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“How are you today, mate?” Ron asks.
Harry’s snort cuts through the conversational buzz of the café. “It’s Valentine's Day,” he says. “I’m a single pringle serving up lattes decorated with heart-shaped foam to disgustingly happy couples. I’m bloody brilliant.”
He angles a small, stainless pitcher to cut a milk stream through the foam floating atop an espresso shot. “Look at that. A perfect heart.” He holds the cup up to Ron’s face. “That’s fucking talent. I could do this in my sleep.”
Charlie pauses en route to the pastry case and peeks over Ron’s shoulder. “It’s cute, Picasso.” He lifts a ginger brow. “Now serve it to the bloody customer, yeah? There’s a queue.”
Harry hands off his masterpiece to a delighted couple, and Ron says, “I think today will be your lucky day.” He presses coffee grinds into a portafilter and attaches it to the machine. “You feeling good? You look good.”
“Oi, George,” Harry calls over his shoulder. “I think Ron’s been at the dodgy beans again.” He grimaces. “What are you on about?”
Ron jerks his chin toward the front of the café, eyes sparkling with entirely too much glee for eight o’clock on a bloody Monday morning.
Harry looks out at the crowded room. A platinum blond bloke slouching mid-queue snags Harry’s gaze.
And it’s A Moment… One of those stupidly cliché tunnel-vision moments—where the Earth slows its rotation, and flowers bloom, and kittens frolic, and the sun shines through parting clouds to spotlight as if touched by angelic grace, the most beautiful individual Harry’s ever seen.
“It’s him,” Harry breathes.
The bloke thumbs lazily at his mobile, an insouciant curve to his perfect pout as he listens to a petite black-haired girl chatter away beside him. He exists—incongruously, unfathomably, undeniably—amongst the mismatched colorful chairs and Luna’s dryer-lint fairies strung from the antler chandeliers, as if he hasn’t populated every fantasy Harry’s had since Ginny introduced him to the bloke’s Instagram account months ago.
“It’s him, fuck me, it’s him.”
“Him who?” Bill asks, setting a tray of clean cups on the counter.
“We’ve got an Instagram influencer in our midst,” Charlie says. He hands a cup of coffee and a plated pastry to a waiting customer. The queue advances.
“Wait a tick,” George says. He drapes his arm over Harry’s shoulder. “Isn’t that the bloke Harry’s been Insta-stalking?”
“Delish Malfoy,” Ron announces, drawing the attention of the patrons closest to the counter.
Harry ducks from under George’s arm and scoots behind the coffee machine’s stainless bulk. “Fucking hell,” he hisses.
“And Insta-wanking, more like,” Ron grumbles.
Harry sputters. “Wha —I have not!” he lies.
One wank does not a pervert make—Harry’s convinced himself of this.
Fred sucks air through his teeth and says, “Can’t fault you that, mate. He is delish.”
Harry peeks over Ron’s shoulder. Malfoy is laughing, a snigger that shakes the fringe from his eyes, and Harry dies a tiny death. “Yeah, his posts occasionally cross my feed—”
"Subscribed," Ron coughs into his fist.
Harry rolls his eyes. “And I mean, sure, he’s fit or whatever.”
Ron’s eyebrows disappear up under his shaggy fringe. “Harry. You made three-dimensional coffee art of his cat. Out of milk foam.”
“His cat is cute!”
Bill hums. “Don’t forget the snowflake.”
“Oh, the snowflake was my personal favorite,” Charlie says. He takes payment from a customer, and the queue advances again, Malfoy shuffling ever closer. There are now only two patrons between Harry and lashes long enough to deliver what Harry expects would be the best butterfly kisses on the planet.
“I don’t know.” Fred taps his chin and leans against his twin. “I liked the Christmas one, myself.”
George wiggles his fingers. “The wee tannenbaum with the ornament sprinkles.”
Ron shoves him aside. “Piss off, you lot,” he says. “As if you didn’t doodle Angelina’s initials in your journal.” He widens his eyes at George’s gaping mouth and points a finger at each of his brothers in turn. “Oh, don’t think I haven’t pilfered all your drawers. I know your secrets. And you’re wrong. The dragon was bloody brilliant.” He takes Harry by the shoulders and gives him a shake. “This is your chance, mate. Your foam art has drawn him here.”
“But how did he even know?”
The Weasley brothers all become intensely occupied with cups, and wiping the counter, and grinding coffee beans. Bill disappears into the back office muttering about tidying the stockroom.
“Ron,” Harry warns, voice low.
“Well...” Ron chews his lip. “We kinda sorta posted your art on Strange Brew’s account—”
“It was too brilliant not to share with the world!” Charlie interjects, unhelpfully.
“And… we tagged Malfoy in the posts,” Ron finishes.
“Bollocks.” Harry tugs his phone from his back pocket and opens his Instagram account. “Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks.” He scrolls with a trembling finger past each photo of his latte art inspired by Malfoy, the captions dousing him with wave upon wave of hot shame.
Fred points at the caption on the dragon art image. “The green heart was my idea.” He slaps Harry on the back. “You’re welcome.”
“Well that’s it then,” Harry mutters. “He’s going to think I’m a massive loser.”
“And yet here he stands,” Ron says. “No, seriously. He’s waiting at the counter.”
Harry chews on the fleshy inside of his mouth and chances a glance at Malfoy. Ice blue eyes watch him expectantly. Harry’s feet move of their own volition—a conundrum since they feel as if they're made of solid concrete—and suddenly he’s at the counter.
“Hi,” Malfoy says, an almost-smile bunching his cheeks.
And sure, Harry has imagined this exact scenario on many a lonely night, lying on top of his blanket, staring at his phone, Malfoy’s silhouette branded on the inside of his eyelids when his eyes finally close. And, sure, in each scenario he’s suave, smooth, and completely charming.
So, naturally, here and now, his tongue glues itself to the roof of his dry mouth.
The moment expands, the silent seconds tapped out by the crimson fingernails of the dark-haired girl at Malfoy’s side striking the counter.
Ron bumps his shoulder against Harry’s, jostling Harry back to his mind.
“Welcome to Strange Brew,” Ron says, beaming at the pair.
Harry clears his throat. “What can we get started for you?”
The girl cracks her gum. “We would like a latte,” she says, eyes lingering on Ron’s neck tattoo. It’s a large crown with flowers and butterflies, and it’s cool as fuck—a guaranteed hook for potential suitors. Harry silently berates his past self for being such a melt at the tattoo parlor and walking out with his skin unpainted.
“I am the king of latte’s,” Ron says smoothly. “You won’t be disappointed.”
The girl’s pink-stained lips curl at the corners, and Ron makes an effort to place his arse in her direct line of sight as he sets about preparing the coffee to brew. Harry pours milk for the steamer, appealing to every god in the heavens that he won’t spill.
“And what art will you make for me today”—Malfoy leans his elbows on the counter—”GoldenBoy80.”
Harry’s hand slips and steam scalds his fingers. His mind frantically skims through his private Instagram account, recalling cringe photo after cringe photo. So, this is how he perishes and ascends the mortal plane. Death by Instagram. Next to him, Ron sniggers.
“You’re the one that makes the foam art, right?” Malfoy asks, leaning further forward. Fuck, he smells good.
“You know it’s him,” the girl sighs. “You excavated the coffee shop’s account to find his handle and stalked him on Instagram. That one photo of him with his dog is your screensaver.”
“Fucking hell, Pansy.”
The blush that tints Malfoy’s cheeks returns Harry’s soul to his body, reviving his heart to beat furiously against his rib cage. He pours the foam into the cup Ron prepared. Courage blooms in his chest like the cream floating to the top of the espresso. “What can I make for you today, Delish?”
“It’s Draco.” He appraises Harry with a sweeping glance, pausing to admire the small heart-shaped birthmark on Harry’s inner wrist. Mrs. Weasley calls it an angel kiss, and it’s not nearly as wicked as Ron’s tattoo, but Harry’s hating it less and less by the second.
“A heart, I think,” Draco says. “It is Valentine’s Day.”
Harry stares at him and Draco stares back, and it’s another ridiculous Moment in which Harry is lightheaded and barely breathing.
“Good grief,” Pansy says. “Oi, Golden Boy,” she barks. “Your milk overfloweth.”
Harry glances down at the cup. Milk drips over the lip, down his fingers and pools onto the counter.
And floating on the surface of the coffee sits a perfectly formed erect cock, complete with bollocks. Waves of foam cascade from the tip like a fan of orgasmic come.
“I’m bloody brilliant and can do this in my sleep,” Ron mocks whilst Fred and George guffaw gleefully.
“Oh, fuck,” Harry says.
Charlie swoops in with a rag. “I apologize,” he says over the twins’ howling laughter. “We're usually a respectable establishment,” he grits with a frown for Harry. “I’ll just make another—” but before he can whisk away the cock abomination, Draco scoops the cup toward himself.
“That,” he says, taking a photo of the silly thing. “Is a latte dick.”
“That’s what he said,” Harry blurts.
Draco throws back his head and laughs, and Harry feels it in his toes. Gorgeous pale eyes alight on him, shining with amusement and hopeful promise. “What’s your name?”
“Harry.”
“I like you a latte, Harry,” Draco says. “Dinner tonight?”
Harry nods, biting back what he knows will be a stupid grin. “But coffee’s on me.”
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