on some mornings they would meet for coffee. that's what adults do, you know, discuss things over coffee. it was a very grown-up thing to do, and that is why they did it.
they frequented a sort of hole-in-the-wall establishment on the unfashionable side of London because it was the only place that served black coffee before 5 AM. it was obscenely convenient because he worked in London now and so did she. he laughed when she told him of her employment because, Merlin, he never expected her to work.
their booth was intimate, if covered in perpetually sticky teal vinyl. it was their booth, they shared everything. they ordered black coffee from the waitress who thought them a glamorous couple (although he sported a wedding band and she did not).
they drank their coffee black because, you know, she still refused to put sugar and crème into her body (the purist who guzzled champagne). and he just liked it black. black and scalding and bitter.
they wore black too. because it seemed like the adult thing to do. perhaps it was in mourning . . . of their future together, and their way of life, and their classmates that perished in the war that was really not too long ago. and perhaps they just knew how marvelous they looked in black.
because it was a routine, he brought the paper to coffee. sometimes it would just sit on the pale wood table and take a backseat to conversation ("really, Draco? you and little Story Greengrass? too precious."). often though, he read the editorials aloud to her, and she would add her own commentary between bitter sips of her bitter coffee. and the waitress would hesitate before approaching their table with the coffee pot, they were just too intimate.