco can read clearly in his shoulders, the way his eyebrows furrow in a frown, and the way he’s glaring suspiciously at the cashier. He has his reasons, Draco knows.
Late last year, some eight months ago now, Potter had come home from a mission to find his live-in lover in bed with not one, but two young men. Not just any young men, it turned out, but two young men who were high on the Ministry’s Most Wanted List. Potter had arrested them all on the spot (Draco has to give him credit for a cool head under what had to have been rather stressful conditions). When the now-ex was out on bail, the first thing he’d done was go to the press and air all of Potter’s… Well, not dirty laundry exactly. None of what Potter gets up to in his own bed chamber is particularly sordid or shocking (some of it sounds like great fun, actually) but it is, well, private.
And privacy is a luxury Harry James Potter has had very little of.
Potter accepts his drink, and turns around, eyes scanning the room as if searching for the knife he knows is aimed at his back, but then he catches sight of Draco and something very strange happens.
Potter’s shoulders drop, the lines in his forehead smooth out, and then, shockingly, he smiles.
Draco blinks in confusion but no, his eyes are not deceiving him. Potter is raising his cup to his lips and taking a sip, never breaking eye contact, and then, after he swallows, that smile still playing about his beautiful lips, he starts walking toward Draco.
“Anyone sitting here?” His voice is low as he nods towards the empty chair next to Draco and for a moment, all Draco can do is stare at him, dumbfounded.
“Malfoy?” Potter prompts and Draco shakes his head.
“Oh, sorry. No. No one’s sitting there,” and to Draco’s deep astonishment, Potter sits down.
Potter leans back, cross one leg over his threadbare knee, and takes another sip.
“So,” he says, “how have you been?”
