Title: 'Caffeinated'
Author/Artist: tigersilver
Prompt: Prompt 46 - submitted by winter_poem; serpentinelion Kink!Fest
Beta: lonerofthepack
Rating/Word Count: 6,900+/- (I am physiologically unable to write 'short', apparently.)
Author's Notes: From my prompter: "ERA: AU; Time Frame: young adults (20s?); Situation/Kink: Harry works in a book shop as a shop assistant, Draco walks in one day and is all "falls in love" and constantly comes to 'annoy' Harry. Harry = all "Leave me alone!" and angryish, but Draco makes it all better and "unfreezes his heart" (possibly been hurt by ex-lover?); Squicks to Avoid: Top!Harry, Sad endings (hate them) and that's all :)"
Dear winter_poem , I tried to hit them all and even toss in a few toppings for flavouring, but it's so much longer than it should be, sorry! Please forgive! (Bows to Terry Pratchett, whom I believe had something to do with that 'exploding corn'.)

Harry Potter on a caffeine high was a treat Draco Malfoy simply could not bear to miss—for the purposes of gratuitous mockery, only.

That was the initial excuse he gave out to his intimates for his diligent weekly visits to Flourish & Bott's brand new Hogsmeade location, and that was the one he stuck to like a limpet whenever Zabini or Parkinson (now Nott) quizzed him satirically concerning his peculiar reading habits.

For Draco Malfoy had discovered manuals. 'Idiot's Guides', the Muggles called them; Draco called them his crash course in the Brave New World; i.e. his post-Dark Lord, post-overbearing, manipulative father and post-clingy, over-protective mother's respective strangleholds on his personal life. Draco was a free man, these days (relatively speaking), but he'd no clue. The Guides were a gift direct from Merlin, in his estimation.

Wizards, naturally, had their own version, shelved side-by-side in adjoining sections, called the WizIdiot's Guides™. They constituted all the little 'life lessons' he'd somehow missed, whilst he was occupied with being a stuck-up, toffee-nosed, wrong-headed prat. After stumbling across his first 'self-help' book, Draco devoured every single one he could lay hands on, including the ones that addressed issues he'd never actually laid claim to, such as Weak Wizards and Why Witches Are Doomed to Love Them, Muggle Real Estate: The Do's & Don'ts of Charming Static Architecture and How I Overcame My Debilitating Shyness Through Positive Inner Dialogue and Pepper-Up Potions. He'd even read The Halfblood Spy Who Adored Me, by Lavinia Shortshanks, noted romance novelist, on the off chance it might provide insight into the fascinating mind of the Muggle.

By additional chance and some external machinations on the part of persons unknown, but largely benign, Draco Malfoy currently taught Potions at Hogwarts. He was still on probation, certainly, but that was greatly relaxed on school grounds and their immediate environs, as Headmistress McGonagall had calmly informed the Ministry in no uncertain terms she'd not have any member of her staff, no matter how junior, rendered 'toothless as a mere babe' in these trying times. So, he retained his wand (returned via Owl post by Potter), his access to the Manor, all his Galleons (except for a hefty percentage paid in reparations) and the full use of his magic.

This was a fortunate turn of events, indeed. Draco, never having been a particularly dense chap, though certainly ill advised, promptly showed his gratitude to his benefactors by throwing himself full-tilt into Muggle appreciation. That, in turn, required research, and research naturally required texts and references, and ergo, the F&B bookstore every Saturday morning, like clockwork.

The first time he saw Potter there, he hid in the Children's Section and covertly watched the conqueror of Voldemort efficiently shelve three cartloads of stock in less than five minutes. It took a fast skim-through of How to Win Friends and Influence Purebloods & Muggleborns Alike before Draco was ready to confront him.

Potter, on the other hand, was ready for bloody anything, judging by the brimming triple-espresso-shot cappuccino with whipped cream and sprinkles he had in the 32-ounce cup by his register. It was his second of the morning, per Draco's furtive count. That explained, at least, the screaming speed. Potter was nearly a blur when in action.

"Hullo, Potter," Draco offered, nodding stiffly but politely, when it was his turn to be cashed out. It was the first thing he'd said to Potter since the Fiendfyre Incident. He thought it went over well, considering.

"Hullo, Malfoy!" Potter hailed him, uber-cheerily. "So good to see you again! Been doing well?"

Draco nodded again warily, bound and determined to keep his new leaf shiny bright.

"Tolerable," he allowed, and pushed his soon-to-be acquisition forward to be rung up: The Idiot's Guide to Driving an Automobile. "And you?" he asked, after a short pause, during which he recalled it was PC to make nice with those of Mugglish persuasion, even if it meant actively interacting with the World's Greatest Git.

He heard Potter reply something along the lines of "Oh, I'm brilliant!" whilst his broad, long-fingered hands sorted out Draco's purchase.

And then Draco really looked Potter over, from head to toe, to judge for himself how the Golden Boy had fared in the year or so since he'd last seen him.

New, attractive haircut: check.

Clothes that fit and weren't immediately ghastly: check.

Extremely fine bottom: check! For Potter chose that particular moment to fumble-finger his biro and Draco got a nice eyeful of toned arsecheeks rippling in worn, tight-fitting Muggle denims when the Saviour bent over to retrieve it. His eyes widened and lingered; he couldn't help but lean forward slightly over the counter and track the flex of muscles as Potter rose back up. Criminy! Draco took a deep, calming breath—internally.

Big green eyes—check! They were peering at him inquisitively over the non-rims of Potter's very dashing updated spectacles. Sculpted eyebrows—check! Potter must've had a professional makeover, the twat. Poncy little buff, beddable twat!

Clear skin: check! Slight trace of sexy dark stubble: check! Wide shoulders under that fetching dark green shop apron (that highlighted, incidentally, the depth of Potter's toad-hued eyes): accounted for!

"Are you going to learn to drive a Muggle auto, Malfoy?" Potter inquired, without a trace of his old nasty taunting edge lurking anywhere about him. Draco gaped blankly at him, completely arse about face. "That's brill!" Potter burbled on, unfazed. "Well, I wish you better luck than I had with the Weasley's Anglia. Make sure to avoid the sentient flora and fauna!"

Engaging grin: check! Dimples: oh, yes! Eerily friendly, non-combative attitude—check!

"Um! Er—yes! Yes, as a matter of fact I am!" Draco blurted out, in a sudden, terrible hurry to reveal all the nitty-gritty details of his secretive second life as a Muggle-focused, closeted armchair anthropologist. "Fascinating things, Muggle motors, what? Thought I'd buy myself a little fast one for gadding about on the weekends; have some fun—and what do you do on weekends, Potter?" Draco gabbled on, turning pink as his mouth continued flapping without his brain's say-so. "Anything amusing? Do you want to, maybe? This weekend? I'm completely free, see, so—"

"Malfoy?"

The stunning eyes were stunned, and so was the rest of Potter, by the looks of it. He actually took a fair step back from his side of the counter, edging away as he gingerly handed over Draco's receipt and parcel. Draco blushed madly and stuck a conciliatory hand out; he'd certainly not meant to come on quite so strongly. In fact, he hadn't intended to venture beyond the standard obligatory greetings courtesy required, much less have a go at pulling Potter! What, for gods' sake, ailed him so suddenly?

And then Draco Malfoy realized—with an appropriate inner cataclysmic jolt of gargantuan proportion—he'd just tumbled fathoms deep in love. With Potter.

"Er!" he exclaimed, thinking quickly, epiphany or no. "Ah! Yes! No! One moment, Potter! Hold up, will you? Just need one more thing!" Instinct kicking in, he dashed off to the Self-Help Section once more at top gait and snatched himself up a copy of the Idiot's Guide to Falling in Love. Hesitating only briefly, he laid his frantic hands on one more essential Guide: the Muggle-authored Kama Sutra.

Best to swot up on all fronts, right?

-o0o-

As it was Saturday morning, Draco was lurking in F&B, dogging Potter's heels.

It was terribly early—only five minutes after opening time, but Draco had been waiting outside for quite half an hour, eager to see Potter. Potter, however, scowled instantly and veered off from his determined beeline to the café section when he caught Draco's beady eye on him, taking refuge behind his stock trolley instead.

Today, Potter was evidently solidly ensconced in the persona Draco was most familiar with: an evil little git with a chip. He actually snarled when Draco sauntered over.

"What the feck do you want, Malfoy?"

Malfoy wanted Potter to join him in a friendly game of Seeker's Quidditch, after work. He said as much.

"Naff off," Potter commanded, and got to shelving.

"Now, now, you know you want to, Potter," Draco egged his ancient archrival on to take affirmative action towards this Unity movement everyone was always talking up. He nimbly nipped after Potter as he swooped down the cramped aisles, stocking WizIdiot's Guides™ for everything from Cosmically Correct Baby Naming to Spell-It-Yourself Pumpkin Juice Brewing. "Bet you can't beat me, Potter; not anymore," he taunted. "I've a leg up lately, what with helping Madame Hooch with the coaching, and I know for a fact you've not been on a real broom in ages."

Draco stopped his jibing for the moment and waited patiently for his quarry to glance over at him. When that didn't happen, Draco baited his trap with something far sweeter:

"You know, Potter," he drawled, running a fingertip over a book spine in a 'come hither' fashion, "I've a spare AirItalia Ultrrapido lying about you might want to take out for a spin." That was simply the best racing broom on the market—and the most hideously dear. "And a professional practice Snitch. And the Pitch isn't booked this evening. We could make a night of it; snag some grub together."

"No!" Potter stamped off, dodging Draco by putting his evil rolling device between them, and then retreating to the safer shoals behind the cash register. "Leave me alone, you bleeding stalker! I've told you and told you, I'm not the least interested in spending time with you, Malfoy. Go the fuck away."

"Oh, come now, Potter. You know you'd enjoy it," Draco replied, adroitly stepping out of the way of the painful little metal wheels Potter sent spinning in his general direction. "Everyone loves a not-so-secret admirer; admit it," he coaxed. "And you certainly liked the case of Frogs I sent you—you ate the whole thing in one go, from what I heard."

"That was you?" Potter seemed shocked; Draco didn't know why that was so. The Guide said to be honest and upfront about his feelings. He'd made his tender emotions rather unctuously clear, he thought. The Guide also said it was advisable to demonstrate his ardour with little gifts and mementos, thoughtful items that would cause Potter to think of him fondly. That was just what he'd done, wasn't it?

Draco nodded happily to himself, satisfied he was proceeding correctly. "Yes, Potter. The lilies, too," he added proudly, but the effect of that confession was not what he'd hoped. Potter scowled harshly.

"Bespoke from Fantabula's Fantastick Florists, they were," Draco assured him, so his suspicious true-love wouldn't mistakenly assume they were snatched off some passing fly-by-night posy vendor, "in London, and do let me advise you, Potter, obtaining that particular shade of emerald green was not easy—"

"Shut the fuck up, Malfoy!" Potter ordered sharply. "You know nothing about my mother—nothing—and go the hell away, won't you? I'm working!" he hissed.

"…Your mother?"

"Yes, my mother! Don't tell you've conveniently forgotten ridiculing me all those years for being a bloody orphan, Malfoy? Now leave at once, or I'll call my manager down on you!"

Draco took a step back. He hadn't forgotten, no; not at all. It was just that sources said Potter's favourite flower was the lily, and Potter's eyes being what they were, he…well. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to offend you, Potter, truly."

Potter glared scads of daggers at him, spun on his heel abruptly and stalked off to the coffee bar. Draco, feeling suddenly horribly inadequate, despite all his preparatory reading, for once didn't follow. In the distance, he overheard Potter order a quadruple latte, with extra Bott's Mini-Beans™ atop of a veritable tower of whipped cream, and simply had to shudder in utter revulsion. He himself had a sweet tooth, but Potter's was fast approaching ridiculous!

Blech!

Come to think of it…that was rather odd, wasn't it?

-o0o-

"How about this, then?" Draco offered the following Saturday morning. "We'll nip over to the Muggle cinema in Edinburgh and watch a film, Potter, we two. I'll be able to continue my research; we'll have the chance to spend quality time together in an equitable, safe, non-threatening atmosphere and you may take advantage of the opportunity to view the latest Humphrey Bogwart work, complete with that American corn that is exploded, all at my expense."

Potter opened his mouth, already shaking his head.

"Ah, ah, ah, Potter," Draco waved a finger at him, "No excuses; not this time. I do know for a fact you Halfblood types are very fond of, er, 'Bogie'; there's a whole chapter dedicated solely to him in the WizIdiot's Guide™ to the Greats of Muggle Cinema. You'll definitely enjoy yourself, no doubt about it."

Draco folded his arms across his chest and kept his hopeful eyes on his crush, who'd been occupied with sorting out the bollixed up Culinary Magic Section with almost mind-boggling speed. He'd adjusted his own artfully elegant drape over Potter's ever-present trolley upon arrival, to ensure his well-turned out Muggle-type suit was shown to full advantage and his own firm arse was eye-level with Potter's gaze, if and when the blighter eventually tore it away from the blasted bookshelves. Which he must do at some point; Potter simply couldn't keep his eyes averted all morning, could he?

Contrarily, Potter chose that moment to choke to death on his sip of his caramel two-shot grande, with extra whipped cream and butterscotch drizzles. Draco, sufficiently alarmed enough to force his attention away from Potter's likely negative response to his invitation, was all set to lean forward and cast a Vomitus to clear his love's precious airways when the git finally managed to cease his noxious hacking on his own.

"Excuse me?" Potter gasped, when he could. "D'you mean Bogart, Malfoy? Humphrey Bogart?"

"Why, yes, Potter," Draco brightened up; here was a prime opportunity to show off a facet of his newly gained knowledge of Muggle culture. "Mister Bogwart has often been wrongly assumed a Wizard, but in actuality, he's a Muggle film star of great skill and charisma—"

"Malfoy, Bogart's dead." Potter was snickering into his whipped cream. It was dribbling onto his upper lip in a way that was seriously distracting. Draco licked his own in silent appreciation. Then it hit him.

"What!" Draco was appalled, honestly. Another unfortunate victim of the Dark Lord's reign, perhaps? It couldn't be! "No!"

"But yes," Potter replied, simply. "As a doornail, Malfoy; sorry." He took another sip, pausing in his perpetual shelving, and smiled a little more widely, watching Draco react.

"You're pulling my chain, Potter!" Draco protested, waving his hands about with elegance born and bred. "Bogwart simply can't be deceased! Why, that film about the White House—you know, the seat of the upstart colonial government—it's considered seminal by all the best Muggle critics—Seckle and Everheart, even! Tell me, was this recent? Was he ill or was it an…an accident?"

Draco almost whispered the last, leaning in very close so that if Potter revealed the Dark Lord's involvement, his understandable squeamishness would be disguised by the wavering stacks of tomes on the trolley. It wouldn't do to lose his cool over past terrors in public, would it? And especially not before Potter, whom he desperately hoped to impress—one of these fine days.

"Um, no, Malfoy," Potter was openly grinning, far too wide to disguise it, even under a frothy cream mustache, and his eyes were twinkling merrily. Draco took another of those calming breaths in an effort to reign in his active libido. This topping Potter was so fond of bore a remarkable resemblance to semen, and that led to trouser-stretching visions of the worst—best!—sort. "He died ages ago—well before we were ever born. It's fine, really; ancient history. Don't fuss yourself."

"Oh." Draco rocked back on his heels; he'd been rather counting on sharing in the spillover of Mister Bogwart's famous manly charisma—get Potter 'in the mood', as it were. This was a setback of serious proportions. "Then…would you rather see Mister Connery or Mister Rickman at the cinema, Potter? They're both quite…charismatic. Or, so reputable sources aver."

"A-Are they now? Do tell!"

Potter choked on his drink again and this time Draco quite thought it might be terminal. He whacked the foolhardy berk hard on the back to stop him from expiring on the industrial carpet and knocking over his silly trolley in the process. Potter smiled even more widely when he recovered and thanked him after, most sincerely. But they still didn't end up viewing a cinema show together, despite all that friendly contact and chat up, so that particular Saturday morning's effort had to be considered a non-starter.

Draco sulked all week, till Fata Morgana smiled upon him, out of the clear blue.

-o0o-