Disclaimer: Neither Kagumi nor Bridget own anything related to the Harry Potter series, other than the stuff they've bought and the ideas they come up with, that is. Original characters and most of the situations presented, however, they do own.

Author's Notes: And another one shot. We're finally putting some of them up. Shocking, I know, and you guys must be utterly sick of one-shots and hardly any plot-moving chapters coming. But still. Since DIN and PVV both take quite a while to cobble together, and now we're throwing reedits [more details on that at the bottom] into the already topsy-turvy timing schedule, one shots might be coming along more often.

Timeline Placement: Approximately three months after Until Next Time; Draco and Kagumi's first meeting.

Bugger This for a Lark:

The Hereby Truthful and Accurate Account of One Draco Malfoy and the Beginning of His Coffee Addiction and How It Is Never His Fault

Way too much coffee. But if it weren't for the coffee, I'd have no identifiable personality whatsoever.

~David Letterman

Draco had decided: he was going to murder Harry bloody Potter.

That was it. It was simply the bottom line. Potter was going to die for the indignity he'd forced on Draco, and his body would never be found. He was a Malfoy and Malfoys had methods. Draco shivered again, pulling his jacket tighter around him, and tried to ignore the rain blowing directly into his face. The Warming Charm he'd cast that morning was fading, and the Waterproofing Charm he'd used on the fabric (Potter had called it something like "denim" or some such) was long since gone; he was fairly sure that he was soggy and dripping down to his very underclothes.

He was a Malfoy. A Malfoy. Sixth Generation Pureblooded Nobility. He should not be made to stand in the freezing rain like some sort of bloody – like a – like a bloody pet. It was infuriating, and just plain wrong.

Draco shivered again, wiping the plastered blond hair from his eyes with one pale hand.

While Potter stood, warm and dry and comfortable—bloody laughing— inside the Muggle bookstore (apparently called "The Bookshop"; Draco wondered if that was what Muggles called originality or an attempt at irony) where his newest interest was, Draco himself stood shivering in the rain.

"'Keep watch, Draco,'" Draco muttered irritably; even if Potter couldn't hear him, it made him feel better to mutter ominously and plot out his revenge. "'Watch for the Death Eaters, Draco.' Watch for your own bloody enemies, prat."

They'd been on night sentry again, and being both top Aurors and central members of the Order of the Phoenix had doubled their work load so much so that Draco was getting maybe two hours of sleep a night. Pressing a hand against his mouth, Draco yawned widely, and blinked in the hazy fog of the day, waiting for Potter to finish.

Draco was bored. Very, very bored. The cold had long since stopped seeping into his bones; now it merely felt like they were made out of pure ice. He hadn't stopped shivering, though, since when he raised his hands he could still see them tremble, but he'd stopped feeling it. He supposed numbing cold could do that; he'd heard tales from some of the Russian dignitaries that during the freezing winters in their countries, they'd get so cold they felt warm.

He wished, if that was to be the case today, it would hurry up and happen. He was slowly forgetting what it felt like to be warm.

The telly had said that it would be between fifteen and twenty today. Draco quickly decided, as he watched his breath fog in front of his face, that if he ever got a hold of that Muggle weatherman, he might very well go to jail (again) for beating a Muggle to a bloody pulp (…again). The man obviously needed to go back to wherever he had received his schooling. His forecasts were as vague as Trelawney's, and about nearly as accurate, he thought darkly.

"Bugger this for a lark," Draco snarled, seeing Potter perched happily on the desk, chatting away. The warmth of his breath left a fog on the window as Harry laughed animatedly and the girl turned quite red (he supposed she was rather pretty, if you liked Muggles), and Draco shoved his hand-shaped icicles in his pockets and kicked furiously at the wall. "I'm going somewhere warm. He can bloody well fend for himself."

Draco realized he had no idea where he was. He'd spent ten boring, shivering minutes of walking, essentially in a giant circle of freezing hell, but he was now sure of it. It was as though this street (which was just an offshoot of the Bookshop's street, really, when he made his brain think about it) was shielded from the mind. Which was odd. This was the heart of Muggle London. There were no spells, no magic, in Muggle London. And he was pretty sure Potter hadn't done it, so it wasn't possible.

Obviously, he was wrong about that.

Something clattering caught his ear, and he whipped around, reaching for his wand. He felt rather foolish when he saw the cracked, battered and obviously hand-painted sign blowing in the wind. There was a saucer, an empty cup, and a flowing kettle of some sort. Chaucer-style lettering proclaimed the place to be "The Coffee Pot." Draco's nose wrinkled immediately; he'd never cared for coffee. It was bitter and nasty and left a horrible aftertaste, even if he didn't mind the smell much. Of course, he'd never much liked tea either.

But, on the other hand, a coffee shop was bound to be warm, and through the foggy glass, he could see some very tempting-looking couches and squishy chairs. With a sigh, Draco pushed open the door, taking note of the bright, cheery tinkling noise of bells against the glass. Looking about for any immediate threat, he sighed deeply, appreciatively, as the pleasant aroma of coffee permeated the air, and he started to regain some (rather painful) sensation in his extremities.

Without a second thought, Draco dropped his weary, cold-but-slowly-thawing self into the cushiest chair he could find. The chair right in front of the second table from the door. Good, defensible. Situated in the corner, out of the way. Draco's Auror instincts were okay with the position of the chair, that perfect chair, the chair that molded around his body, enveloped him like a glove and lulled him into a heavy-lidded gaze that was more sleep than consciousness.

Comforted by a moldy-squishy chair, the warm, beautifully rich smell of fresh brewed coffee, and the gentle buzz of warm people in a warm, small shop, Draco slowly sank into a restful sleep.

Something was poking him.

Something sharp was poking him.

It felt oddly like a finger, and if he concentrated (he almost wished Potter were there, just so he could yell at him for allowing him to be woken up), he could just make out a voice talking to him.

"I said, and boyo, you just bloody well don't listen, this isn't a rest stop, now get your lazy, loitering carcass out of my chair and out of my shop."

"Mmmmhurgh," he muttered in response, snuggling up more with the jacket, which had finally dried out a bit; it'd gone from "dripping like a leaky hose" to "moderately damp but drying."

"I said, get up." He was poked again, and this time, he could make out that it was a finger, ending in a rather sharp nail, that was jabbing forcefully into his chest. Draco cracked open one bleary eye, and immediately yelped, diving to avoid the heavy-looking, thick black braid swinging towards his face as the waitress leaned over him to poke at him some more.

Unfortunately, for Draco, that is, when he rolled, he took shelter under the first solid thing in sight. Which happened to be a magnificent, beautiful, bloody heavy oak table. And, due to his times in the weight rooms, and sparring with Potter, Draco's shoulders were just wide enough to get him thoroughly stuck.

"Stop laughing," he commanded, trying to wiggle himself free and only managing to succeed in wedging himself further under the table.

"I'm sorry, love. I'm not laughing," the waitress said, her bright green eyes showing her fib. They sparkled, and seemed to smile at him in a way that made his heart, which had barely begun to slow from the fright of being woken, speed up again in an entirely different rhythm. He started wondering if he'd seen her before; she seemed familiar, in an odd sort of way.

He was positive that he'd never seen her at school or in the ranks of the Order, which meant that she was probably a Muggle. Draco swallowed, and put on his most authoritative air. Malfoys consorting with Muggles was something that was sure to disturb his father, and that just made him all the more determined to know her. But maybe he should…

"Can you, maybe, erm, help me up?" he asked, hating to have to rely on this tiny, petite woman to help unstick him; he was half sure he'd just pull her down with him. Although, given how she seemed to have all the right curves in all the right places, that might not be such a bad thing.

"No problem." She took his outstretched hand and, with a grip that was far stronger than he'd have possibly given her credit for, managed to pull him from under the table in one heave. Rolling his shoulders, he stuck his hand out, but she just raised one eyebrow. Intrigued against his will, Draco kept his hand outstretched.

"What? You people greet each other with handshakes, right?" She kept looking at his hand with disdain and intrigue warring on her features, before finally settling for a stony mask that belied nothing. "What? Do I have something on my hand, or – I mean, it's not like I'm diseased or – or have something catching."

"I'm just wondering if you're going to order something, or if I should just preemptively throw you out."

The strength he'd felt in her grip, and in the wiry arms that looked extremely misleading, suggested that she could, in fact, do what she said if she needed to; he reluctantly lowered his hand. And even if she couldn't, he thought, as he caught sight of the other employee giving him a glare worthy of Minvera McGonagall, the muscle-bound man behind the counter most certainly could.

"Fine, I'll order some of your bloody Americanized coffee nonsense. I don't even like coffee," he grumbled, sinking back into the chair; if Potter'd been here, he'd likely accused Draco of sulking, but Draco didn't care at the moment. "Don't expect me to drink it, though!" he called after the retreating waitress.

She turned around and put her hands on her hips, eyes flashing angrily; it was obvious to even one as dense about females as Draco could be that he'd offended her. "Frankly, you prat, I don't give a rat's arse whether you drink it or not, so long as you order it and pay for it. At least then you're not just uselessly taking up space!" She stomped off behind the counter, brows furrowed and obviously steaming mad. Draco almost winced when he heard her slam the coffee pot back down and a grinding, screeching sound filled his ears as she stuck the mug under another machine.

How long did it take to make a bloody cup of coffee?

Draco didn't know a lot about coffee, and certainly not enough to judge how long was too long, but he looked up from his half-asleep haze long enough to see the woman (who was a bloody nightmare if he'd ever met one, and that was including Pansy Parkinson and the rest of the Slytherin girls) arguing quietly, if vehemently, with the man with the huge biceps.

He set a small plate with food down on the tray next to the mug, and she raised one eyebrow, setting it back off stubbornly. The man twapped her on the head with a receipt (nevermind that the gesture looked more affectionate than anything, it still made Draco angry for some reason he wasn't comfortable exploring) and set "it" back down. She sighed, shook her head, and stepped from around the counter with the little serving tray.

Weaving her way, quite expertly, through the increasingly-crowded shop, she flounced over and set the tray down with a barely restrained violence. "Enjoy, prat," she frowned, "especially since Greg decided you didn't have to pay and that it was perfectly acceptable for him to pay for your coffee out of his own wages."

Draco looked up from the tray, where there was a half-wrapped scone dusted with powdered sugar, and the steaming coffee he'd just picked up. "Wait, your employee bought me coffee?"

She crossed her arms, and for sure, he couldn't miss the anger simmering in her misty green eyes. "Yes, my employee decided to pay for your coffee, and said you were allowed to stay as long as you wanted. Amanda's orders, apparently."

"Amanda?" he wrapped his long fingers around the cup, grateful for the near-burning warmth in his still-cold fingers; if he'd managed to catch something that made him ill just because bloody Potter forgot about him, he'd kill him. Not that he wasn't going to kill him anyway. He'd just kill him multiple times. Satisfied with this, Draco sniffed the cup gratefully and asked, "Who is Amanda?"

"Amanda Brock. My immediate superior and shift manager here, and Greg's too; she apparently knows you from somewhere." The girl shifted her weight, and he could see the muscles in her right shoulder tense; for one wild moment, he thought she was going to swing at him. "Enjoy your coffee. Since you took money from a man who can barely afford to feed himself and his partner, let alone you as well."

Seething, she stalked off, each step of her high-top Muggle shoes snapping on the floor to accentuate the rigid posture she resumed her duties with. Flabbergasted, unsure of himself and feeling as though he'd done something wrong and had been chastised like a naughty child, Draco took a breath, and lifted the cup to his lips, expecting to find the bitter, disgusting brew he was used to.

Instead, it was warm in more than just physical temperature, and the unmistakable flavor of chocolate bloomed on his tongue. With the third sip, even if he hadn't been aware of taking a second, the slightly cool tingle of mint was detected; not an extract, but actual mint flavor, from the plant itself.

The rest of thought was lost as the sensuous tastes of the best damn coffee he'd ever had took him far away from the tiny, hole-in-the-wall shop, and the waitress who seemed to want to murder him where he sat.

Draco didn't remember finishing the cup of coffee.

It hadn't exactly been a small cup, either, and there was a feeling rushing through him, a sort of tingly energy that hadn't been there before. He had a feeling that was the chemical or whatever that Potter always warned him of when he drank Muggle soda-pop, or it could be that every time the waitress caught sight of him still there, indolently savoring the coffee (he couldn't help himself; provoking people was still something he found fun, and he hoped, rather optimistically, that her anger with him was more indignation on her worker's behalf than an actual problem with him), she turned a very flattering shade of red.

Looking into the depths of his coffee cup, and realizing that he wanted more, he trudged up to the counter, addressing the waitress herself, even though the man, Greg, was standing right there.

"What do you want?" she snapped, slinging the small towel over her shoulder.

"More coffee, maybe?" he adopted his best lost-puppy expression, and looked directly at her; he'd been told often enough that he could look distressingly lost to the female eye. The other man snorted a little in derision, and took the cup from him.

"Oh, but remember, you don't 'like' coffee," she said acidly, taking the cup from Greg and swatting his hand away from the coffee pot (Draco had a wild and sudden desire to see what would happen if he grabbed the pot and made off with it, guzzling it all at once; he put it down to the unusual amount of giddy energy he felt and resolved to try it at a later time. One where he maybe felt like he might not die if he got too close to the Muggle woman) in the same move. "So for not liking it, you certainly seem to want more of it."

"I don't always have to like something to want more of it," he smirked a little, thinking of the irony.

She harrumphed and slid a paper cup full of coffee to him across the counter; "Greg" quickly pulled his hands out of the path of the moving cup. As Draco turned away to retreat to his seat (and was that Potter peering in through the window? He'd better not have put another Tracking Spell on Draco just because he'd gotten lost once in that monstrosity that was Disneyland Paris), the waitress called to him.

"Oi, prat."

He turned around, half expecting her to throw something at him; judging by the half-sneer he was fairly sure she didn't even know she was expressing, he wasn't far off in his expectation. After all, she'd already given him a paper cup, which was a clear expression that she didn't want him here.

"Yes'm?"

"Finish your cuppa and leave. Forget how you got to this shop, because I don't want to see you back in here."

He just grinned and headed towards the door. He'd been right, it was Potter, looking for him in the surrounding shop windows. The waitress's warning didn't bother him much, and he rather enjoyed that she "didn't want him back." Draco ignored Potter's prattling ("Good God, Draco, where were you? I told you to wait outside the Bookshop, why don't you ever listen. One of these days, Voldemort's going to send someone to kidnap you and I won't stop them, you know, no I will not. I'll just watch as they carry your kicking, screaming carcass off, and say, 'hm, there goes Draco, he should've listened to me more.' It'd be a re…") and smirked to himself as he carefully memorized the route to the Coffee Pot.

He knew he'd be back tomorrow.

Author's Ending Notes: He really is a terrible prat, isn't he?

Guys, I am so sorry it's taking so long to get DIN out to you, or even PVV. We're starting some major re-editing of DIN, I mean, chapter-changing edits. Some will be shorter, some will be longer, some things might be cut down. Changing some characters about, and even adding more stuff in. I promise I will update you guys on how it's going and what's been re-edited. Okay? ~Gumi