Café
By King
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Soft scraps of conversations and the crackling of biscotti wrappers drifted among the tiny metal tables. The overwhelming aroma of coffee like a new dawn hitting the fresh earth with the slightest undertone of sweet, thick vanilla caressed the café's occupants. 'Café' perhaps might not be the right word for the tiny section cut off from the enormous bookstore where less than financially solvent collage students flocked to immerse themselves in volumes essential to that paper or this thesis. Even the single cashier at the cramped glass counter brimming with eclairs, pastries, and coffee cakes seemed indifferent to the going-ons of his fellow man striving their best to pump caffeine into tired, overworked blood streams.
"Iced-latte. Grande."
His dreadlocks swinging limply, the cashier barely nodded to the customer as he swung around and worked the machines like a rote symphony.
"3.60."
His change hit the counter and the youth turned, his eyes scoured the tiled section. Seeming to find what he was looking for, he strolled casually to a table underneath the only window sitting snug in an isolated corner. One of the table's two chairs already occupied, the man grinned in a way that seemed ill fitted to his features.
"May I?"
The already sitting man studied him with a sober, blank face. His mercury-silver eyes had followed the other, expectant and almost hungry. However, such emotions had never registered completely over his fine-featured face. After all, it was unbefitting; pride was everything.
"You're late, Potter." Unaccusing, merely a statement.
Annoyed glares shot like arrows towards the loud screech of a chair against the tile as Harry slipped into the metallic seat. His awkward and pained grin gone, he grimaced instead and sipped on thefrosty strength of his iced-latte. His eyes flitted across to Malfoy in an unapologetic manner.
"I'm not. You're just early."
The blonde gave a derisive snort and twiddled absently with the tea bags of his steaming chai.
He suddenly looked up and glared at Harry. "How long, Potter?"
The dark-haired youth leaned back slightly as an eyebrow arched slightly in surprise. "How long what?"
"How long have we been hiding from all of- from everyone?" His abrupt fire seemed to fade into confusion as his voice lost its own confidence.
Harry's answer was curt and he struggled to mask his own emotions. "Three months."
"Exactly?"
"It's close enough."
Malfoy slid back from the edge of his seat. He seemed suddenly to be very interested in the passing shoppers of the outside world beyond the gritty window.
Harry looked away as well. It was often like this, these meetings they had lately. One would wait, the other would sit down, and a few words of awkward conversation passed between them. Once or twice they managed to have insightful discussions, but it was rare. They were both afraid. Afraid of getting too close, of discovering something dark, secret.Each was afraid to lay his soul bare and naked before the other. But still they came to meet at this confined little coffee shop knowing full-well that they were headed on a crash course to the end they dreaded most.
It had begun casually enough. They had fled from their destinies and hid themselves from the prying eyes of the wizarding world. It turned out to be much easier than expected to hide yourself in the muggle world. They came upon each other by chance in this café and had since met every week at the same time.
"Humans are stupid, ugly creatures."
Startled, Harry glanced at Malfoy in surprise. He was still staring out of the window, his profile sharp against the sunlight. He had thought that the arrogant prat had left behind his scorn of muggles.
As if reading his mind, Malfoy continued, "And I don't just mean muggles. All of them. All of the idiots out there killing themselves in a pointless battle for things that don't even matter."
Harry did not have to ask who the 'idiots' were.
"Good and evil. They don't matter. They're only delusions created by humans to justify themselves and feed their own egos. It's through the pursuit of purity and the accusations of sin that we find our downfalls. Animals are higher than humans. Are they not?"
His overpowering gaze sent a shudder down Harry's spine. He did not look away.
"After all, they are unconcerned about right or wrong, they live simply for survival. For Life. They do not fear death. And that's the root of it all. We're so afraid of our own mortality we become desperate to leave behind our mark. But in the end, it doesn't matter. We are all born the same, we all live the same, and we all die the same."
Harry considered Malfoy for a moment, and all at once began to bark with laughter. Irritated, Malfoy began to get up but was prevented from doing so by a bony hand of queer strength. He looked down questioningly at the other with a haughty air.
"Sit." Harry still looked amused, but now seemed genuinely apologetic.
Malfoy lowered himself stiffly once more into his chair and glared at the other man through hooded, suspicious eyes.
"A nihilist¹. You're a nihilist. Draco Malfoy, a nihilist. Who'd have known?" Harry chuckled faintly.
Malfoy flicked a strand of hair out of his eyes in a feigned nonchalant manner.
"I doubt it. You would be the more likely nihilist."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, indeed." Malfoy snapped. "Or have you suddenly forgotten that 'Ippolit's Explaination²' of yours?"
His dull green eyes darkened and he muttered in a strained voice, "I was being stupid."
"As opposed to normal?" He retorted spitefully.
Harry leapt up and simply stalked away, his shoulders rigid in anger and hurt pride. Draco sighed and grimaced at his long cold tea and left as well. But they would both return next week.
They always did.
¹ - a. An extreme form of skepticism that denies all existence.
b. A doctrine holding that all values are baseless and that nothing can be known or communicated.
The reference here is a bit off, but neither Harry nor Malfoy are that much of a scholar.
² - In Fyodor Dostoevsky's novel, The Idiot, the consumptive youth Ippolit writes an article in which he struggles to convey his 'ultimate ideal', is ridiculed, and shortly attempts an unsuccessful suicide.
A/N: A bit of an oddball idea inspired from Interpol music and barley tea… but I must run away with the plot bunny… I have no idea where I'm going with this. xD; Any comments or constructive criticisms welcome.
