The last thing Draco wanted to do after spending an afternoon listening to Blaise discuss the various shades of blue, was listen to Pansy. Especially when he hadn't exactly been able to have a break of any kind from either of them. Between investing in Pansy's business and hearing all about everything and anything he didn't care about, Draco had also managed to find himself in the midst of a dispatcher issue with his other fashion business—Zalfoy's Suits: All Italian Made.

His head had been suffering from a permanent migraine since he decided to partner up with Pansy; the need for coffee had returned like a freight train at every waking moment he found one not in his hand. The want smashed into him and reminding him just how fragile he was without it.

Draco knew going into business with another friend would be problematic, but of course, it hadn't deterred him. He had an axe to grind since he had finished college when his father had 'informed' him that studying business at a 'degree-level' wouldn't be necessary because Draco wasn't 'strong, brave, or gutsy enough' for business.

His father and himself had been at loggerheads for years, and had it not been for Draco's mother, he wouldn't see the man at all. There was nothing but bitterness and hatred between them, neither being who the other wished the other to be. Draco had wanted a father who would support him; Lucius wanted a son who would want to go into law—continuing the family lineage of tricking and siding with whoever had the deepest pockets. It had been an insult to Lucius when Draco had rejected the offer of working alongside his father, and he had nearly been cut from his inheritance when he declined the offer of marrying an heiress by the name of Astoria.

He had moved out shortly after that, renting a flat he ultimately hoped Theo or Blaise would move into with—somehow, Draco ended up with Potter.

When Draco found his ears began to ring with an annoyingly high-pitched sound, he found his mood changed from an emotional-wreck to a raging-maniac in seconds. It quickly dawned on him he was going through caffeine withdrawals. He had been successful in resisting the coffee shop since meeting their latest employee, Granger, but by Saturday morning—when he had spent the entire Friday night arguing with Pansy about leather or fabric—he was at his wit's end.

All of this was worsened further when Draco had been woken by Potter's headboard banging into his wall, the disgusting git. While he had no idea what screaming whore was on the other side, all Draco knew with confidence was if she didn't stop screaming, "Harder, Potter, harder," he'd barge in there and ram a pair of socks down her throat until she stopped. It was at this horrid thought Draco realised he had become exactly like his mother—except with coffee instead of vodka.

Rising from his mattress, Draco crossed his fingers by his side as he dragged himself to his beloved coffee pod machine—who was still very much against him. On the final scream of the woman Potter was assaulting, Draco lost his grip on sense, and grabbed the head of Lady Pomfrey—the coffee pod machine—and dashed her into the wall to his left. The silence that blanketed him was suffocating, and after several pants for his breath, Draco realised what he had done.

A door behind him ripped open, and he knew from the staggering feet who it was, and Draco's anger began to resurface.

"Malfoy! You—what the hell happened to Lady Pom—"

Draco raised his hand, hoping to silence his roommates' annoying, almost grating, voice, not quite ready to turn and see the lightning-scarred prick.

"If we all know what's good for us," Draco began, his voice low, "we will not ask questions that are spelt out for us."

Anyone else would have left him alone; they most definitely wouldn't have shuffled across the floor closer to him. But Potter, the brave, idiotic, fool—who was never scared of anything, never mind him—moved to stand beside him, assessing the damage.

Potter cleared his throat, and Draco visibly cracked his neck in annoyance. "You know, you're not poor or anything, why don't you just buy another Lady Pomfrey?" Draco didn't answer, biting the inside of his mouth as his shoulders began to sink at the water coming out of the machine over the flat floor. "Or you know, get a coffee from Diagon's?"

Draco turned his head, eyes narrowed and brow raised as he tried to display just how much he currently hated Potter, without using words. "Is your beeswax here, Potter?" Draco pretended to look around in mockery. "I don't see it, but since your nose is pressed into my business, I assume it must be."

"You're an arse," Potter said, rolling his eyes as he turned on his heels back to his room.

"This is not brand new information, Potter. As a matter of fact," Draco sighed, "I've always been an arse, since birth. I believe it was stamped on my birth certificate—a warning from the devil himself, or so I heard."

Draco jumped at the sound of Potter slamming his door on the living space, and Draco began to shake his head. Shrugging, he turned to stare at the kitchen, his smirk at displeasing Potter fading as he saw the machine's lifeless body on the floor.

"Oh, Lady Pomfrey, you deserved such a better end."

It didn't take Draco long to get dressed, especially when Potter began round two with the banshee. His lack of sleep, combined with stress, wasn't a good mix for him, and Draco realised setting off early for a drink was, unfortunately, his only option.


When Diagon Coffee Corner first opened, it was a messy and disgusting place—Draco was absolutely sure he would never go in there. His inheritance cashed into his account, and his love for coffee grew. Moody, the manager—and owner—had given him some confusing advice when Draco told him his proposition. "Constant Vigilance"—Draco assumed from Moody's days in the army—and "You work for what you want". Draco had never worked, and in truth, he knew he'd never need to, but what Moody had said had stuck with him.

Diagon on a Saturday morning was, by definition, the worst. It was busy, it was unreasonably difficult to walk through, and as someone who hated even touching other people, it was difficult to avoid bumping into someone. His lack of patience for other humans was thinner when he was as tired and tense as he was now. Grazing someone's skin—the hairs meeting was, and were, his worst fears realised—especially when Diagon was so public, and didn't stop people who hadn't bathed, enter.

By the time Draco reached the coffee shop, his shoulders were around his ears, and his back was arched from all the stress he was carrying. Yanking open the glass door, Draco took one step inside and was greeted by the scent of baked goods and coffee beans—also known as heaven. There was nothing like the scent of this place—and it didn't matter how often he smelt it, he would never tire of it.

The best thing Draco had ever done was help Moody with his first rota, and while he had become rather attached to the man with a glass eye, he wondered if one day Moody would trust him enough to take over fully in his footsteps. Although,Draco half expected he'd fight off death with a butter-knife until his last breath; he had told this once to Moody, watching the gruff man break a smile before he reshuffled his expression, "Be on it with it you, you're greedy hands can prize the rest of this place from my cold corpse". Draco respected him, something he wouldn't admit to anyone.

It was the only reason why he had helped Moody out to begin with, and later—secretly—invest in the place to keep it afloat. Draco initially told Moody it was for his benefit, "You can keep the place exactly how you like it, nothing will change this way." The truth, however, was Draco didn't want the place he called heaven to be touched by his greedy father's fingers. While Moody and Draco could disagree on many things, there was one thing they always agreed on: how much of an arse Lucius Malfoy was.

"Malfoy?"

Draco pulled himself from his thoughts, blinking twice before he focused on the erratic curls that were talking to him. With a mop bucket in hand, she looked at him with sheer shock, until he remembered his taunts as he walked past.

"Granger, what a pleasant morning it is," Draco smirked.

Her eyes narrowed, and her back straightened as though she didn't scare easily—fuck, she was like Potter. "What would you like, Malfoy?"

"I'd like not to be scolded, either verbally or physically. You think today that could happen?"

Granger's lips twitched, and he waited for the smirk, for the cockiness—he wanted her to feel like she had all the cards so that he could show her the game they were really playing. Snakes and Ladders: the typhoon business edition.

"If my hand slipped, Malfoy, I can hardly be blamed," Hermione teased, and he rolled his eyes. "I don't go around scolding people; it was—as I said then—an accident."

Draco snorted loudly, puncturing the air. "Like that particular hairstyle?"

He didn't wait for the reaction, the beat of silence was enough as he walked past her, heading for the stool right on the edge of the counter. Draco wasn't sure if it was the lack-of-coffee that had made him want to torture someone or his usual need to annoy, but Draco slipped past her with a different destination in mind, each step purposeful and loud with triumph. Draco couldn't help but smirk as he pushed open the little door to the back of the counter, feeling her mouth drop behind him as she stared at him from her frozen place. Counting to ten, allowing her a moment before she erupted like Vesuvius, he pulled on the portafilter, banging it down before he began to fill it. He didn't need to wait long, as he reached step number five, she was suddenly storming down to him.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?"

Placing one hand on the steam wand—that he knew would froth the milk like no one's business—he grinned as he allowed a five-second blow off steam out before meeting her eyes. "Getting my coffee, Granger. Problem?"

She was stunned into silence for half second, and it was evident he had caught her by surprise as he took the opportunity to grab the milk. Draco cocked his brow up challengingly, waiting for a reply—which seemed to kick her back into gear—as he closed the carton, staring at the milk in the metal container.

"You do not work here?" She hissed, folding her arms.

Rolling his eyes, Draco flung the milk back into the fridge, slamming the door with a thud. "What a fine observation there, Furball—"

Having stepped closer to him, Granger stood at the side of him with her face scrunched up. "Furball?"

Draco shrugged, submerging the wand into the silver container as he frothed the milk, holding her gaze purposefully until it reached temperature, turning the wand off as he smiled. "Well, that mess on your head cannot be hair. Which either means you're half a cat or some other furry pest the manager is going to need to have exterminated. I could save them the trouble...but, I don't fancy it."

Huffing, Granger crossed her arms, a piece of hair falling beside her cheek as she did. "You're an arsehole."

"But my mother loves me all the same," Draco winked, flicking a takeaway cup up and grabbing it without breaking a sweat. "Enough chit-chat, are there not floors that needed to be mopped, Granger?"

The sound of the coffee machine whirring into gear drowned out whatever response she was flinging his way, and instead of pretending he couldn't hear, Draco smirked pretending he could.

"You don't work here!" She hissed again, her hair crackling with anger.

Draco quickly finished making his drink, lifting it up in victory as his pinky stuck out as he took a small, purposeful sip. "Oh, Granger, in theory, you're correct. But, I'm sorry to tell you that there is a but to all of this, and I'm assuming from your self-righteous standpoint—the whole hands on hips thing you're doing—that being wrong doesn't happen often," he said with almost to much delight. "While I yes, I do not work here, in a small way, my Furball friend, I do work for Moody, so, maybe put that fuck-off expression away, and take your flared nostrils somewhere else."

The colour drained from her face faster than bleach on a stain, and Draco had never felt more victorious.


Hermione had never been happier to finish her shift, especially when Malfoy had remained in the coffee shop all day just to, 'keep an eye on her'. To make matters worse, whenever he felt it was necessary, he threw out a question like, "shouldn't you be doing this now?" or "Moody doesn't do it like that". She knew he was making her nervous for the sake of it, Hermione had purposefully checked on her lunch break—just to satisfy herself—that she had done everything she was meant to do, and more.

Her shift worsened when the quiet shift—she had been hoping for—erupted into a rush, one she hadn't expected, having counted on extra time to get some reading done. Moody had 'conveniently' taken a day's annual leave, not even turning up to his shift; Hermione was left to deal with the out-of-this-world queue that went out the door into the street.

At one point, Hermione had bitten down so hard on the inside of her cheek she bled, but she would not bend for the likes of him; she would not show weakness to the likes of Draco Malfoy, even when he watched her like a hawk. Hermione Granger did not let bullies win, whether they worked for her boss or not.

Thankfully, Neville Longbottom—another employee similar to herself—had arrived, and in his own way, helped. Apparently, he had worked at the shop for some time now, but from his retained knowledge, it was like having someone new working alongside of her. Draco made a lot of jokes from his stool, but thankfully, both Neville and herself ignored him—on the outside, at least—something that seemed to irritate him further.

When her shift ended, her coat was on faster than she could say bye, and Hermione pushed open the glass door that led to her exit, letting the cool evening air hit her as she took a deep breath. Her hand clutched her bag closer as Hermione let her eyes stare up at the darkening sky—wondering how on earth she got to a place in her life where the sun was something she only saw through the glass.

"Think of how happy Professor Lupin will be with your experience. Think about the experience you are gaining in life. Think about...your first paycheck, and all the books you can buy," Hermione said to herself.

If she went home, she knew she'd have to listen to either Luna being molested, Tonks 'being sent to the moon and stars'—by what Hermione hoped was sex, and not drugs—or Ginny thinking she needed life advice. With the bags under her eyes growing to the size of suitcases, she knew only one place that would make her calm—the library. Especially when she watched Neville annoyingly undoing all her work from the day. "Why is this here?" or "The plant hasn't been watered", as though Hermione had any chance to care for other life forms when she had been the customers' slave all day.

Her feet began to move before her brain kicked into gear, feeling so tired she didn't fight where her body naturally wanted to take her—but pleased when she saw the library getting closer into view. The best thing about Diagon was the twenty-four-hour library—and the fact that Madam Pince, the librarian, despised noise. With a flat full of females, Hermione didn't know what silence sounded like outside of this place, and she was glad this slice of heaven was still hers.

Opening the large wooden doors, she felt her phone vibrate, but she chose to ignore it. Instead, she focused on the scent of books—both old and new—and the soft scratches of pens against the paper. If heaven had a sound, Hermione knew this would be it.

The spot, her spot, in the library. Corner. Window. Heating.

G.I. Weasel: Where R U?
Hermione: Studying. Got an essay to hand in soon.

She turned the phone over, taking a deep breath before she lifted the front page of her book and smiled at the prospect of learning. Hermione's eyes focused as soon as she moved her finger to the bookmarked page, sliding the pages over as she scanned for the place she had gotten to. The moment was interrupted once more by a buzz, and Hermione tried not to lose her patience at only reading two words before she was cut short.

G.I. Weasel: You see blondie today?
Hermione: Studying is a new concept to you, I know, but it does involve silence though and reading.
Hermione: I learnt today that he works for Moody?
G.I. Weasel: So that's a yes. Is he really that stick-up-your-arse provokin' or are you just pissy?
Hermione: I think I'm going to hurt you. I'm not 100% sure currently, but I think I might if you continue to interrupt me. I get very murdery when I'm tired, and stressed.
G.I. Weasel: Bring it, bitch, I fcuking dare you. We all know I'd take you. I took karate you know, and I was raised with all brothers. You're all hair, no cum. Lol.
G.I. Weasel: Plus, I have sambuca it's my special juice to get me pumped to take bitches out. Y'know what I meen.
Hermione: Are you drunk?
G.I. Weasel: If I say yes will you come home.
Hermione: Since you didn't use a question mark, no.
G.I. Weasel: Please don't make me drink alone Hermione. Sambuca loves company. U knoe this.
Hermione: Turning my phone off, your language is atrocious.
G.I. Weasel: U do that and I'll hunt u. I hve a particular set of skillz, skills that hurt books and leave pen murks in them.
G.I. Weasel: The books scream Herrmine. They will scream ya name.

Hermione was pretty sure she gagged in her mouth—a reaction she never thought she would have in a library—but the memories of sambuca and Ginny's dare had scarred her for life. She couldn't even enjoy liquorice anymore without feeling her insides turn in on themselves—drinking was not Hermione's strong point, always the first to re-see her food. She was worse than a lightweight; the mere smell of alcohol had the walls shifting side-to-side. Actually, if Hermione was honest, much of university life wasn't for her. She liked silence, despised mess, and would rather gut her own eyes out than have meaningless sex with a guy more in love with himself than her needs.

She knew if she responded, she would never glance at the book again, and she needed to study tonight—at least tonight. If Ginny was already drinking, that automatically—by definition—gave Hermione the night off, surely? She stared at the screen of her phone, tapping her chipped nails against it.

Hermione shook her head, rotating her shoulders to muster the strength to lock her phone, forcing her back to crack as she attempted to prepare herself to begin the mountain of reading she needed to do. She was just about to pick up her pen when she noticed a shadow cast over her table. What now? Hermione hissed to herself, letting an obviously annoyed sigh pass her lips before she spun her head to look up at the culprit.

Time slowed as her eyes registered the face, the smirk; Hermione had peered up to find a pair of grey eyes she had hoped not to see until her next shift—or ever, but she knew that wasn't realistic.

"Granger, what a bloody-fuckin'-brilliant, surprise?" Malfoy snarled, not at all sounding surprised. "But, you're in my spot, so you are going to have to move."

For fucking, fuck's sake, Hermione thought, dashing her pen against the table as she narrowed her eyes to near slits, a pained, horrid sigh passing her lips as she heard him tap his shoe against the floor.