Good Coffee
I remember that we did a little unit on this in Muggle Studies. Provocative advertising. Well, actually, we had studied all types of adverts. The provocative type had simply been the only ones I thought I could use to my advantage. The idea was that you could convince someone that some item was an awesome product by using sex to sell it. A suggestive smirk, a knowing smile, a batted eyelash and boom, you could have anyone buying your potion, snack food, coffee, or book.
His eyes watched me as I accepted my coffee from the waitress. This wasn't the most posh or exciting café in London, but it was the place that I came back to everyday at precisely 2 o'clock in the afternoon to enjoy the same cup of dark roast coffee.
The staff knew my name and always had my cup ready as I walked in. But I never paid the waitress with the watery-green eyes much attention when I handed her my paper Muggle money. There was a different set of green eyes I was distracted by.
Yes, Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived. The Savior. Mister Predictable. Pfft,while he may be called the first three names in the papers and around town, Harry Potter most embodied the last name. Maybe I was the only one who called him that - and even then only in my head - but Harry Potter was completely predictable in every way.
I knew that when I pushed him, he'd push back. If I made motions to get my wand, he'd already have his drawn. If I snorted and made a joke about his being a ponce, shirtlifter, or half-blood, he'd take a stab at my 'girly' hair, my 'snobby' family, or my 'useless' job. His ripostes were almost as stinging as mine. I could see the cogs in his brain moving, trying to rebuff my moves with a deliberate counterattack. I loved the challenge he posed. For every step I took towards him, he took one step towards me. I could see our beings colliding. Yes, I knew it was unlikely that all of the venom and hate between us could lead to anything but a bar fight, but I had to give it the good ol' Slytherin go.
I sat down in my usual grey wingback chair, setting the newspaper down on the table in front of me. Potter looked up from his seat in the corner and nodded at me - the same greeting he'd been doing for the past thirty-three workdays that we had found ourselves both in the teeny shoppe. Of course, he didn't know that I only kept coming back for him. No, of course he didn't. I acted aloof each day.
I sipped my coffee. It was sweet and milky just the way I liked it. I was pleasantly surprised as it hit my tongue that whatshername with the green glass eyes always got it right. The aroma and taste enveloped my senses. I might have started coming here to piss Potter off - which of course, had turned into a very different emotion - but I did genuinely like the heavy roast of coffee that I became accustomed to. They were doing something right.
I always had one cup, enjoying it to the very last drop, tipping the large white cup all the way up to the ceiling. Sometimes I got some biscuits or some petit fours, but the coffee and Harry Potter always remained the same.
Today, it seemed, that Potter's eyes were glued to me. Was something off? I looked down my form: black trousers, a soft dove grey sweater, over a blue shirt and tie. No, this was my basic outfit. (If anything about me could be described as such.) Surely he had seen me in it before. I ran my hand over my hair: not a strand was out of place. Forgoing understanding, I smiled lightly in his direction. He looked shocked, remained motionless momentarily, and then blushed and diverted his eyes. Was Harry Potter checking me out? I could barely contain the smirk behind my coffee cup.
I took another long draw from the mug, locking eyes with the flustered man. He looked decidedly innocent sitting there, rosy cheeked with his eyes a swirling dark green.
I torn my eyes away from him as I watched a brown drip trail down the mug from were my mouth had been pressed moments before. It danced down the cup, moving with gravity. I moved my mouth down to catch it. Seeing as Harry's eyes were still on me, how could I not give the poor boy a show? My tongue darted out, tasting the heavy drop, sliding upwards across the slick ceramic surface until it reached the lip. I closed my eyes and mouth and may have repressed a groan. The coffee was delicious, but knowing who's attention I held was intoxicating. My eyes fluttered under the taste of it, the sharp warmth against the cool material of the mug. Turning my stare upwards, I met Harry's eyes.
But this time they weren't all the way across the room. This time he stood right before me, hands on the arms of my chair, leaning down towards me. His breath was sweet and smelt like tea as it fanned across my cheeks.
"Good coffee?"
And then, in the smallest coffee house in all of London, Harry Potter kissed me.
AN: I was drinking coffee and started this drabble that got out of hand. I stopped it before the boys took me a M rated alley or bathroom or something...
Anyway, thank you for reading! Please review/check out my other stories. :)