The Second Day

Disclaimer: I don't own it :)

I don't drink coffee anymore. I don't smoke either, and I don't get drunk, and I can't remember the last time I had chocolate, but I was never so into those. From about the age of 19 you were addicted to coffee, absolutely hooked on the stuff from the first sip (and God, I remember the first sip, in that café in Paris with the ivy trailing around the door, when you kissed me and then pulled away and asked what on earth I'd been drinking because it tasted like mud and grass and by Merlin, it was fantastic and you'd have a cup as well, thanks).

You used to wake me up every weekday morning for three years with a cup of coffee beside my bed. You weren't a morning person either, but a mug of black in the morning would send you off on such a caffeine high that you wouldn't slow down until lunch. This morning, I wake up to the scent of coffee that I haven't smelt in years, and a mug is on the table beside my bed, steaming hot. Sitting up and reaching for it, almost scalding my hands, I take a sip and want to laugh or cry because it's just the way I like it, with milk and an awful lot of sugar and hot enough to burn.

Belatedly, I notice that it's in that same damn mug, the one I threw at you the first time we argued, and you reached out to catch it and cut your hand so badly that you cried and I did too. After that I used it every morning, even though it was a present to you in the first place, and it's emerald green and says 'World's Best Git' in fancy lettering. I left it behind in Grimmauld Place with everything else because I couldn't go back.

I finish the mug, and it tastes fantastic.

Oddly enough, I love my classroom. It's a strange place, a little different to most of the rooms in the castle – it has the stone floor, but plenty of windows and wood panelling on the walls. There aren't curtains, not after that unfortunate accident with Lee Jordan's daughter and a burning hex, but it's warm in winter and comfortably cluttered with old chests and new oddities and a cat, a quarter-kneazle kitten of Crookshanks' that I was blackmailed into adopting. He looks more like his father, a Persian; he's white and sleek and adorable, but with a viscous streak when you pull his tail. My first years called him Charlie, after they learned about the last War in history (Binns has updated his syllabus slightly), but in my mind he has another name.

Charlie is creeping along the top of the blackboard, happily stalking some terrified insect, when I arrive back to class after lunch. I slip off my outer robes, preparing for sixth year and their tales of the numerous broken quills and stolen parchments and hungry pets that explain why they'll have those four scrolls on werewolves in tomorrow, but today they couldn't quite manage... There's a resounding crash as Charlie knocks over the stack of textbooks on Unspeakables. He pads off quite happily, chewing on the insect, to go and laze on the windowsill and I sigh, bending over to pick them up.

"Harry." You say softly, and I jump up. Your hair is tied back again, and you're wearing navy robes, and I think you might be blushing. "Sorry," you add quickly, bending to lift the rest of the textbooks and press them into my arms, "I didn't mean to startle you." I nod, disconcertingly startled, and turn to set down the books and collect my thoughts.

When I turn back Charlie is twining around your legs, purring, and I find it irrationally annoying that he usually hates strangers but decides to make friends with you. You bend down again, stroking him just the way he likes, from the top of his head to the base of his tail, and he butts his head into your palm for more. Your hands are larger than I remember, but just as gentle.

"Are you here for a reason, Malfoy?" I ask, more sharply than I really intended to, and you jump and straighten up. This feels strange and new and raw, and part of me regrets making you uncomfortable, but part of me is so angry that you look so good like this, blushing and smiling tentatively.

"Yes." You answer quickly, "I wanted to say I'm sorry, Harry. I've said so before, but... I wanted you to know that." You drop your head, embarrassed, and a strand of hair swings across your eyes.

I want to cry. I want to hit you. I want to scream that you don't bloody deserve to be sorry and that sorry doesn't change anything and I want to see you get angry as well, but I'm surprised at myself because what I really want is not to lose this fragile half-way connection and the fragile half-blush that colours your cheeks. I want to see where this goes, and it terrifies me.

"Alright." I say, nodding, "Alright. Thank you for telling me." You smile, and it lights up the classroom, and God I've missed the way you smile.

"I'll see you later then." You say, and you still look so uncertain but you reach into your robes and press something into my hand and you keep holding on just a fraction longer than you should. Then you smile again, and you leave, and I realise that I'm shaking.

My sixth year stream into the classroom, chatting wildly, a couple of the girl stopping to stroke Charlie. I glance down at the object clasped in my hand and sit down hard on the desk because it's cherry blossom, beautiful and fragrant and painfully memorable. I remember the cherry tree outside Grimmauld Place, the one we could see through our window, the one I taught you to climb and you used to sit in all the time and the one we sat at the foot of in the summer, talking and touching and...

"Professor?" One of my Gryffindors asks, "What's that?" I start, dropping the pale flower, moving into the lesson. "Nothing. Alright, hands up if you forgot your essay?" I am pleasantly surprised.

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