Harry tries to look casual as he knocks on Ron's door on Monday morning. When he hears a muffled "one second," he opens it wide anyway and leans on the doorframe.
Ron is halfway through levitating the stack of reports back onto his desk from their previous position on the floor. He narrows his eyes at Harry. "You should learn to wait your turn, Harry. I might have accidentally hexed you."
"Why would you hex me?" Harry asks, pleased that he hasn't been hexed but perplexed as to how Ron believes hexing anyone in the Auror office, possibly the safest place in all of wizarding England, is necessary.
Ron shrugs. "You might have been a nefarious character."
"I might have been Kinglsey Shacklebolt," Harry says dryly, pointing to the large stack of unread reports which now sit innocently on one side of Ron's desk.
"Or that," Ron agrees ruefully. "Don't tell me you got in early to get ahead on yours. You're very...jittery today."
"I am?" Harry asks, wondering why his attempt at nonchalance has been unsuccessful. He is leaning against a doorframe for Merlin's sake. That's the universal symbol for being supremely casual, isn't it?
"You've had too much of that ridiculous hot bean juice again, haven't you?" Ron accuses, narrowing his eyes.
Harry sighs. "Coffee, Ron."
He is permanently perplexed as to why Ron insists on acting as if he had never known about the existence of coffee. It wasn't as if he hadn't had it before. They'd even managed to squeeze one in on the run from Death Eaters in muggle London after Bill and Fleur's wedding. A few months ago, Hermione had forced him to try another cappuccino at Harry's cafe, and even though Ron had complained that it tasted of dirt and hippogriff's piss (how Ron had any idea what hippogriff's piss tasted like, Harry wasn't sure), Harry had noticed that he finished the whole cup.
"Harry it's not my fault you enjoy drinking the extract of beans," Ron says, waving his hand.
"Have you actually ever tried hippogriff's piss?" Harry asks, momentarily distracted.
"What?"
"Never mind."
"You really are in a mood today," Ron mutters, "my Auror senses are telling me something is afoot."
"Gold star," Harry says. "Put it on your promotion application."
"What are you going to put on yours? Your name, I suppose," Ron says darkly. Harry feels a twinge of guilt. He has a sudden urge to change the topic.
"So I saw someone suspicious at the cafe on Saturday," he begins, trying to coax Ron out of his impending bad mood.
"The Kelley brothers?!" Ron barks suddenly.
"Er, no," Harry says, confused as to why Ron would think two of the wizarding world's most wanted wizards would casually turn up to his muggle-inspired cafe.
"Hmm," Ron says, apparently unperplexed. "Sorry Harry, this case has really got to my brain. I can't think of anyone else right now."
Harry takes a breath. He hopes it builds the suspense.
"Draco Malfoy," he says. To his credit, Ron looks intrigued.
"Slimy git," says Ron, who evidently hasn't reviewed his choice of insults since Hogwarts. "What's his business in a muggle cafe?"
"Well it's technically not a muggle cafe," Harry winces.
"But it is your cafe," Ron counters, "why would he even want to step foot in there? No offence, mate."
Harry is confused as to why he would find such a thing offensive, but strangely he does. Malfoy has no reason to dislike Harry. If anything, Malfoy should like Harry, given how he interceded on his behalf at the Death Eater trials. Harry knows Slytherins aren't the most grateful of people, but they know a thing or two about quid pro quo.
"I suppose he didn't know it was my cafe," Harry says, emerging from his internal argument.
"Did he slither out of there once he realised?" Ron asks, eyes suspicious.
"No. Well, I didn't tell him it was my cafe."
"What?"
"I just told him I worked there."
Ron's face is incredulous. "Harry, mate," he says, exasperation lacing itself into every word, "I know you have that humble complex and all, but when it comes to the Draco Malfoy's of the world, can you at least try to one-up them?"
"One up who?" Comes a booming voice from around the corner of Ron's office.
Harry regrets trying to look so casual.
"Kingsley," he says, straightening up as the tall man rounded the corner. "Ron and I were just discussing our reports, which we will now be getting back to."
Harry has half a mind to scurry away but Ron's glare stops him.
Kingsley raises an eyebrow at them. "And who is one-upping who?"
~.~
You owe me a pint for that one, you git.
Harry holds the interoffice memo in his hand and incendios it. He doesn't want Luciana to think he's sleep deprived and has an alcohol problem.
He replies quickly, scratching out his own interoffice memo.
Let's go to the Cornish tonight. Much to discuss.
Flicking it towards the door he pulls the first report over from the pile on his desk and stares, unseeing at it's cover.
Why did Malfoy, of all people, have to be a customer at Harry's shop? Surely he was far too ridiculously snobby to want to hang about in a muggle-inspired cafe. Ron was right, it was suspicious.
Another question, Harry muses as he pores over the report without really reading it, is why he feels so awkward about his conversation with Malfoy. Upon reflection, it had been a very strange conversation. Harry had simultaneously felt guilty for making Malfoy feel unwelcome, and irritated that he was there. Wanting Malfoy to leave, but also wanting him to...stay?
Harry chalks the last one up to his curiosity. It's just like at Hogwarts, he rationalises. He needs to have one eye on Malfoy at all times for security purposes. Malfoy has always been a threat (albeit a mild one). Harry is right to be curious about it all.
He wonders what Malfoy does for a job. Fortunately, he doesn't have to wonder long because being an Auror comes with a wide variety of perks, all of which are definitely to be used for the purposes of catching dark wizards and witches and not for keeping tabs on your teenage nemesis.
"Luciana," he calls into the near empty hallway. His grey-haired secretary whisks in, notepad and quill at the ready. Harry thinks she always looks like there's an emergency of some kind. She frowns at him.
"You're awfully jittery today Auror Potter," she says, brows furrowing.
Harry sighs. "Really? Ron said the same thing."
She narrows her eyes in response. Clearly, Harry thinks, Luciana rates herself more highly than Ron in matters of observation.
"Have you been drinking that energising, dirt-water again?" she asks in an accusing tone.
"Oh for Merlin's sakes," Harry exclaims, "it's called coffee!"
"You have, haven't you," she continues. "I can see it on your robes."
Harry looks down at his lapel and sighs. This was becoming a regular occurance. He decides to push on with his request.
"Luciana could you do an employment and location check for me?" he asks, trying to shift the attention towards work and wondering how he can make this request sound as professional as possible.
"Certainly, Auror Potter," she says, snapping back into work-mode.
"Great. I need one on Draco…" Harry pauses, trying to recall Malfoy's middle name. He tries to recall the tapestry at 12 Grimmauld Place but is coming up blank. Upon reflection, he doesn't think he ever knew it, but he could have a pretty safe guess. A family like the Malfoys surely thought themselves highly enough to give their children their own name.
"...Lucius Malfoy," he finishes.
Luciana frowns. "What for?" she asks.
"Er, a potential lead," Harry says, taken aback by the question. He wonders whether Luciana knows Malfoy in some capacity. Harry dearly hopes not.
Just then, another interoffice memo flies into his office, colliding with the back of Luciana's head. She turns indignantly to face the piece of paper now flying towards Harry. He catches it easily.
"If that's from Auror Weasley, tell him he needs to work on his aim," she huffs, stalking out of his office.
Harry opens the memo.
Can pregnant women not drink or something? Hermione was in a right foul mood when I fire-called to ask her if she wanted to come to the pub tonight.
~.~
"What on earth is a lemon, lime and bitters?" Harry asks Hermione when he gets back from the bar, juggling two pints and a strange, cordial-like drink.
"It's a muggle thing," she says flippantly, "Mum and Dad became obsessed with them in Australia. Terrible for your teeth, apparently."
"Doesn't bitters have alcohol in it?" Ron asks, and Harry kicks him under the table.
Hermione glares at both of them. Harry raises both of his hands in instant capitulation.
While Hermione and Ron launch into a bickering session that could last until they were all deceased, Harry scans the crowd at the Cornish Arms. They choose the muggle pub routinely primarily because the muggle paraphernalia and exclusively muggle drinks would likely overwhelm any witch or wizard, but it is also full of weirdly dressed, young types which help them blend in.
Not that they wear their work robes to the pub but, as Harry has started to realise recently, their fashion sense is becoming more out of touch with London's muggle youth.
He is only 25 for crying out loud. Why does he feel so old? Being an Auror really is ageing him prematurely, he thinks. Or maybe it's being an entrepreneur? Probably both.
He takes a sip of his beer. It's cool on his tongue and simultaneously warms his insides as it makes its way down his throat. Maybe he does have an alcohol problem, he thinks, looking down at himself. The beer definitely isn't doing anything to improve his physique, and being stuck in an office isn't either. He makes a mental note to research an exercise routine on the new computer he had purchased for himself for his birthday. The internet is a wild place, he thinks.
"Ok, you're right," Harry hears Ron say, and knows the bickering is almost at an end. Hermione eyes him suspiciously over the rim of her tall glass and takes a sip.
"How has your week been, Harry?" she asks. Harry knows that question is Hermione-code for what's wrong now? You're looking miserable again. You know Harry, you really should be talking to someone about this.
He ignores her pointed look.
"Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, was in his shop!" Ron interjects on Harry's behalf. "Harry told him that he worked there."
Hermione narrows her eyes at Ron. "Are you Harry? Anyway, Harry does work at his cafe, doesn't he?"
"But he also owns it," Ron grumbles, shooting a furtive glance at Harry.
Harry remembers that he threw Ron under the metaphorical bus this morning and feels as though he should back him up, even if he's wrong.
"I guess I should have mentioned that," he says, and Ron does a miniscule nod of his head.
"And what's wrong with Malfoy being in your shop, anyway?" Hermione asks, "it's a free country."
Harry and Ron look at her with varying levels of outrage.
"What?!" she protests, daring them to disagree with her.
Usually, Harry wouldn't bother. Hermione is usually right, if usually means in ninety-nine point nine-nine percent of cases.
"Hermione," Ron begins. Harry thinks this direct approach is exceptionally brave with Hermione, who is clearly already in an irritable mood due to the great Angostura Bitters debate.
"You have to admit that Malfoy, of all people, being in Harry's shop is suspicious! It's a muggle cafe!"
"Muggle-inspired cafe," Harry mutters, but nonetheless goes along with Ron's line of thinking.
"Yes, but he didn't know it's Harry's cafe, Ron," Hermione says slowly, as if Ron and Harry are struggling to comprehend simple logic. "And I can imagine Malfoy would like exotic things, and Harry's cafe is somewhat...different."
Harry raises his eyebrows at her.
"He's definitely up to something, Harry," Ron says, ignoring Hermione.
"No he's not, Ron," she says, rolling her eyes.
"He's probably keeping tabs on you for something," Ron says, directing his attention at Harry and ignoring Hermione who is having a minor meltdown. "We should see if he's there this Saturday."
"Surely, for two Aurors, there are bigger fish to fry than Draco Malfoy being in someone's cafe!" Hermione exclaims.
"Why would we fry fish?" Ron asks, very genuinely.
Hermione puts her hands to her temples and closes her eyes. "It's an expression, Ron."
"Not a very good one," he says, frowning.
"My point is," she says, regaining her composure, "that you have bigger things to worry about than someone from Hogwarts who happens to turn up in Diagon Alley of all places. It's a perfectly ordinary thing for Malfoy to be doing and you'd be best just forgetting all about-"
"Did you do an employment search?" Ron asks Harry while Hermione is finishing her sentence. Harry nods, but tries to turn it into a shake when he sees Hermione's incredulous face.
"What?! That's misuse of your powers, Harry!"
"He's keeping track of a former Death Eater on parole," Ron points out. "Perfectly legal."
Hermione just glares, lips pursed into a thin line. "You'd better get over this obsession soon, Harry. You do remember what happened last time you came up with a wild theory on Malfoy."
Sectumsempra. Harry thinks this is rather harsh.
"But my theory was right, wasn't it?" Harry points out.
Hermione puts her head in her hands and sighs.
~.~
Harry doesn't stop off at the cafe on Friday night. Despite their mediocre efforts, he and Ron find themselves predictably holed up in Ron's office late on Friday finishing their review of the field reports that Kingsley was expecting the following Monday morning. To their mutual despair, they don't even manage to finish them by the time Ron involuntarily falls asleep, so they meet each other back, bleary eyed and irritable on Saturday at 7 am for another go at it.
To add insult to injury Harry thinks, Luciana wasn't even able to turn up anything on Malfoy's employment search. The location search indicated that Malfoy was no longer living in Salisbury, Wiltshire (which Harry envisages is probably the location of the Malfoy Manor), but in Kensington, London. It is hardly going to be a housing downgrade in Kensington Harry considers, but he has to admit he is surprised in Malfoy's choice of suburb. Kensington is very muggle.
The employment search, meanwhile, shows up nothing. Which, as Harry and Ron discuss over what feels like their hundredth report, means Malfoy has to be unemployed. This is at odds with what Malfoy told Harry last Saturday, so it makes the pair of them all the more suspicious.
Ron finishes his reports well before Harry and leaves the latter despairingly flicking through his last eighty-odd pages. By the time he finishes it's noon, and far too late for a nap. What he really needs is a coffee, and that thought carries him from his office, deep in the bowels of the Ministry, to the chilly streets of Diagon Alley.
The morning rush has subsided by the time Harry walks in, and he's even more pleased to see Meldrid is nowhere in sight. Blearily, he casts a pleading look at Katie from in front of the register.
"You should learn to sleep more," she says, prodding his cheek with her finger as he collapses his head onto his hands on the counter top.
"Help me," he groans. "I need coffee."
"Spoken like a true addict, Harry," she says, grinning. "I'll make a latte for you if you get up off the bench and stop scaring off the customers."
She pulls a stool out from behind her and motions for him to come around the counter and sit in the poky corner next to the coffee machine. He stumbles a bit on his way around.
"Better make it an espresso shot as well," she laughs, "how many firewhiskies did you have last night?"
"The Ministry doesn't supply Firewhisky," Harry deadpans, "just an endless supply of work."
"You should quit," she says, in a matter-of-fact way. "Find a new job with better work-life balance. I'll hire you."
"How generous," he says, as she hands him the espresso shot.
Harry doesn't give it a chance to cool before he downs it as if it really were firewhisky. It's slightly too hot and he winces as it burns his insides.
"How do I look?" he asks, after he recovers from the mild heartburn.
Katie appraises him whilst simultaneously frothing the milk. "I'd rate your energy levels as two-out-of-ten. I took off one point because your hair is a mess."
"It's always a mess," Harry frowns, patting the unruly hair on his crown down. "I can't help it."
"That's unfortunate," she quips, pouring the latte. "Here, this could elevate you back to a three."
He takes the latte gingerly and holds it in his lap. The warmth of the milk through the glass shoots through him and immediately makes him feel comfortable and tired. The opposite of the desired effect, he thinks, but it also might have to do with the fact that he's so comfortable sitting here, in his cafe, Katie chattering away as she takes orders and makes coffee for the dribs and drabs of people making it through the December chill.
Harry eventually wanders into the kitchen, chats to Levi for a bit and gratefully accepts an egg on toast. He's mindlessly rearranging the drawer of spare mugs when Katie ducks her head in and asks Levi if he would mind covering for her out the front for 10 minutes.
"Since when do you smoke?" Harry asks as she pulls a thin packet out of her bag below the back counter.
"Since a while," she says, waving a hand dismissively but looking somewhat guilty.
Harry looks at her in a way which he hopes comes across as disapproving but probably looks mildly shocked.
"You know that's terrible for you, right?" He says.
Winking mischievously, she pats him on the shoulder and says, "just don't tell my mum, ok?"
He rolls his eyes but tells Levi he'll cover the front in her absence. Less than ten minutes later she's back with him, smelling strongly of chewing gum and some kind of perfume charm.
"You smell nice," Harry says dryly.
"That's an inappropriate workplace comment," she snaps back, but Harry can see a small smile on her lips.
"Are you going to be smashing those down next week at our Christmas party too?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
"Not as quickly as you'll be sinking firewhisky shots with me," she says prodding him.
"Unlikely," he replies, "hangovers get worse as you get older, remember that."
She turns to face him. "Look. We all have our vices, right? Yours is working a million hours a week and mine is having a cigarette every now and again."
Her face is friendly but her tone says deal with it, Harry.
He knows he's too invested in her. She's just about to turn 18, only 7 years younger than him, but in a way he feels very protective of her. Katie doesn't really need protection, he knows that, she has older twin brothers that could flatten him in a minute. But there is an undeniable connection he feels with people who have lost family in the war. Selfishly, Harry is sort of glad there are now so many survivors who understand the pain of losing one's parents. It makes him feel less alone.
"So if I quit one of my jobs and get a social life you'll give it up?" He asks, teasing her to try and lighten the mood.
"Sure," she says, shrugging her shoulders, "Only because i know the chances of that happening are roughly the same as me winning a billion galleons."
"The work part or the social life part?" Harry asks, concerned.
"Is there a difference?" She asks. "You can't have a social life if you're always at work."
Harry sighs. She's not wrong. He rests his head against the wall and shuffles himself into a more comfortable position on the hard stool.
Just as he is about to drift off into despondency over the dire state of his social life, fate deals him another blow.
Draco Malfoy strides into the cafe, hair windswept but otherwise looking inappropriately well put together despite the mild blizzard that is brewing outside. Harry bets Draco Malfoy has a social life. Rich people are always invited to events; charity balls and such, Harry imagines. Even if they accidentally become part of a failed, murderous plot for worldwide domination.
"Happy Saturday, Draco" Katie pipes up from behind the coffee machine. "The usual?"
Harry thinks this greeting is far too familiar for someone who fraternised with the person that killed her father, but he says nothing.
"Thank you, Katie," he says, in a tone that Harry thinks is too proper for his cafe.
"Oh hello, Potter," Malfoy says as an afterthought after seeing Harry propped up on the stool behind the counter. "Working hard, I see," he smirks.
Harry seethes. He owns this cafe! He can sit wherever he bloody well likes!
He doesn't get a chance to retort, however, because Malfoy stalks away towards the back of the cafe to hide in what appears to be his favourite spot amongst the philodendrons. Philodendrons are highly toxic, Harry thinks. Maybe Malfoy will eat one by mistake.
He shakes that absurd thought from his head and looks up at Katie who is sniggering at him.
"Easy tiger," she laughs, "you're too easy to rile up."
"How do you stand him?" he asks, incredulously. "He's twenty times worse than Meldrid."
"He's actually very nice once you get to know him," she says, "although he seems to get under your skin more than the average person."
She wiggles an eyebrow. Harry frowns at her.
"He's just so...Malfoyish," Harry says darkly.
She grins, turning to face the coffee machine again. "Really Harry, you should make an effort to talk to him. Think of it as making reparations."
"I'm not the one who needs to make reparations," Harry mutters, scowling.
"I know," she says, "but I think he wants to."
Harry cocks an eyebrow at her. He highly doubts Malfoy wants to apologise to him, or discuss the goings on of the war at all. In fact, he would hazard a guess that Malfoy tries his hardest not to think of the war, unless it is scheming of ways to repair his image. Harry imagines Malfoy probably hosts a charity ball or two for that exact reason. Then again, he has another reason to talk to people now.
"If I go and talk to him does that mean I have a social life?"
"Honestly Potter," she says, narrowing her eyes, "sometimes I'm surprised you're not a Slytherin."
"Then I won't do it."
"What if it gives you social life credits?" she asks, smirking. "Besides, everyone loves a reformed Death Eater."
No they don't, Harry thinks. But he says nothing as Katie once again hands him the soy latte and sends him into the Philodendron lair.
~.~
"Perhaps I should work here," Draco Malfoy says, as Harry puts the soy latte down and slides into the booth opposite him. "It seems to have a relaxed policy towards actually working. Very laissez-faire."
Harry scowls. "I'll be sure to pass your comments on to the owner," he says, pushing himself back up to walk away. He honestly isn't sure why he is bothering with Malfoy, of all people. He must be seriously losing the plot.
"Don't be like that," Malfoy says, a little too quickly. "I was only joking."
Harry cautiously props himself up onto the top of the booth. He isn't ready to commit to sitting back down.
"What are you doing, Malfoy?" Harry asks, eyeing off the open briefcase which Malfoy dragged in. He recalls that the employment search came up with no results, but the evidence would suggest Malfoy is definitely working on something. Harry has an insatiable desire to find out what that something may be.
"Working," Malfoy says, simply.
"On a Saturday?" Harry asks, raising an eyebrow.
"It's not that strange, is it?" Malfoy asks. "You're working."
Fair point, Harry thinks. He has, in fact, been to both of his jobs today.
"On what?" he asks.
"This and that," Malfoy says, infuriatingly.
"Anything in particular?" Harry presses.
"No, not really," Malfoy replies.
"Are you always this annoying?" Harry says, frowning again.
Malfoy raises one, perfect blonde eyebrow. "Other people don't seem to find me annoying." He says it so honestly in that disarming way which makes Harry feel guilty. "Prejudiced and conceited, maybe. But not annoying."
Harry's stomach flips and he feels slightly ill. He wonders why he feels so sorry for Malfoy. It's not as if he doesn't deserve it.
"Maybe you just like to annoy me," he says lamely.
"It's always been my specialty," Malfoy retorts, but there's no malice in his tone. He looks at Harry appraisingly.
"Why are you talking to me?"
Harry tries to think on his feet. It doesn't go well.
"I don't have anything better to do," he says.
Malfoy smirks, but Harry senses a sadness behind it that sticks to him. It makes the atmosphere feel heavy and oppressive. He wonders whether Malfoy is lonely despite the charity balls and other rich-person social events he imagines a Malfoy must attend.
"Is that a backhanded way of saying I interest you?" Malfoy asks. It's a very Slytherin thing to say, Harry thinks. A Gryffindor would never assume such an inference.
"It depends," Harry says. He's about to mention something about trying to murder a headmaster, poisoning one of his best friends and vanishing cabinets but he stops himself just in time.
"On what?" Malfoy asks, leaning forward slightly.
"This and that," Harry retorts.
Malfoy scowls. Harry feels a great sense of achievement.
"Do you always drink soy?" He asks, trying to steer the conversation towards something relatively non-controversial.
"Yes," Malfoy says, "I'm lactose intolerant."
Harry groans internally. Of course Malfoy is lactose intolerant, he thinks.
"It's not that bad," Malfoy says, misreading Harry's apparent exasperation.
"What about ice cream and chocolate?" Harry asks, wondering if Malfoy is one of those lactose intolerant people who are secretly gluttons-for-punishment and like to put their intolerance to the test.
"What about them?" Malfoy asks, scooping a bit of froth up on the teaspoon and licking it gently.
In that moment, something extremely strange occurs. Harry's eyes involuntarily become transfixed. He tries to tear them away from Malfoy's tongue darting along the silver utensil but fails, miserably. He feels like his eyes are being pried open like in that odd muggle movie Hermione made him watch about criminals and clocks. The cafe feels a million miles away.
He registers the feeling of a pull somewhere deep and low inside him. He tries to swallow but his throat feels simultaneously as dry as the Sahara desert and like it has a bezoar stuck in there. He remembers that Malfoy has asked a question but he can't recall what it is.
Impossible. Was he actually watching Draco Malfoy lick a spoon right now? He really has lost his mind.
"Potter?" Malfoy says, sounding slightly concerned.
Harry coughs. "Sorry, um, chocolate, yes."
"Are you ok?" Malfoy asks, a small smirk playing on his lips.
Harry desperately hopes Malfoy thinks he has just had a momentary lapse in concentration and was not just obsessing over his tongue on a teaspoon for Godric's sakes.
"Fine," he mutters. But he's not fine. His world is spinning slightly and he feels very out of his depth.
Katie, very fortunately in Harry's opinion, chooses that moment to interrupt to tell Harry that she's closing off the coffee machine. It used to be that Harry would tell her what time to shut off the machine and pack up. Now, he muses, she tells him what to do.
Harry sees Malfoy check his watch. It's a nice watch, Harry thinks, but it catches his attention mostly because it is a muggle watch. Malfoy using muggle things? The world really was going mad.
"Do you need me to leave?" he hears Malfoy ask Katie. Harry wonders when Malfoy became considerate.
"You're hardly in the way," she replies, gesturing around them. "Do you like being in Siberia all the time or will you come out to be amongst the people one day?"
"I'm sure the people would love to have me out there," he deadpans.
"You might be surprised," Katie says optimistically.
"Draco Malfoy, man of the people," Harry remarks.
Malfoy snorts.
Katie hits him over the head with a tea towel.
~.~
"You could be more conciliatory, you know," Katie argues, as they pack up the cafe together an hour later. Malfoy had left the shop not ten minutes ago and Katie had, for some inexplicable reason, thrown down the gauntlet for a former Death Eater.
"I wasn't rude to him," Harry protests. "He just gets on my nerves, that's all."
"Well I think he looks lonely," Katie says.
"Why don't you talk to him then, instead of forcing me to," Harry grumbles as he scribbles down the takings for the day.
"I didn't force you to," she protests, dropping her wand hand mid-spell and scrougifying the menus stacked under the sink instead of the countertop. "You wanted to!"
Harry looks at her incredulously.
"Anyway," she says, flicking through a now-pristine menu. Some of the black ink appears to have been scrougified off. "You'll have more opportunities to make him feel welcome, I suppose."
"I'm never coming back here," Harry mutters. "I quit."
"Suit yourself," she says, going back to cleaning the countertop. "But you'll have to speak to him next Saturday."
"Typically you don't continue to attend work after you quit," Harry points out.
"After work," she replies, a smile tugging at her lips. "I invited him to our Christmas party."