Chapter Text
Harry wasn’t in the habit of observing his customers with the same keen eye as some of his coworkers–cough, cough, Lavender. For them, it was gossip fodder to while away the mind-numbing, back-aching, foot-bruising shifts.
Harry’s realm was behind the counter, brewing tea to perfection, keeping the coffee carafes full, and concocting all manner of espresso drinks. The whirlwind of his work meant he didn’t have time for small talk with customers, other than to yell out their name once their order was up. His only longer interactions generally occurred when he handled customer complaints. Though not in his official job description as a barista, he was Team Lead. After working at Moody’s for four years, he could handle most frustrated customers better than his colleagues and he got paid more for it.
Most customers who complained about their orders found their coffee too hot, their tea too cold, or the milk not to their liking. Sometimes people ordered something posher than they could stomach, and Harry would oblige by re-making them something more in spirit with what they wanted. Even if some were arseholes, most customers could be appeased and sent on their merry way.
Not Tom Riddle.
There was nothing about that mega-tosser that was ordinary, which was clear from day one.
*
Monday
That first day Tom Riddle came into Moody’s had been an ordinary, shitty Monday. It was pissing it down, the sky still a murky grey from where the sun hadn’t fully risen–if the sun would show itself at all that day.
“Harry!” Dennis yelled. As usual, he rushed in from the back, late, pulling his apron over his head. “Can you unlock the door and switch the sign to ‘open,’ mate?”
“Already did!”
At this point it was routine: Dennis scurried to the cash register, patting down his hair, which didn’t help settle the tufts standing up. Harry finished wiping down the chrome espresso maker again. The owners had cameras and took perverse joy in watching them so Harry tried to appear busy whenever possible.
Since they opened at the ghastly hour of 6 a.m. sometimes no one even ventured in until 6:30 or later.
Not today.
Five minutes after they had opened, a new customer strolled in, tall and authoritative, his straightbacked posture screaming of a stick up his arse. He looked like some kind of lawyer or politician or a model–or a lawyer-politician-model–with his dark hair effortlessly tousled and his immaculately tailored black suit. Despite Harry never having seen this man before, he approached the counter with the confident poise of someone who’d easily taken to power.
“Good morning!” Dennis’ grating cheerful, I’m-a-morning-person voice rang out. Overly loud.
The stranger stared at him blankly. Something about this man oozed unpleasantness. Another Posh Wanker.
Harry prepared himself at the machine whilst Posh Wanker ignored Dennis and studied the menu overhead.
“Can I suggest a hot caffe latte to–”
“No.” The man cleared his throat and turned his full attention to Harry, which was quite disarming since he’d seemed to look through him seconds earlier.
“You,” he said, perusing Harry with intensity, a sweep up and down of what he could see of Harry behind the counter.
“Er, yes?” Harry adjusted his glasses on his nose.
“Can you make an Americano? I’ve just returned from New York City, and I want an Americano.” He sniffed. “So far no one in London can manage even a meagrely satisfying attempt.”
This he could do. He stared into the dark eyes and nodded. “I can.”
The man studied him for another long moment as if their meagre conversation left him doubting. After another moment of blatant staring, Harry decided to get to work and leave it to Dennis to ring him up. He hadn’t got a name for the order but it hardly mattered since there was no one else in the shop.
“One medium Americano hot!” Harry called, capping it and putting on the heat sleeve.
“This,” the man drawled, staring at the take-away coffee like it might contain dog piss, “is not what I ordered.”
Oh, fuck, it was way too early for this. He met Posh Wanker’s eyes again and sighed inwardly. Why were the hot ones always so rude?
Harry quirked an apologetic smile, the stretch of it false over his face. “My apologies. What did you want instead?”
“An iced, large Americano,” the man bit out around a clenched jaw. “I can hardly deal with my knights all day with such a small amount of caffeine.”
Knights? Did this man fancy himself royalty?
Harry stole another look at him as he prepared a new Americano (because he just knew adding ice to the current drink would in no way satisfy this bloke). He certainly had a commanding presence for such a lean frame, though his suit hugged his broad shoulders flatteringly.
Harry finished the new order, grabbed a straw, and presented it.
Posh Wanker looked at it and took it and the straw, still glaring at Harry. “Where’s my apology?” he asked, jaw clenched.
“Apology?”
Posh Wanker nodded, dark brown eyes gleaming with what looked like sadistic glee. “Also, my refund to prevent me from leaving you the most scathing Google review in existence.”
Harry stared until Posh Wanker snapped his fingers twice. “Sharpish. I am busy. I can easily call your manager and make your lives a living hell–”
Dennis, thank fuck, managed to usher him down the counter with the most simpering apology ever. With the ridiculous refund underway, Harry seethed. This guy clearly lived to make other people’s lives miserable, and Harry hated people who treated others like shit because of where they worked or for their station in life.
He sipped at his Americano while waiting for the refund to be charged to his card, glaring at his watch as if cancer wasn’t being cured with every second he waited.
“Have a good day!” Dennis called in a shaky voice once completing the transaction, and Posh Wanker stalked out the door.
At least he hadn’t complained about the coffee once he’d tried it. Small mercies.
*
Tuesday
The next day held no mercy.
“Harry, you okay?”
He held up one finger in a “one second” gesture. Lavender opened up with him this morning, and he couldn’t bear to hear her talk before he had choked down two cups of black coffee and two paracetamol.
“Ah,” she said, knowingly, “hangover.” She slapped him on the back, which did nothing to help his persistent nausea.
The bright light of the store didn’t help, and neither did the whirring of the machine as it ground coffee beans.
Why the fuck he had gone out drinking with Seamus Finnegan on a work night? History showed it was doomed to end up like this. But Seamus had been in town and it was good to have some semblance of a social life and to see an old co-worker–although Harry hadn't quite forgiven him for fucking off back to Ireland.
To top it off, on his walk to work he had stepped in dog shit, and while scraping it from his shoe, had nearly been hit by an overly enthusiastic cyclist.
On the salvation of his second cup of coffee and choked down pain reliever, Harry’s nausea was waning when the reverberation of impatient knocking at the front door set his temples to pounding once more.
Fuck.
He glanced at the front door to see–
Double fuck.
The return of Posh Wanker from yesterday.
Harry checked the clock–ah, they should have unlocked the door five minutes ago.
Lavender always lost her shit over a passingly fit man. She wasn’t in any way prepared for this arse, and Harry wasn’t prepared to watch her flounder.
“This bloke was in here yesterday,” Harry said. “He’s a bit of a twat. Let me deal with him.”
“I can deal with difficult customers,” Lavender snapped after he walked around the counter to unlock the front door. “I am a profession–oh.” She cut off as Posh Wanker stepped through the door Harry held open, though when he met the man’s glare, the desire to close the door on his face rivalled his desire to keep his job.
Harry didn’t bother apologising for opening late or issuing any small talk greetings. It was most assuredly not a good morning.
From the periphery of his vision, Lavender stared, wide-eyed, behind the counter, like she had never seen a hot man before, but Harry ignored her. Harry stepped smoothly in front of her and pulled up the register display in no time.
“What can I get for you?” Harry looked up into the man’s eyes, which remained as intense as yesterday, with a presence equally as commanding and attire to match. Tie: black. Shirt: black. Suit: black. His goddamn soul was probably black.
“You have quite an unkempt demeanour for a barista,” Posh Wanker remarked, scrutinising Harry’s hair. This wasn’t the first time that a customer had called him out on the famous Potter hair, which looked wild with or without attempts to tame it, so now he mostly didn’t bother. He enjoyed the irony that his grandfather had been CEO to a hair product company.
Hermione always liked to say they had untamed hair because they were untamable. Harry smirked to himself.
“I’ve got that before,” Harry said, easy-as-you-please.
His piercing brown eyes perused Harry’s face and shoulders thoroughly, as if Harry was broadcasting some kind of information without intention. A smirk pulled at Posh Wanker’s full lips. “Long night?”
Harry knew he flushed despite not wanting to give into whatever weird intimidation tactics were afoot. “A mate was in town.”
Posh Wanker’s eyebrows knitted together as if he were expecting more of a reaction.
Harry held his gaze, waiting. Somewhere behind him, Lavender coughed and the bell over the shop door tinkled, signalling another customer.
Time to move this along. Harry tried flattery this time. “I know you’re a busy man, Mr…?”
“Riddle,” he said, studying Harry as if waiting for something. Recognition perhaps? There was none there.
“Mr Riddle,” Harry echoed, with a smile. “Do you want an iced Americano again?”
Mr Riddle, raising an eyebrow, smiled back with a flash of teeth that looked like a viper right before launching itself at a tasty rat. “Are you preparing it?” There was an askance look at Lavender, and an affronted noise from her direction.
“Absolutely.”
Harry indicated when Riddle could swipe his card at the pay station. “It’ll be up in a ‘mo.”
“What the fuck,” Lavender hissed under her breath as Harry shuffled past her and muttered, “Later.” He whipped up the Americano, making sure to prepare a large, even though Riddle hadn’t specified and hoped he wasn’t about to get some kind of complaint about that, too. Harry felt Riddle’s gaze on him while he worked.
When Harry placed the iced Americano on the counter, Riddle grabbed his cup and nodded at Harry, gaze locked on his, as he sucked at the straw between his pink, pink lips.
The air suffocated Harry as he stared, then without another word, Riddle sauntered toward the door as if he had won some kind of prize.
Once he’d left and the next few customer orders had been taken care of, Harry wiped down the counter in an attempt to look busy, and Lavender pressed play on the Moody Coffee Shop Mood Playlist. At least it wasn’t the 90s alternative rock they sometimes listened to, because the remnants of his headache couldn’t take it.
“Who the fuck was that?” Lavender asked. She grabbed Harry by the collar of his shirt, her fingers getting caught in his apron, almost strangling him. “And why was that—that man–looking at you like that?”
“Like what?” Harry laughed. “Shit under his very expensive Oxfords?”
*
Wednesday
“Something smells,” Romilda Vane said as she applied another coat of lipstick and studied her reflection in a compact mirror. She wasn't wearing the approved polo shirt and apron because vanity, apparently, was more important than workplace protocol.
Harry looked down at his trainers guiltily. He'd thought he'd scraped all the dog shit off the soles.
Oh well. Romilda was best ignored. Especially because whenever Harry gave her any attention that wasn't strictly professional, she seemed to assume he'd changed his mind about going on a date with her. The last time she hadn't taken no for an answer, Ron had decided to intervene on his behalf and threatened to involve management since Harry wouldn't do it himself.
Preparing himself to warn her about Riddle, Harry opened his mouth—
Only for Romilda to become distracted by his hair.
“Harry!” she reprimanded. “You really do need to start doing something with this.” She batted her eyelashes at him in what she probably imagined was a coquettish manner.
Bile rose in his throat.
He backed away from her fluttering hands, clearly on their path to his hair, nearly knocking a bag of coffee beans off the counter.
“Pardon me,” said a cold voice.
Harry jumped and looked over Romilda's shoulder to find Riddle standing there, his gaze moving between them as though he, too, had detected something foul and wanted it exterminated.
Romilda whirled around.
Harry took great delight in watching her go still, like a deer caught in headlights.
Suddenly, he was rather glad he hadn't had a chance to warn her about Riddle.
She could deal with him herself.
Kneeling down, Harry began stacking the clean mugs left by the night shift, listening intently while pretending not to. He was already anticipating the moment he'd be called upon to make an Americano.
“I would like to know why I entered this establishment over a minute ago and was not greeted properly,” Riddle said, his voice falsely polite over an undercurrent of acid.
“I—er—” A flustered cough. “That is to say—”
Harry wondered how it was possible to grimace and fight off a smile simultaneously.
“Please save your breath,” Riddle snapped. “Clearly you were too occupied with forcing unwanted—and remarkably feeble—advances upon a colleague. Quite unprofessional.” He tutted. “Were you under my employment, you would be dismissed summarily.”
Icily, Romilda said, “Considering I'm not under your employment, what can I get you?” She snorted. “Black coffee?”
Harry snorted under the counter as well.
A brief silence followed.
“Harry Potter will know,” Riddle said, pronouncing Harry's full name as though there might be another Harry lurking nearby.
Rising with the last of the mugs, Harry turned to find Romilda flushed with fury and Riddle watching him with unmistakable amusement.
“It’s a large iced Americano,” Harry said, looking at Riddle. “Unless you really did want black coffee?”
Riddle smirked.
“I think not. How uninspired.” His eyes slid back to Romilda. “How plebeian.”
“Right,” Harry muttered, turning towards the espresso machine.
Before he could begin, Romilda made a noise reminiscent of a kettle reaching its boiling point and stormed into the back room.
“First, the worst flirtation skills I have ever witnessed,” Riddle said. “And then a countenance capable of curdling milk.”
“Sorry about that,” Harry said as he rang up the order, already knowing the apology was wasted on the sort of person who had looked genuinely delighted by Romilda's humiliation.
“I am not,” Riddle replied at once.
“No,” Harry agreed dryly.
Resting one hand against the counter, Riddle simply stood there and watched him work.
This felt less like waiting for a coffee and more like being studied for reasons Harry was not entirely comfortable knowing.
“You have endured her advances for how long now?” Riddle asked after a moment.
“Romilda's?” Harry glanced up, even as his hands worked on autopilot. “A few years.”
“Years,” Riddle repeated softly. “And yet she persists.”
Harry huffed a laugh despite himself and reached for a cup.
“You seem oddly invested in this.”
“Do I?” It looked like Riddle batted his eyelashes, but that couldn’t be right.
Fuck, even if he wasn’t doing it intentionally, it was much–much–more effective than when Romilda did it.
“Yeah?”
“How observant.”
That, Harry noted with some annoyance, was not an answer.
The corner of Riddle's mouth twitched.
“Tell me, Harry.”
“What?”
“Do you make a habit of tolerating unwanted attention?”
Harry paused in the middle of scooping ice.
“Why?”
“Curiosity,” said Riddle.
Well, that was disturbing.
Riddle's gaze remained fixed on him, unwavering and entirely too intent, but seemingly uninterested in providing an answer.
Once the Americano was finished, Harry snapped on the lid and slid the cup across the counter with perhaps more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary.
“Large iced Americano.”
Riddle accepted it, his fingers brushing Harry's for a fraction longer than seemed accidental.
Harry withdrew his hand immediately.
Something distinctly amused flickered across Riddle's face.
“Until tomorrow, Harry Potter.”
Riddle lifted the drink, took a leisurely sip, and departed, leaving Harry to wonder what he was missing.