A/N: Based on (read: plot largely ripped from) the novel "Wallbanger" by Alice Clayton. If you're in need of a giggle I recommend that book. Mature rating is for sexytimes. Dramione is a secondary pairing. There are five planned chapters.
Thump.
"Ungh!"
Thump.
"Oh God."
Dean forced his eyes open. He rolled his head to the side and the clock read 2:04. He groaned, new flat, of course his neighbor would be a night owl. He rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, and tried to block it out.
"Yes. Yes, there, God yes!"
Oh, bloody hell. Dean sat up again and turned to look at the wall behind him. He moved in earlier that day and had yet to fully orient himself. It was a large apartment for just one person, but Dean liked the space. More space meant more room for thoughts that were not about Seamus. Dean thought about his new wood floors, the nice tub that was a full foot too short for him to use, and the cabinets he had yet to stock.
He flopped onto his stomach and pressed his face into the pillow. He had less than two hours of sleep left, surely he could just nod off … Then his headboard moved.
"Yes, so good!"
Dean slammed his fist against the wall twice and shouted, "Either finish now or wait five minutes until I'm asleep!"
.oOo.
Dean smacked his alarm clock two hours later. He pushed his legs over the side of the bed and wiped the crust from his eyes. His feet smacked loudly against the floor as he made his way to the bathroom … Which was actually the small office he and Ron had set up in the second bedroom. Dean groaned and fumbled his way over to the bathroom.
His mornings were planned down to the minute because if he didn't Dean would always be late to work. His shower took about two minutes since it was not a hair-washing day. He stepped out of the shower, toweled off, then padded back to his bedroom. Dean pulled on some knickers and jeans, chose his Espresso Patronum t-shirt, and grabbed his wallet off the nightstand.
By the time he stepped into The Silver Snitch at 4:30, he was fully awake and prepared to take on the day. He threw on an apron and started work on the first batch of the day's croissants. He opened the shop at 5:30 and Romilda showed up at 5:29.
"Not late, boss!"
Dean rolled his eyes, but he was used to this. Romilda Vane was many things, but punctual never found its way onto that list. She was the best barista in the country, though, and Dean would bet a load of Galleons on that. She could spell any name and make coffee while taking a completely different order. Zacharias Smith had been the other helping hand behind the counter, but he was fired a month earlier. Dean didn't regret it; his boyfriend left him for his barista. It was humiliating and Dean couldn't look Zacharias in the face every morning knowing he had just come from Seamus's bed.
Was it fair? No. Did it matter? Not in the least bit. Dean felt bad about putting him out of a job, but Zacharias was smart and would bounce back quickly. Dean's heart was not quite so buoyant.
"ROMI!" Angelina Johnson was their first customer every weekday morning, without fail. She tossed the doors open at 5:31 and shouted the drink order Romilda was already making. "Bludger cinnamon dolce latte, two bacon egg bites, and a cup of water!"
"On it, babe," Romilda shouted over her shoulder.
Dean grabbed the egg bites from the display and put them on a plate. He filled a cup with water then handed both items to Angelina.
"How is life with George?" he asked.
"He's moved in with me, and we are still adjusting. It's little things, right? He tosses his clothes on the floor next to the hamper. Why is it so difficult to put them inside the bloody hamper? 's nice, though, waking up next to him."
Dean sighed. He missed that most of all, starting the day hand-in-hand with the person who knew him better than anyone else.
"And the Wasps?"
"They all put their robes in the team hamper," Angelina joked.
Dean laughed as she walked over to her usual spot in the corner. Quidditch practice began at six, so she would leave around 5:55. Dean knew the routines of all his regulars. When he opened The Silver Snitch three years earlier, he was met with a lot of skepticism. The Wizarding world was not quick to embrace grab-and-go coffee, but Gambol and Japes had gone out of business once Weasley's Wizard Wheezes came to Diagon Alley. The building was for sale and Seamus pushed him into this. Which was just like him, always pushing Dean to follow his heart.
Dean shook his head, trying to force the thoughts away. He could move flats, but he couldn't move his business. Seamus still lurked around every corner. The half-table in the back that he accidentally exploded. Even the name "Silver Snitch" was Seamus's idea. Dean was desperate for something, or someone, who could take his mind off the love he'd lost.
Weekdays from 1:45 to 2:15 was the shop's only reprieve. Dean could count on one hand the number of times someone had shown up in the shop during that half hour. There were two very prominent exceptions.
Draco Malfoy was the least subtle person on the planet. He flung the shop doors open at 1:45 and Dean nodded to Romilda. She groaned, frowned, then grabbed a Quaffle-sized cup.
"I need one of those latte drinks," Malfoy said.
"We have five types of lattes, if you could bring yourself to read the board," Romilda replied. She gestured to the board behind her with her Sharpie.
Draco rolled his eyes and said, "Surprise me."
"Vanilla then, like your sex life," Romilda countered. She turned to the machine and Malfoy didn't look the slightest bit offended.
"Vanilla by Blaise's standards, perhaps," he said.
A minute later, Romilda put his finished latte on the counter.
"Two Sickles."
"The board says it's only seventeen Knuts," Draco said.
"Now you can read the board?" Romilda asked facetiously. She took the seventeen Knuts from Draco's proffered hand and tossed them into the register.
Draco sat in the booth tucked into the furthest corner. Seamus had blown its table leg off and the replacement was a tad wobbly. They stuck it in the back, out of view of the rest of the shop. Draco always sat there when he came in, waiting for his guest.
Hermione stopped by five minutes later. Dean had the berry tea ready for her on the counter. She nodded to him, took the tea, and made for the backmost table.
"They are going to get caught," Romilda whispered.
"Not here," Dean insisted. "But if they aren't careful elsewhere, I think you're right."
"When are you going to hire another barista?" Romilda asked.
Dean shrugged.
"Are you growing tired of me?"
"Of course not!" she whisper-shouted. "I just don't like seeing you like this."
"Like what?"
"Like you lost your one shot at love. You are worth so much more than you were getting from him, Dean. And it may not be the best thing to say to my boss, but you are too kind and you need someone who won't take advantage of that."
"Yes," Dean said, untying his apron, "that is the wrong thing to say to your boss."
"Doesn't make me wrong," Romilda replied.
.oOo.
That evening, Dean fell into bed around ten. He paused in the doorway to admire the painting that hung above his bed. Dean gave Luna a photograph of him with his sisters and she had painted it with good likeness, but gave it a very ethereal quality. It was dreamy. He smiled at it softly, because he may not have romantic love in his life, but he always had his family.
Dean double-checked his alarm then flopped onto his stomach. Sleep came eventually, but it took awhile. Romilda was right. He needed to hire someone new, so he didn't have to be in the shop every day looking at parts of his life that weren't there any longer. He would set up interviews within the week. He would take out an ad in the Prophet. Things would get better because they had to get better.
Thump.
"Oh, God."
Thump. Thump.
"Harder." A pause. "More." Another pause. "Again. Ag—unph!"
Unbelievable.
The wall behind the bed moved again. It was a new male voice on the other side. That meant both voices were guests and his neighbor remained a silent party. Dean felt each time his neighbor's headboard slammed into the wall. He groaned and glanced at the clock.
12:35
Dean smashed his face back into his pillow, then grabbed another and forced it over his ears.
Smack!
"Yes!"
Smack!
"Harder!"
SMACK!
Was the mystery guest getting … spanked? Another round and Dean confirmed that yes, his neighbor was spanking someone who sounded suspiciously like Graham Montague. Dean shook his head and groggily dragged his blanket out to the sofa.
.oOo.
Dean heard his alarm like it was going off at the other end of a distant tunnel. He sat up slowly and wiped away the crust that had formed in the corners of his eyes. He squinted at the light shining in through the window. Then he jolted up off the sofa because there was light streaming in through the window and that meant it was daylight. He ran into his room to shut off his alarm and nearly fainted when he saw 10:17.
He never wore anything more than boxers to sleep in, and thank Merlin because it made getting dressed a bit quicker. He pulled on the closest pair of trousers he could scrape off the floor and an old West Ham United t-shirt; the first thing he pulled from the dresser drawer. He hurriedly gargled some mouthwash then Apparated to the Silver Snitch.
Dean ran out from the back and saw Romilda calmly serving coffee to a line of five people. Without looking backward, she said,
"I tried to make the little egg bites like you do, but that failed. I got the biscuits and parfaits done, though."
"H-how did you manage to run the shop alone for five whole hours?!"
Romilda shrugged and never provided an answer.
"Why are you so late?" she asked.
"The, um, the neighbor in my new flat was up late shagging. Very loudly," Dean added as he pulled on his apron. "I slept on the couch away from my alarm."
Romilda laughed and asked, "Reminded of everything you're not getting at the moment?"
"Something like that." Dean grimaced and went to bake the afternoon foods. He'd never been late before and it felt awful.
Once they shut the doors at five, Dean sat Romilda down at one of the tables. She was very pretty, but it always snuck up on him. Much of the time she spent with her head down and eyes narrowed as she tried to focus on the task at hand. Romilda Vane was amazing and Dean didn't think he told her that often enough. He sat across from her and said,
"I apologize for being late today."
"Not to worry, boss. I made it work, didn't I?" Romilda asked.
"Yes, you did, and it was impressive. I admire the way you solved the problem and I also love that you trusted me to show up eventually."
"I like to think I know you well enough," Romilda replied.
"I want to know why you work for me," Dean countered. "Because I know this is not what you want to do with the rest of your life."
She shrugged.
"Not a lot of people like me. I want to work for people who can use my skills the way I am, and not try to change part of me. You tell me I'm fabulous at least once a week and you trust me not to muck things up. Eventually, I'll have enough money saved to start my own business. Until then I'd rather work for you than anybody else."
Dean smiled.
"I want you to assist me with the interviews for our new employees."
"Employees?!" Romilda shouted. "We'll be getting more than one?!"
"Yes. Twelve-hour days aren't right, Romilda. I can't keep working you like this, it's just not fair."
"Oh," she said, disappointed. She twiddled her thumbs and asked, "So I will get less money."
"You will get the same amount of money for fewer hours," Dean revealed. He wished he could have photographed Romilda's smile at the news. "We will hire three more baristas, and you will be promoted to manager."
"You mean it?!" Romilda shouted, smiling so hard her face might break with the effort.
Dean nodded and said, "A promotion is long overdue. I am the luckiest shop owner in the world to have you working for me. And it'll be a lot less work for me. I won't be here all the time, having to look at all this. You're right that I look everywhere and see Seamus."
"How long were you together, again?" Romilda asked. "If you don't mind answering."
"Officially? Five years. But even at school, then after the war … We were always close. We lived every part of our lives together for so long, I just don't know how to do things without him." Dean let his head fall into his hands. "God, how bloody pathetic is that?"
Romilda put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"It's not pathetic," she insisted. "You feel things very deeply and it takes time for these cuts to heal. You will find someone who makes you feel happier than you ever imagined. You deserve that much, and I don't say that as your employee. I say that as your friend."
That night, there was a blissful silence on the other side of the bedroom wall.
.oOo.
There were two more quiet nights, but just as Dean was about to drift off on Sunday evening …
"I would like you inside me."
Dean was fairly certain that was Riley Willingham. He made a mental note to ask Hermione whether there is a Silencing charm that can be cast on the opposite side of a wall. It was quiet for a minute, and Dean hoped his neighbor had refused. Perhaps this night would end early and he could get to sleep at a reasonable—
The wall shook and the bed thumping began.
"More, please," Riley said, a tad breathless.
Dean wondered whether the walls were actually made of paper because he heard Riley's gasps as though Riley was a mere twenty centimetres away. It was beyond strange to hear one of his regular customers shagging his voiceless neighbor.
And his neighbor obliged enthusiastically. The thumps became more frequent and much harder. Dean did not want to intrude on their shagging, so he grinded his teeth together and braced for fifteen more minutes of this.
"Oooh, God, so good …"
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Ten minutes passed, with Dean staring at the neon numbers on his alarm clock the whole while. Then,
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
The painting above his bed was knocked off its hook and fell directly onto Dean's head.
"Oh, FUCK!" he shouted. He delicately placed the art against the wall and rubbed his head. The thumping never missed a beat, and that frustrated him more than anything. Dean's rage had built up over the week and he had reached the boiling point. Whether it was the lack of sex, the flat he still hadn't quite adjusted to, or the extra hours he was putting in at the shop … Maybe it was all of it.
Dean flung off the blanket and stomped over to the entryway, livid. He flung open his door with the force of two sexless months and a broken heart held together with nothing but Spellotape. Dean walked over and began pounding on his neighbor's door. Dean banged again and again, unrelenting. Eventually he heard feet slapping toward the door but kept hitting the door with his fist until he heard locks rattling and chains coming undone.
"Open this door, asshole, or I will climb through the wall!" Dean shouted.
"If you'll lay off for a moment …"
It was the first thing Dean ever heard his mystery neighbor say. Any other time, that voice would have made Dean melt like butter in a hot pan. It was deep and deliberate, like words were hard to come by with him.
The door swung open and Dean couldn't help but stare. There was a light coming from somewhere down the hall in his flat, so he couldn't make out everything about his mystery neighbor. But what Dean could see was more than enough. He was about two inches shorter than Dean, with a buzzcut and the most kissable lips Dean had ever seen. They slowly gave each other the once-over, mystery neighbor with his tawny beige skin and David Beckham jawline.
Dean took a deep breath in and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to remember why he was so angry. Then he opened his eyes and saw mystery neighbor's hand holding two sides of a white sheet together around his hips. In addition to being a stunning human above the waist, Dean's eyes followed a trail of fine black hair until it disappeared behind the sheet. Dean's eyes widened as his eyes moved further down, because beneath the sheet …
He
Was
Still
Hard.