Draco grit his teeth as his phone buzzed for the tenth time in a minute. His fingers were furiously typing, but apparently not fast enough for Pansy and her mid-afternoon breakdown. It had been the worst possible decision he had ever made to go into business with her. If 'go into business' meant handing her the start-up cost and have no say in any of the dealings of the shoe company that would 'take the world by storm'—Draco despised her optimism.

He was so lost in texting, Draco only narrowly managed to avoid walking into a pedestrian—who happened to be one rude individual. Really, calling him a cunt just because he elbowed him slightly, if Draco's hands weren't busy gripping his phone he'd have demonstrated exactly how he had felt about that sort of language so early in the morning. Admittedly, Draco was not able to focus on texting and insulting at once because Draco was still sleep deprived. Between studying for a business degree, running an online businesses, helping Moody to run his business, and having a social life, he had found little time to sleep; he never usually found sleep deprivation a problem, having fallen in love with a lady that always saved him: his coffee machine.

This morning, however, his beloved lady had broken down on him. She wouldn't communicate her issues, instead expecting him to be able to read minds—or, the incessant beeping. When she then burst her fuse after he had pushed every button available, Draco surrendered and began his out-of-the-way trek to find the only elixir that would save him, from the very place he didn't want to go.

While, admittedly, it was barely peak time, the streets were already ridiculously busy. Diagon Alley was one place that no one could ever predict, and this morning the square happened to be so packed with people, Draco had been forced to wonder if someone was handing out free money. His attention was however claimed before he found out, his phone buzzing again, receiving yet another text to add to the abundance he had already been unable to reply too.

It was then that Draco lost the last string of sanity.

His fingers pressed down on the screen so hard, Draco was surprised it didn't crack under the pressure, his typing was so quick, Draco didn't even care if he made typos—something that usually drove him up the wall. It wasn't hard to be coherent, and he didn't even want to get started on text-talk.

Draco's tongue stuck out, shoulder barging past people, not looking up as he furiously clicked letters, not caring if he came across as rude because he had every intention of being just that—rude.

D: you know what, do what the fuq you like, pans. malfoy out.

Once he clicked that blue button, his mind conjuring the sound of a text whirring away, he shoved his phone into his back pocket, yanking open the door of the coffee shop.

If he had needed coffee before, it was a desperation now. Even the scent of coffee beans jolted him, making him somewhat feel alive—having missed the smell, even if this particular place annoyed him more than his flat. The crunching of the machine as it ground beans called out to him, trying to awaken his senses, like birds singing in a fairytale. Taking the deepest inhale, getting every various flavour into his body as he softly began to relax, Draco joined the back of the very small queue.

It disappointed him that he couldn't see who was serving today—not at all remembering the rota, even if he had been the one to help Moody with creating it. Working around various other members of staff and their various other commitments was so taxing, Draco was sure that was how he found himself with a coffee addiction to begin with. He hadn't grown up drinking coffee, and even his mother scrunched her nose at the knowledge he had moved away from tea leaves and breakfast tea.

Today, it seemed, was the first day of their latest employee, and Draco tried not to be aggravated that he would have to taste what they made. All he could see from his place was someone small in height with out of control hair that their hat apparently couldn't contain. They suddenly turned, greeting the next customer, and Draco sighed at the ordinary woman beneath all the hair. She happened to be sporting an expression of someone who had no clue what they were doing—but tried to pretend they did—mixed with an attempted mask of stress anyone and everyone in retail wore. Draco tried not to think negatively immediately; tried to think positive before thinking the worst, but when she dropped a ready-made drink down herself, he lost all hope.

He couldn't walk away—even if he genuinely wanted to. He needed a cup of coffee, he wanted a quick fix because without it, there was no way he'd be able to keep up during his lectures without it. When his phone buzzed again, he whipped it from his pocket—somewhat thankful for the distraction— until he witnessed his roommate's name at the top of their messenger chat.

HP : Parkinson is here

DM: Cool.

HP : Are you coming back?

HP: I wish you'd stop being a knob and give me your number, I know you've turned calls off on messenger.

Draco smirked at his own intelligence, somewhat enjoying making life difficult for his roommate —without him even being there.

DM: Sharing of numbers are for friends. We are not friends, Potter.

DM: No, I am not coming back. Have fun with the She-Hag

"Next!"

Draco looked up, clicking the back button on his phone and locking the screen as he met the eyes of the woman who would be serving him today. The same woman he had no input in hiring, even though he helped with everything else; the same woman who was about to meet hell if she fucked this up. Smirking, which Draco could never help, especially when this woman looked positively pissed off.

"Hm..." Draco muttered.

Her hair began to grow further and further out, each curl frizzing at the end. He wondered what it would take to make her hair explode out of her hat; as his eyes scanned the menu—even if he knew it off by heart—he heard her clear her throat.

"Sir?" She asked rudely, missing the niceness that usually came with 'Diagon Coffee Corner' coffees.

Smirking, which Draco couldn't help if he tried, he tapped his foot on the floor. "Oh, I'm just thinking, hmm, what to order, what to order..."

The Woman, her name badge hidden by the drink stain from earlier, crossed her arms and huffed. "Sir, there's a line."

Draco purposefully looked over his shoulder, finding one person behind him—and they honestly didn't look like they were even on the planet anyway, never mind interested in actually enjoying a coffee.

Scoffing, he shrugged. "So there is."

Her eyes narrowed to slits, and Draco suspected that if she weren't on the other side of the counter, she'd be giving him her two pence or possible punching him in the face. Although, if she did, it would give him enough of an excuse to ask Moody to fire her. To be honest, he was a little disappointed he wouldn't be able to rub salt in the know-it-all's face—she just looked like she was—that he was one of the coffeeshops best customers. He really wanted to, it took a lot to bite it back.

"Fine, vanilla latte, large, soy with a dash of caramel, and a croissant," Draco answered, finding his usual would possibly be enough to send her over the edge.

The woman slid her till card, and he caught her surname over the screen. Granger. Suddenly remembering Moody showing him her C.V now and how he had scoffed at the things she called 'work experience'.

"To take away?"

Draco smirked. "If that isn't too much trouble."

Granger's lips stretched into a thin line, and his smirk only grew as he heard her brain whirl with insults. His phone buzzed again, stealing his attention from her as he grimaced.

HP : She won't leave.
DM : Yeah she does that. Just leave out a bowl of water and some kibble.

Draco looked up to see the barista's back was to him, and he didn't and couldn't stop his eyes from travelling down. She may have hair like a wildebeest, but her jeans did fit her quite well.

HP : Malfoy, I'm serious.

Biting down on his lip, Draco began to hit each letter on the keyboard with such determination he half-wished Potter could feel it on the other side.

DM : You're always serious, that's your fucking problem. Just kick her out, I've got a lecture.

Looking up just in time to notice Granger's small, but quick, tanned hand extending out to him with the white cup contrasting against her skin. Her eyes were hard and full of hatred, more so as he raised his brow and began to furrow with his wallet, having not been prepared at all. Granger noticed, and for good measure slapped the cup onto the counter, the echo of the base meeting the side puncturing the air.

"£5.30."

"Please?" Draco added, and Granger growled before smiling sweetly. "Fine, here," his fingers gesturing out with a five-pound note.

Granger snatched it. "And 30p?"

"I'm sure you can take that out of your tips, you know, for your astounding manners," Draco snarled, snatching his cup. "Since my croissant isn't ready, I'll sit by the window."

Her mouth dropped open. "You said—"

"Take out, because I will be eventually taking this out, but for now, I don't wish to risk getting crumbs on my jumper—it's Prada, you know."

Draco turned on his heel, not allowing her the final word as he side-stepped past tables, making sure he sat with his back purposefully to her.


Hermione hated him.

After a sea of rude people, the blond customer who-had-no-right to be rude, but was, happened to be the final straw. Yes, he could, and probably was, having a bad day, but that had very little to do with her, especially when she was having her own problems.

This was her first day, and she had been left alone because according to Moody, "Coffee ain't that hard to brew." She wished to point out the moment he had gone how bloody wrong he was, especially when her only prior experience was making cups of tea—that were never consumed—by patients in her parents dental practise.

To make matters worse, Hermione had never even wanted the job. She had never wanted or expected to be needing a job while she was studying—but when her lecturer explained she needed real-life experiences, she came up short with having any. She half-wished she hadn't picked Psychology, if she had chosen business like she had applied to study, she'd be in her flat right now listening to Hamilton.

The final cherry on the top of her current life, coffee wasn't something Hermione even enjoyed drinking, but apparently, tea shops were no longer a thing of Diagon. Never in her right mind had she ever wanted to drink a, 'large three pump vanilla, half-caffeinated latte, with skimmed milk and chocolate sprinkles," in her life, but the experience of making one had for sure put her off.

As soon as the blond had moved to the side, the questionable man behind him came closer, asking her if he could use the bathroom—something she immediately said no to. When the coffee shop door closed, it left her and the customer from hell; her hand grabbing the forks to bag his croissant, heavily wanting to shove his pastry where the sun didn't shine.

She hated how impatient she was; how tired she felt under the layers of stress and expectations that had fallen on her shoulders—which she had put there. After Hogwarts College, when most decide to take a gap year, Hermione received a place at Diagon university, and she could not turn it down. Her parents, of course, were over the moon and she couldn't let them down—she was their only daughter—she had to do well. And since she cared what her professor thought, she couldn't also let him down, which was why she was here, in this blasted coffee shop, hating her life and the decisions leading up to it.

Hermione stepped from behind the counter, the blond in her sight as she weaved her way through the tables; she was all set to slam the pastry down in front of him, when at the last second he twisted and stood.

It happened so slowly— so painfully slow—with both of them unable to halt.

Her brain screamed in her head as she felt the cup hit her breasts, his handle on it loose as it wobbled in his grip; her eyes watched as it twisted in the air, the lid popping off as the brown liquid exploded out like a burst water pipe. Hermione prayed it only hit her—having remembering his comment earlier about Prada.

Of course, her hopes were dashed. The bottom edge of the cup hit the ground with a resounding pop, and the remaining liquid darted up, soaking him his trousers and his stomach. It could only happen to her. These things always happened to her.

She wouldn't break even if she knew there was no way her boss would pay for anything to be dry-cleaned; Hermione also refused to appear worried or fragile—because she was neither of those things. She was a strong, resilient woman, and this was a clear accident. He must be able to see it too, he must!

"You fucking idiot!"

Apparently not, Hermione groaned to herself.

"Do you not look where you are going?" The blond hissed, his hands darting out, rubbing against the bottom of his jumper.

"Me?" Hermione hissed, forgetting the whole 'customer is always right' bollocks she learnt on her training day. "Unless you have eyes in the back of your ridiculous blond head, you didn't look where you were going."

The blond narrowed his eyes, twisting the fabric in his hand as liquid squeezed out onto the floor. "You'll pay for this. My father, he's a lawyer, and when he hears about this—"

"You mean, when he hears about his son's failing to look where he is going? That's what you mean right? I just want to be clear," Hermione interrupted, not folding like this man wanted her too.

He gritted his jaw, his eyes nearly bursting from their sockets as a vein began to appear on his forehead. "Where is Moody?"

Hermione placed his pastry, the one still in her hand, on the table beside them, her eyes not moving from him. "My manager will be here in half an hour, if you wish to wait?"

Please don't wait; please don't wait.

"Of course he fucking is," he snarled, still brushing the liquid down—as if it would even help. "Fine, in the meantime, another coffee. Granger."

Knowing she would have to clean up the floor, Hermione turned around before her mouth got her into any more trouble. Each step she called him a new insult, ranging from fuckmuffin to a blond-cunt-waffle until she reached the mop bucket. If only he would go, at least then she could clean up the mess without his eyes burning into her—just as they were doing right now.

He had to know it was an accident, and in a matter of minutes, logic would kick in and he'd apologise. It was clear she didn't go around burning customers for the sake—fuck, have I burned him? Did I even ask him?

"Um, excuse me...Mr Blond-Coffee-Man?"

He turned his scrunched up face towards her, wearing a confused expression as though unsure she had really just said that. If Hermione was truthful, she was a little surprised also—even for her current level of stress, it was beyond her character.

"It's Malfoy. My name."

If Hermione had already hated him, she suddenly hated him more. Of course, she'd have launched a coffee over Lucius Malfoy's son—the lawyer who had a 98% success rate and was all over the papers for his high-level cases. The same lawyer who had helped sue Ron's families cafe; the same bastard who tried to get Ron's father, Arthur, fired from the council after he had already ruined the Weasley's livelihood.

"From that pale, pathetic look on your face, I assume you've heard of my father," Malfoy snarled, and Hermione straightened herself as she met him dead in the eye. "What did you want, anyways?"

Hermione let out a held breath, unsure when she had forgotten to breathe. "Do you need the first aid kit?"

He chuckled lowly, using napkins to wipe down his trousers. "No. A bloody coffee and a tea towel would be appreciated though," his tone laced with so much malice, Hermione knew it was meant to maim her—possibly make her cry. She wouldn't let it, she'd wait till she was home at least.

Nodding, Hermione quickly hurried behind the counter as she could heard her hair growing from the stress; her scalp was buzzing, her forehead sweating under his hard stare. She tried to find her breath, tried to steady her raging pulse because Hermione needed this job for her course. She couldn't risk a single moment in the opportunity she had been given, and this was a life experience. This right here with Malfoy, it was something she could learn from, something she could possibly use in a case study of some sort.

Hermione also knew, she needed to apologise, and she hated apologising— especially for things that were not her fault. Hermione slid out mop bucket from under the cabinet, reaching for the mop from the back area. I don't want to apologise, not when I shouldn't have to.

She grabbed the tea towel, throwing it over her shoulder as she reached for a large cup, clanging the machine around as she emptied the crushed coffee out and replaced it. His eyes, Malfoy's were still staring at her—watching, waiting for her to fuck up.

Not today, she thought. Not again, anyway.

As the machine hissed and clanged, Hermione tried to calm herself, because she may not even need to worry. Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody may see her side of things. It was doubtful though. Hermione still wasn't able to forget his bellowing voice screaming, 'constant vigilance', at her during training.

It was likely she was fucked, double, triple pumped fucked, unless she asked Malfoy to to forgive her.

Which was doubtful, Malfoys were not known for their generosity.


Hermione let herself sink into the small armchair, in the small-ish shared flat, at the end of her first week of juggling a job and university. She didn't hate this place, but she hated the lack of space.

Sharing with Ginny, Tonks and Luna was like sharing with five other girls. The women had so much stuff it expelled out of their rooms into their joint living space—while Hermione managed to keep hers in her room. Ginny had grown up with an abundance of brothers, and never liked to be alone because of it—which meant Hermione was never alone, something she wished she had been informed of before she signed the contract. Every single second of peace was appreciated, and as she sighed gleefully, Hermione rested her head against the wall.

It hadn't been a terrible day, but it had been second in line. While she didn't spill a drink, it seemed Malfoy was determined to fuck her over, walking past the window every chance he got. Each time his silver eyes glistened, sharpening as they burned into her, Hermione would find her heart stopped. Each time he bent over in front of the shop door, she panicked at the thought of him coming inside. It happened four times each day since their first meeting, and she got no better at recognising the fact he was taunting her.

Tonight, her patience was very thin, and there weren't that many times Hermione had the patience to listen to Luna discuss how her new boyfriend-not-boyfriend both pleased her as she described the ways he did. There were things Hermione wished she could unsee—or unhear—and most of those things involved Luna.

Hermione wasn't jealous, no matter what Ginny said.

She wasn't. Jealousy implied she wasn't happy for Luna, when she was. So she couldn't be. She was not even a little jealous. Except, Hermione had shattered Luna's favourite mug when she heard her moaning like a wanton-whore in the room next to the kitchen. And Hermione did feel extremely lonely—but that wasn't jealousy, that was being a human, surely.

"Anyone home?"

Hermione groaned as peace shattered from all around her. She waited, wondering if she was silent enough, Ginny wouldn't know she was here.

"I can see your shoes, Hermione."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione crossed her arms. "In the living room."

No sooner than a few clunks of Ginny's heeled boots, Hermione found her friend stood in the doorway looking her over. "Well, you look like you've had a shit day."

Hermione snorted. "It wasn't pleasant. There's a good chance I'm either going to either be sued or fired."

"Bollocks," Ginny laughed, turning on her heels as her long hair floated around her, "You're the nicest person I know. A bit devious, but overall nice."

Hermione watched Ginny move into the kitchen—another thing Hermione hated, the open plan. Rooms were meant to be walled off. She really didn't like that all of her furniture in one room; Hermione also hated that when she cooked salmon—or anything else fish based—the entire flat was engulfed in a smell Ginny branded 'Umbridge-Muff', an image no one needed of their Personal Tutor.

Ginny proceeded to slam around until a euphoric cheer came from her, and she turned to show Hermione what she had found. "Sambuca: The saviour of all shit days."

"I can't," Hermione groaned. "I have to study, and I have another shift in…" her eyes glanced at her watch, "a few more hours."

Ginny smirked. "I'm hearing far too many can't's and not enough can's."

She felt Ginny's glare go up and down her skin, and while usually, Hermione would feel some element of guilt for not socialising, tonight she didn't. She wanted to be alone; she wanted to have her books all around her and make her day become something positive.

"If I get sued, no one else will employ me in Diagon. I'll have to work in Knockturn and—"

"—You don't even need to work," Ginny argued. "Just because you were advised to live life—"

"—Professor Lupin specifically—"

"Just call him Remus, for fuck sake," Ginny chastised. "We've seen him bollock-naked after a night with Tonks, you can at least drop the Professor here. And, secondly, you won't get sued. Did you kill someone?" Hermione shook her head. "Did you attempt to murder someone?" Hermione smirked, but repeated shaking her head. "See, you're fine," Ginny smiled, uncapping the bottle.

Tapping her fingers on her thigh, counting each finger and focusing on a beat, Hermione fought adding anything else. Ginny was her best friend, but often, they disagreed.

Ginny was full of life and unafraid of anything, she had several—hot, Hermione's opinion—brothers to thank for that, with each one giving her skill that made Ginny the best person, in Hermione's opinion. Hermione, on the other hand, was opinionated, bossy, and a control freak at the best of times, and those were her better qualities. She also had a tendency to worry about things, especially rules and things out of her control, things that didn't even seem to register in Ginny's world.

Tired of keeping it in, finding the words were stuck on her tongue anyways, Hermione added, "I did burn a Malfoy though."

Ginny, who had been mid-drinking, froze, her eyes widened as she yanked the bottle from her lips. "No, fucking, way. Tell me it was Lucius, he's a horrid bastard—Oo, no tell me it was his wife—she looks like she has been dipped in money."

Hermione shook her head. "Nope, their pushy arrogant son."

"The cute one? Dragon."

"Draco," Hermione laughed. "I did have to Google it myself though. It was a few days ago now, but he keeps walking past the window to remind me of his existence.

Ginny gritted her jaw. "Of course he fucking does."

"So," Hermione sighed. "There we have it, the reason I'll now be sued and never able to find work."

Ginny slumped back into the chair, her eyes moving to the ceiling as she took another sip from the bottle. "Well, admittedly, that is an awful day. On the plus side, Draco is really quite hot, so there's that. Least someone hot keeps walking past. He's blond right?" Hermione nodded. "He could be a dragon with me, blow fire on me and—"

"Ginny!"

Rolling her eyes, the redhead laughed. "Don't pretend like you haven't thought it, I know you aren't as innocent as you make out."

Hermione let her cheeks burn as she pressed her lips together, she wasn't saying anything.