This story is very different from Cove of the Moon and it's much shorter. It's a little, light-hearted story after the Dear Captain's adventures. Lucius bravely stepped up to the plate to participate, even if he had to lower himself to interact with a Muggle. Some of My Dear Readers (those who know me from outside of FFN) may suspect some of the inspiration for this story, and they might very well be right. ;^) Also, I suspect that I may spend way too much time in cafes people watching and drinking too much coffee. Enjoy! Please do not be too harsh on Lucius. He shocked himself as well. Obviously, this is post-war.
Monday, 8:59 am
The cafe was near one of the Ministry entrances, and some wizards, no matter their views on Muggles, had come to covet the delicately baked goods, which ranged from delicate brioches to buttery croissants to creamy, dense scones. It was crowded in the early spring morning with the business crowd, a mix of Muggles and Wizards. The cafe's popularity had blossomed with the review in the Quibbler, which cautioned that even though one had to refrain from magic while in the establishment, the goods were worth the brief inconvenience. As a result, their scones were so popular that they tended to sell out during the morning rush.
The woman, standing towards the middle of the counter, said in a hurried voice to a young male barista, "I'll have a medium, 2% fat, raspberry mocha, and a scone, please. Thanks."
The man, standing at the counter by the door, spoke to the young woman barista in a rather condescending, bored voice, dripping with entitlement, "A medium, 2% fat, raspberry mocha. Is that the last scone? I'll have it as well."
The two people moved towards the end of the counter where the orders were filled and stood waiting in their respective spots.
A third barista, who was filling the order, looked at the two slips, and, believing the two exact orders to be duplicates on an unusually busy workday morning, filled only one. Setting the items on the counter, he called out, in an overly cheerful manner, "Medium, 2 % raspberry mocha, scone." He turned away to begin filling another order.
The man and the woman both reached for the coffee at the same time, hands colliding.
"Madam, I believe this is mine." The tall, blonde man stared down his nose at her and sniffed.
"Err... No, I'm sorry, this is mine." Brown eyes looked up into his grey-blue ones. "I ordered the raspberry mocha with 2% fat milk and the scone. It's the last one." The woman said, feeling a little peevish on that Monday morning, mostly because she was very late for work.
Their hands clasped around the cup. His hand felt cool and strong against hers. He noticed how soft and delicate her hand was. She tugged the cup towards her.
"As did I." He pulled it back.
"Excuse me, this is my drink. Really, I have to go. I'm already late for work. Please let go." She frowned at him.
Scowling, he said coldly. "It is my drink and my scone. Please release the drink."
People were beginning to stare at the couple.
"Really, sir, you're creating a scene. Please let go of my hand and the cup." She hissed at him.
"Do you know who I am?" He asked haughtily, arching his eyebrow at her.
She looked at him. There was no doubt he was attractive even if he was an utter bastard. This fact only made her irritation grow. His grey-blue eyes stared coldly at her. His long blonde hair was slightly shaggy, but still clean and soft looking. She scowled in irritation at the man, for being both overbearingly arrogant and handsome to boot. She didn't know which was worse, the arrogance or the fact that he had nicer hair than she did. For the moment, she decided the better hair was the most annoying fact about him as her curly brown hair fell untidily out of its hastily made knot at the base of her neck.
She scowled harder, and attempting to pull the cup back towards her, responded rather waspishly, "No, I don't. Do you know who I am?"
He looked down at the woman. He was sure he did not. She watched him, a frown line marring her clear skin. She was pretty enough, for a Muggle, but the woman was not listening to him, which aggravated him. She was also behaving in a rather high-handed manner, which further infuriated him. He tugged back on the paper cup.
"No, madam, I am quite sure I do not as I do not make it a habit to associate with...your kind."
"My kind?" she frowned, "Then we're even. I don't tend to associate with arrogant boors. Let go of my drink, please." She scowled at him, tugging at the cup again.
He frowned back, and pulled back.
Frustration overwhelmed her and the woman stepped on his toe, putting her full weight on it. For once, she thanked her stars that she was not a stick insect and, was, instead, a curvy girl.
He swore, pulling his foot out from under hers, and let go of the drink, which she snatched away.
He reached out and grabbed the scone. An evil chuckle escaped from somewhere deep inside him. It felt good, not as good as a decent Cruciatus, but beggars couldn't be choosers, he mused.
Looking up at him, eyes wide, she gasped, "You! You! Scone thief!"
"Well, my pretty little mocha thief, then we're even." He sneered at her.
"Bastard."
"Muggle."
She narrowed her eyes at him at the unfamiliar, yet clearly derogatory, word and then pushed past him, muttering under her breath. Her heels clicking forcefully on the tile of the cafe, she marched out, the door slamming behind her.
For a moment the wizard's normal reserve was shaken as he remembered the Bard's comment, "Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned." Feeling rather silly suddenly, he inhaled deeply, reminding himself that she was merely a Muggle and then smiled at the bag with the scone.
Tuesday, 8:40 am
The blonde wizard walked into the cafe and found the Muggle leaning against the case, swinging a little white bag. She stood up and walked up to him, "Well, handsome, we meet again. Looks like you're having a chocolate brioche today." She shot him a cheeky smile and sauntered out the door.
He scowled and debated if an Unforgiveable curse over a scone was worth his freedom.
Monday, 8:15 am
She strode into the cafe and ordered her drink and a scone. The barista called out the drink order and then said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but that man over there ordered the last scone."
"Of course he did. Fine. Just the coffee then." She muttered, attempting to keep her tone civil. Then the woman turned.
There he was. The bastard was standing in the corner, victoriously holding up a plate with the bloody scone. He smiled wickedly. She glared.
Thursday, 7:45 am
The couple met at the door of the cafe, both reaching for the doorknob at the same time.
The baristas in the cafe looked up and nudged each other. The couple was proving to be fertile ground for the cafe betting pool. Every day they came and every day they fought over a scone. It didn't matter that the earlier they arrived more scones were available for the choosing.
Lucius wrapped his hand over hers on the knob, "Unhand the door handle, madam."
"No, I was here first. You let go." His nemesis instructed in an annoyed voice, while trying to dislodge his overly firm grip on her hand.
"I may be many things, but I am still a gentleman. I am attempting to atone for my scone thievery. Allow me to open the door for you." The blonde responded in a suspiciously charming manner.
The woman snorted. "Gentleman, my eye," as she stared suspiciously at him, wondering if the look plastered over his face was truly innocent. For a brief moment, she wavered in indecision.
The man, seeing the confusion in her eyes, took his chance. His opponent found herself pushed aside by a gentle but firm hip bump. The door opened and he attempted to scoot through while she was distracted. But he wasn't quick enough. The woman slid her body under his arm and then between him and the doorsill. Unfortunately, the narrow, old door was not wide enough for two. She was stuck, wedged between the current bane of her existence and the doorjamb.
Since neither wanted to give way, they remained trapped for several moments, while the cafe patrons and employees gaped in astonishment. Muttering, profuse swearing and name-calling ensued as each tried to push their way past the other.
For a moment, he stilled as he realized that the female was pressed up against him, in a manner that was rather provocative. For a brief moment, he found himself appreciating the feminine form pressed against him, then the small, ex-Deatheater voice reminded him that she was simply a Muggle. He scowled at himself.
They both started talking at the same time
"Madam, really, I must insist-
"Seriously? Oh, this is just perfect."
She heard a grunt as she tried to step on his toes and then a whisper of what sounded like Latin. Feeling a thread of energy tingle through her, the woman felt strong arms easily lift and then push her out of the way. The door clicked shut, leaving her outside. The blonde man, smiling wickedly, waved his fingers at her while she stared at him though the cafe door window. The smug look on his face pushed her over the edge of her patience.
The Muggle woman narrowed her eyes at his back as he turned. A low angry growl slid out of her as she watched him stalk towards the counter. Flinging the door open, she was behind him in three big steps.
Too late, the wizard realized she was coming up behind him. He stumbled as her foot caught the back of his shoe and then felt a hard bump of a hip that threw him off balance.
Moving past him, his nemesis leaned close and whispered into his ear as he attempted to regain his equilibrium, "Check mate."
His opponent threw her coins on the counter and reached out for the bag. Suddenly, she felt warm breath ghost over her ear and neck.
He whispered, "I do believe you have just upped the ante, madam." The woman stilled.
She could feel his heat against her back. His hand snaked down her arm, languidly and gently touching her bare skin. He breathed into her ear. She closed her eyes. She was having trouble catching her breath. He leaned into her. A small sound escaped the woman. She felt the man's other hand slide down her hip, snaking around her front to rest on her abdomen. Distracted from her goal, her hand dropped uselessly onto the counter as she tried to make her body and tumbling thoughts behave against the sensual onslaught.
The baristas stared in fascination at the couple. It seemed that the scone fight was heating up. The female barista nudged the male and held out her hand. Digging around in his pocket, he put two pound coins in her hand.
A sinister male chuckle and a whispered, "Ah. I win, Muggle" caressed her ear. She felt a nose nuzzle her neck and dimly registered a rustle of paper. The spring air hit her back, cool air ruffling her hair. Feeling oddly bereft, the woman opened her eyes and found the baristas staring at her. The bag and the mocha were gone.
"Oooh, that bastard!" Unconsciously, she stamped her foot in frustration, whether it was due to the loss of the scone or the male heat of her mysterious nemesis, she wasn't quite sure.
The female barista leaned over the high counter, sliding a Nutella brioche towards her, "Tell me, was it as seductive as it looked?"
The dark haired woman gave her a withering look and turned away, but not before she took the brioche as her consolation prize.
Monday 7:15 am
The wizard walked into the cafe the next day and looked around. He smiled triumphantly. She was not there. He had arrived first. He won. Then he frowned, feeling a slight stab of disappointment that his Muggle opponent had given up the battle. He hadn't thought she would surrender so quickly. Then, realizing there were a half a dozen scones in the case, he relaxed.
Striding to the counter, he ordered his coffee and scone. He sniffed, feeling confused. He thought he smelled her perfume. Suddenly he felt a hand slide up his bottom. The man stiffened.
A soft voice whispered, "Good morning, handsome. I see you've very thoughtfully ordered my coffee and scones for me."
Huffing dramatically, the blonde turned to address her. He looked down at her, and she smiled seductively. Disarmed, he stopped thinking. He was only used to her frowning at him.
The woman's hand remained on his hip, its warmth leaking through the fine wool trousers to his skin. She pressed herself against him. Her breasts rubbed against him as she moved. She reached up and touched his hair. The woman carefully and gently moved his hair away from his neck. The man found himself focusing on her touch, inhaling the scents of soap, shampoo and perfume. She traced the tattoo. Her eyes softened. He closed his eyes, instinctively leaning towards her, trying not to think how long it had been since Narcissa left him.
She whispered, "Well, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, don't you think?"
The woman leaned against him, as she stood on tiptoe, her breath whispering across his jaw and cheek. He opened his eyes, and found her looking at him intently. His hand moved of its own volition, fingers wrapping around one of the tendrils of her hair, which always seemed to be falling out of her knot. For a long moment, they both simply stood and looked at each other.
Then, breaking the moment, the arm, which had touched him on the neck, snaked past his neck and grabbed the coffee. The wizard heard something slide across the counter, and as he tried to gather his thoughts, the Muggle kissed him hard on the lips. Instinctively, he responded, but was too slow, instead he found himself kissing the woman on the corner of her mouth as she danced away.
"See you tomorrow, handsome," she murmured throatily and then raised her voice to talk to the baristas, "Thanks for all of the scones, folks, my co-workers will love this treat."
The woman strolled sassily out of the cafe carrying a pastry box, leaving her opponent to stare after her, leaning against the cold, scone-free, display case and feeling oddly drained. The man swallowed and then scowled, angry at his body's betrayal but, yet, rather proud at her ability to outwit him that morning. Clearly, other parts of him didn't mind that she was a Muggle. He muttered to himself, "Well played, Muggle, well played. Buying all of the scones at once. So Slytherin...if you were a witch, you'd be perfect." He sighed, and then frowned at the directions his thoughts were taking him.
The baristas slowly let out their pent out breath. The guy leaned over the counter, and said, "Mate, have you gotten a leg over that yet? 'Cause if you don't want -"
The man exhaled, suddenly feeling rather protective of his opponent, and harshly cut the other male off mid-sentence, "Enough."
The barista nodded and backed away from the man.
3 Weeks later, 6:55 AM
His opponent muttered, "I don't understand why it's always MY scone and MY coffee. Try a brioche and a latte, better yet leave me alone and get your own scone and coffee - there are enough of them today." She tugged back on the paper cup.
"Madam, you are the encroacher here, not me. Why don't you try something else, better yet, some place else?" The blond man yanked the cup back towards him. Some infantile part of his brain suggested that baiting his nemesis was perhaps just as fun as torturing Muggles, albeit in an entirely different manner than a traditional Cruciatus curse. The second part of his mind informed him that he quite enjoyed watching her get all hot and bothered every morning for an entirely different, and perhaps a very base, reason. Either way, he found the arguments invigorating and a welcome release from his dull and rather solitary existence, just as long as he did not find himself back in Azkaban.
The baristas stood, transfixed, while an impending sense of doom settled over them. The two opponents were extra feisty this morning. The other two early morning customers sidled away from the couple to the safety of tables and newspapers.
"No, I refuse to give into a bully." The Muggle grabbed the cup back more forcefully than she intended.
"Bully?" The wizard said in surprise. "Well, I never-" His eyes narrowed as he simultaneously and very consciously let go of the cup as she yanked the vessel back towards her. Too late, he realized his error in judgment. The baristas gasped as one. They were all helpless as they witnessed the force of the tug propel the cup towards her. Her hand squished it just enough that the top popped off. Coffee flew out of the container, landing on the front of her pristinely white, fine linen button-down shirt.
Silence fell as the liquid seeped into the fabric, causing her shirt to become see through. She inhaled sharply, which was followed by a soft, sad, "Oh."
The logical bit of the male's consciousness suddenly wished that he was back in Azkaban, anywhere really, than in that immediate spot. It instantly instructed him to cease and desist. All men knew what that particular feminine sound of in-drawn breath meant, and it did not bode well, whether made by Witch or Muggle.
He opened his mouth, meaning to offer up, at the very least, false apologies (he was a gentleman after all); instead all that came out was, "Ah. Next time don't be so greedy, madam, but I do quite like this new look." His hand, all on its own, made a little flourish indicating her chest.
The blonde tried to stop himself, to keep the next words from spilling out, but he failed. Even as he uttered it, he knew instinctively that he was starting something that he should not. "But that is certainly a very lovely bra." His inner wizard cringed in fear. Apparently, his very high sense of self-preservation had evaporated after the death of the Dark Lord. His eyebrows, gaining their own life, arched up as if daring his inner voice to say anything.
The baristas, although safe behind the counter, backed up a step.
His nemesis had been frozen in place, looking down at her brand new, very expensive shirt. The one she splurged on because the fabric was soft and feminine. She very rarely wore white, ironically, because she tended to spill. The woman felt a little light-headed. In her mind, the logical bit, which chastised her every morning for being so immature to provoke a stranger, informed her that was what she got for being such a whiny idiot. An inner feminine voice instructed her to suck it up, return home, change, and maybe even just call out sick from work and hide in her bed. But, the illogical part, the one that made her fight that arrogant man every morning, suddenly became enraged. She looked up, her eyes flashing.
For the first time in his life, the former Death Eater thanked his lucky stars that a woman was not a magic user. Knowing that if this particular one had been, he would be-at this moment- a very small insect about to be squashed by one very feminine foot sheathed in a pink peep-toed leather flat. Instead, the eyes narrowed. He held his breath.
As she very carefully set the ruined cup onto the counter, she ground out, "You...my bra? You...you...this was a brand new shirt. Brand new. You...My God, you're impossible, simply and utterly impossible." Reaching for napkins, she grabbed a handful and started to dab.
Some demon compelled him to continue to provoke her, while the logical part of his mind began to wonder if someone had Imperiused him to act the idiot around her. The wizard drawled lazily, "And a very lovely new shirt it was, but I do have to say that I prefer the wet see-through look myself." The man allowed himself a little leer. "Don't you agree?" He glanced at the male barista, who refused to meet the wizard's eyes, the coward. The woman shot him a deadly look.
Leaning close, he continued on in his suicidal vein, murmuring silkily into her ear, even as the man knew he was sealing his own fate, "I could help you with that."
The woman stopped, still looking down at the shirt, one hand pulling the wet, thin material away from her skin, the other hand dabbing uselessly at the ever widening stain. She inhaled deeply. Looking up at him, her jaw set. She very deliberately set the ragged pile of damp napkins on the counter, and then, too quickly, grabbed one of the large cupcakes topped with gooey, sticky, fudgy frosting that had been sitting out, waiting to be put into the case.
Lucius saw her pick up the fairycake, but he registered the possible implications too late. The cake was firmly squashed into his hair. And to make certain of the damage, she rubbed it in. Letting go of the cake, frosted pieces lodged in his glorious blond hair, while the remainder fell across his shoulders and down his jacket to the floor. The soft plopping sound of the broken pieces landing on the ground seemed extraordinarily loud.
The woman wore a deeply satisfied expression on her face. He glowered.
Now the collective sound of in-drawn breaths of the few patrons and baristas echoed through the cafe. Muggle and Magic-user instinctively cringed away from the couple. Chair legs screeched across the floor as the customers at the tables shifted farther away.
The wizard inhaled deeply, counting to himself in order to halt the hex that was attempting to bubble up from inside. He could not expose himself. He silently repeated the word "Azkaban" to maintain his composure. Nostrils flaring, he muttered, "Madam..."
The only answer was a very firm slide of her sticky, gooey hand across his cheek, and then a pat on the front of his black and red jacket, which left fudgy fingerprints behind.
Smiling evilly, she licked some of the remaining frosting off her hand. For a moment the man was hypnotized by the brunette's movements, his concentration broken by her next words.
"Mmm...That is quite good, even with the extra flavor of arrogant brat." At that, she tossed her head, flicking her hair back over her shoulder. Smiling, the woman grabbed the bag with the scone and stalked out of the cafe.
He inhaled deeply yet again. The wizard gave the seated magic-user an evil, warning glance, tugged at his cuffs, carefully flicking a piece of chocolate cake off the front of his jacket. It fell to the floor with soft splurt.
The cowardly male barista tentatively offered another coffee and scone to the wizard, who sneered at him, but, ever the opportunist, grabbed the offering. The barista scuttled back and hid behind the female cafe worker, who looked at him in disgust.
Turning, Lucius marched out the door, around the corner and Apparated homeward.
Two weeks later on a Friday at 6:35 am (five minutes after the opening time of the cafe)
The Dark Wizard sat in the darker corner at a table with two scones and two coffees and watched his nemesis walk into the cafe. The Pureblood was suddenly overcome with a flood of some warm alien feeling that felt rather like pride. The Muggle woman was a worthy opponent. He sniffed.
When she got to the counter the baristas motioned towards him. Turning, she looked at him with confusion. The woman's tilted her head slightly back, straightened her shoulders, and then inhaled, as she collected herself.
His opponent walked over, heels clicking on the tiles, and stopped at the side of the table. She hid her bewilderment well, but not completely, and covered it with false bravado. The woman wore a smart, spring suit in a light mint green color and a small, silver pendant glittered at the base of her neck. It was a serpent. Against his better judgment, he found himself approving of her outfit. The man frowned at that thought.
A thread of confusion laced her voice, "Ah, a meeting. How Godfather of you. Or are you just part of a larger muffin mafia?"
He hid his own bewilderment at the Muggle's cultural reference, and said smoothly, "Ah, your charming Americanisms, they do delight me so." He lifted his eyebrow at her. She arched hers back at him. "Perhaps we should attempt a detente, madam?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "How many more pastries do you need to control in this world?"
"Ah, control of the pastry is beside the point." The man gestured to a seat next to him. The woman sat down warily.
He leaned towards her and whispered in her ear. "In our need to conquer the pastries, I fear that we soon may find ourselves in a compromising position in public." He lifted some of her hair and inhaled the light scent of the shampoo. "Lovely. You always smell so delightful in the morning."
He rubbed the tendrils of her hair between his thumb and forefinger. It was soft and silky. It made him want to run his hands through it. The man frowned at the thought.
The Muggle put her hand on his knee, leaning towards him, whispered back, "What is it that you really want?" She could feel the heat beneath her hand and, yet again, her curiosity about the man started to bubble to the surface. She scowled as she mentally wrestled back into its mental box. She pulled her hand back.
"Ah. Well, you do get straight to the point, madam. I do believe that is what I like best about you... no beating about the mixing bowl so to speak."
She smiled at him. The wizard relaxed. The Muggle was his.
Then the woman leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her head, stared back at him. Crossing her legs, she swung her foot.
Her opponent, suddenly fascinated by her slim ankle, had to drag his eyes back to hers as she spoke. "You, sir, are at your most dangerous when you are charming. I don't believe you." Brown eyes gazed at him with suspicion.
The wizard deflated a bit. His newfound confidence, lost over the years at Azkaban, with the threats to his family, and occupation of his house, wavered. He reminded himself that she was simply a Muggle. And he didn't like Muggles, although he liked their scones and perhaps their other baked goods...and the Muggle woman was simply a passing amusement because he was lonely and had lacked feminine company over the past few years. Many women had graceful legs and well-turned ankles. He said this rather too firmly to himself.
She waited patiently for him to speak and watched him scowl as if in answer to a conversation only he heard. Finally, Lucius gathered his thoughts and then, lifting his head slightly and looking down his nose at her, spoke, "I think that we should draw up an agreement."
Her eyebrows lifted. "An agreement? Over scones? Perhaps you can simply agree not to steal mine all of the time and just get your own. As you can see, if you get here early enough, there are plenty to go around." She wiggled her fingers at the incriminating scones sitting on the plates.
"Ah. Indeed. But we seem incapable of that action. And I really do not want to have to buy the cafe to win."
She coughed. "Buy the cafe? They're only scones. Isn't that a bit excessive. You seriously need to sort out your priorities." At that she stood up and stalked to the counter to buy her own scone and coffee. The man frowned at the two scones and two coffees abandoned on the table. Watching her, a plan clicked into place.
Three days later, 8:30 am
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we're under strict orders not to sell any scones to you anymore, or any of the brioches, croissants, bear claws, danishes, muffins, or any baked goods actually."
She stood, gaping at the youth. Anger and deep disappointment bubbled up from deep inside. She stood, gaping at the boy. Finally, she found her words, which came out in a high, squeaky, loud voice, "What? He did it. The blond bastard really did it. He bought you, didn't he? And he's forbidden me to buy anything? I've been a good customer! I can't believe this! He's...he's...he's insane!"
The baristas looked at each other, and then shrugged. The girl piped up, "We didn't expect it either. All of us had bet that you two would wind up together..." They all nodded.
The woman stared at them. "Seriously? You bet on us?"
The crew nodded.
"Oh my God. Okay, I can't handle this today." She turned and left the store.
One week later. Monday 9:03 am
She walked into her office and found green and silver box and a coffee on her desk. Confused, she stopped in the doorway. Seeing no one in her office, she cautiously walked to the desk. Setting her purse and the bad coffee from the fast-food place on her desk, she inspected the package. An envelope was placed under the silver ribbon tied around the box. Reaching out a cautious hand, she prodded the box with one finger. Nothing happened. She poked at the box again. Still nothing.
Slipping the heavy, cream-colored envelope from under the green and silver ribbon, she opened it.
Elegant, bold script leapt out from the page:
"Madam, A scone of your very own to begin the morning. The baristas neglected to tell you that while you are not allowed to buy a scone, as half owner, you are entitled to as many free scones as you would like, or any other baked good if you are feeling culinarily adventurous one morning. Your servant, Lucius Malfoy."
A small, funny sound escaped from deep inside her. She started to laugh as she re-read the note. Curious, she opened the box. Inside were several scones and an assortment of other baked goods, something called a chocolate frog, a deed indicating her half-ownership of the cafe and bakery with one Lucius Malfoy, and one invitation to dinner, entirely scone-free.
Fin