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George is going to owe him— and big time.
It’s the one thought running through Fred Weasley’s brain as he tries his best to stay awake behind the counter at The Burrow, bleary brown eyes staring out beyond the shopfront doors and out into the city where most people were still tucked in bed and fast asleep.
He’d never been a morning person, and that hadn’t changed much over the years— not even after he and his aforementioned twin brother had taken over running the daily operations of the family’s coffee shop. And while he much preferred the hustle and bustle of slinging lattes and serving up sweets in the peak hours of the afternoon, he also couldn’t bring himself to refuse when George had asked if he wouldn’t mind taking over his shift.
“Just this once,” his twin had pleaded, explaining plans to surprise his girlfriend, Angelina, with a romantic overnight trip for their anniversary. “Ginny and Katie have midterms in the morning, and Lee’s not ready to fly solo— he’s still struggling with dialing in the espresso.”
“Well, who am I to stand in the way of romance?” Fred had sighed, knowing George would do the same for him if the tables were turned.
He and George are similar in more ways than Fred can count, but as he wipes down invisible fingerprints from the pastry case for the umpteenth time, desperate to do everything in his power to keep from looking at the clock, he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’ll never understand George’s insistence that the morning shift at The Burrow is the best shift.
So far, there only seem to be three perks that Fred can think of: one, he gets to play whatever music he wants. Two, he’s got his pick of the pastries his mum makes fresh daily for their patrons. And three, it’s so dead he’ll probably be able to get enough practice in to beat that git Draco Malfoy at the local latte art competition happening at the end of the month.
It’s only after Fred’s poured enough rosettas to run through a few pints of milk, that he remembers George had said something about Mrs. Fortescue dropping by bright and early to pick up the ice cream parlor’s monthly supply of coffee beans. Making quick work of cleaning up the espresso bar and restocking the milk in the tiny fridge that sits beneath it, Fred hustles toward the back of the shop to get the wholesale order ready. He’s nearly finished weighing out and bagging up the order when he hears the bell ring as the door to The Burrow swings open.
“I’ll just be another moment, Mrs. Fortescue!” Fred calls out from near the back of the shop, swearing under his breath when the bite of the windchill reaches him. (Add frigid morning temperatures to the list of reasons why Fred Weasley isn’t a fan of the opening shift.)
He makes quick work of scooping up as many bags as he can in one arm, using his free hand to pile the rest up in a precarious looking pile.
“Okay! I’ve got ten bags of our dark roast morning blend, eight bags of decaf, and six bags of espresso— all ground fine, just the way you like it!” Fred rattles off, blindly making his way over to the register. “Can I get you a cup of coffee on the house before you head off, Mrs. Fortescue?”
“I’m not Mrs. Fortescue, but I would like a cup of coffee if it’s not too much trouble,” says an amused voice from somewhere in front of him.
It’s not until Fred sets the large order of coffee beans down with as much grace as he can manage that he gets a good look at her. His breath catches in his throat over the small smile playing across her pink lips, and the way the first bit of sunshine he’s seen all morning catches like a halo around the wild mess of curls that frame her face.
He realizes he’s been staring too long without saying anything at all when she lets out a nervous laugh, ducking her head so a fan of curls obstruct his view of her face. And Fred grips the countertop, blunt fingernails digging into the underside of the ancient wooden ledge as he coughs awkwardly, shaking away the sudden urge he’s struck with to reach out and brush the curls away from her face so he can keep studying her features.
“Coffee! Yes! We have that in spades!” He says a little too enthusiastically, feeling the tips of his ears burn in embarrassment. “Pick your poison,” he continues, gesturing to the menu hanging just to the right of the register. “And I’m happy to offer up a few suggestions if this is your first time coming in…?”
“It is,” she confirms through a warm smile. “A friend of mine keeps recommending it. Says you make the best coffee within walking distance of the university, so I figured I’d come in and see for myself.”
“Pressure’s on then. Especially if I’ve only got one drink to make a good impression,” Fred says through a grin.
She hums in a agreement, brown eyes alight with something Fred can’t quite place. What surprises him most is how all of a sudden he finds himself struck by a desperate desire to know her well enough to be able to put a name to it.
“I think I’ll just have a large drip,” she says finally.
“A drip? Really?” Fred asks, unable to keep the surprise from seeping into his tone. “You sure I can’t interest you in anything fancier? We make a pretty incredible honey vanilla latte— it’s like a warm hug in a cup.”
She scrunches her nose at the suggestion, and the adorable expression only broadens the grin on Fred’s own face.
“Sounds a bit too sweet,” she says. “Besides, if I’m going to pass judgement on the shop, it seems only fair I do so by trying a plain cup of coffee. Any coffee shop worth their weight in salt should know how to make a good drip.”
“A woman after my own heart,” Fred sighs, throwing caution to the wind and tossing the mystery girl a wink before he turns to grab a paper cup from the stack near the register.
“I bet you say that to all the girls…” she says. The roll of her eyes is impossible to miss— but so is the smile she’s trying but failing to stifle.
“Room for cream?” He asks innocently.
“Just a bit, please.”
He finds himself hoping she’ll stick around— maybe settle into one of the cozy arm chairs in the corner to study long enough for Fred to think up another reason to talk to her.
He’s already giddy over the idea of engaging her in another bout of effortless banter. But fate has other plans, and mystery girl is gone nearly as quickly as she’d come, the only proof of her visit manifesting in the bill she’d dropped in the tip jar after Fred had finished ringing her up.
And as the sun finally succeeds in chasing away the blanket of fog that so often swaths the city in dark grey hues, Fred’s reminded of honey colored eyes, and soft pink smiles, and the most incredible head of curls he’s ever laid eyes on. And maybe, just maybe, morning shifts at The Burrow aren’t as bad as he’d originally thought.
--
Fred doesn’t see the mystery girl again until he finds himself volunteering to take another opening shift, his face instantly lighting up the moment he sees her walk in through the front door of the shop.
“Welcome back! I take it our drip impressed?”
“You’ve ruined me for all other coffee shops,” she confesses. “What’s your secret?”
“That’s classified. If I tell you that, I’d either have to kill you or marry you,” he says seriously. Then, through a shrug he adds, “Mum’s rules— best to stay on her good side.”
“Well, I’m quite fond of being alive— and I’d like to keep it that way,” she snorts.
“Guess we’ll just have to tie the knot, then,” Fred sighs dramatically.
On impulse, he plucks up one of the many coffee sleeves he’d been freshly stamping with The Burrow’s signature logo just before she’d come through the front door.
“Will you accept this cup sleeve in lieu of a ring?” he continues. “I know it’s only cardboard, but we’re still young— there’ll be plenty of time for shiny things like diamonds later.”
Fred’s heart flutters, flipping in his chest when he takes in the way she tosses her head back in a laugh. He’s never heard a sound so lovely, and he doesn’t even know her name, but something deep inside him knows he’d happily spend the rest of his days finding new ways to coax that same sound out of her.
His chest swells with pride, giddy over knowing he’s responsible for the wide smile that takes over her entire face and makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. He beams down at her when, after a moment, she decides to go along with the bit, reaching her hand out to meet his outstretched one. Carefully, he takes her hand in his and easily slips the cup sleeve past her fingers and around her wrist, twisting it until the shop stamp faces right way up.
“Perfect fit,” he whispers, locking gazes with her. “I was hoping it would be.”
It’s only when the customer directly behind her clears his throat loudly that Fred realizes he’d never bothered to let go of her hand.
“Some of us are getting up in age and don’t have all day to dawdle!” Bristles the old man.
A pretty flush works its way across the apples of her cheeks as she rips her hand away from his.
“Just a drip, please,” she says, already in the process of pulling out enough bills to cover the cost.
“Bit of room at the top, right?”
She nods and Fred gets to work, looking up and catching her eye in the middle of filling the paper cup in his hand.
“I don’t think I got your name last time,” he says as casually as he can manage, willing his heart to settle down as he pushes her coffee toward her.
“That’s because I didn’t give it to you,” she says through a wry smile. “Plus, you never asked.”
He breathes out a chuckle as he rings her up. She was right, of course. Their first meeting had felt like a whirlwind, and his barista brain wasn’t programmed to ask for customers’ names unless they were ordering an espresso based drink from the bar. But if he thought he’d get some pity from the girl who’s dangerously close to leaving The Burrow with his heart tucked against her palm— right beside the drip coffee that seems to be her regular order— he was sorely mistaken.
Instead, she simply smiles brightly up at him as he hands her back her change.
Keeping her eyes locked on his, she drops her change into the tip jar in front of the till and says, “See you around, Fred.”
--
They’re a few weeks into this little dance they do whenever his mystery coffee shop girl decides to grace him with her presence at The Burrow. At twenty-five, Fred’s more than a few years out of school, and he can’t remember the last time he found himself feeling like a teenager with a crush. But there’s something about her that never fails to make his heart feel like it’s moments away from skipping straight out of his chest and following her right out the door whenever she leaves with her drip coffee in hand. He hadn’t realized he’d been so obvious about it though. At least not until one of the Weasleys’ weekly Sunday night family dinners.
It’s there that Fred finds himself the hot topic of conversation. He scowls into his cottage pie when George brings up witnessing one of their interactions, his twin openly teasing him about acting like a besotted school boy. A protest quickly rolls off his tongue the instant his mum joins in on the ribbing, claiming that her mother’s instinct is telling her it seems like it’s a bit more than just a silly little infatuation.
But something feels off in his chest the moment he hears himself insisting that it’s just a bit of harmless flirting on the job— something guaranteed to garner the lot of them a few more tips and nothing more. Because deep in his heart, Fred knows whatever this is feels bigger than that.
He knows that there’s something about the about the ease at which they fall into step with each other during their short conversations— something that always leaves him wanting more. Sometimes he convinces himself that he’d be satisfied to occupy even five more minutes of her time. And sometimes, it’s impossible to ignore the little voice in the back of his head that seems to be conspiring with his heart— the one that keeps insisting that no amount of time spent with her will ever feel like enough.
Still, it feels too soon to be making grand declarations about a girl he hardly knows. Then again, Fred knows some things— important things that he’s collected and catalogued with care over the past few weeks.
He knows the exact hue of the flecks of gold in her eyes, and he knows the bounce of her curls when she walks. He knows the sound of her laugh, and the scrunch of her nose, and the way her hand feels tucked into his. Fred knows that she only ever orders drip coffee, and that she’s particular about the exact amount of cream she pours into it. He’d be hard pressed to ever forget the color her coffee takes on when it’s prepared just right. She’d made sure of that one afternoon when he found himself pouring the cream in for her after she’d looped back around to the bar to let him know the carafe out on the floor had run out of half and half.
“Keep going— until it’s about the same color as your eyes.”
Fred had almost choked on his own tongue when she’d effectively disarmed him with that one, the memory of her giggling on her way out the door after she’d swiped her coffee out of his grasp haunting him long after he’d lost sight of her retreating form.
But the one thing Fred still doesn’t know is what her name is.
--
“Aren’t you ever going to tell me?” He pouts one morning. “It’s not fair that you know my name and I don’t get to know yours.”
He’d always been told the face he makes when he’s begging is almost impossible to resist. He’s inclined to believe it too, or he and George would have spent even more time in detention growing up than they did. But his mystery girl looks completely unperturbed as she shoots him a deadpan look before she continues on with pouring creamer into her cup.
“I was always going to tell you eventually but I don’t know…now it feels like it might be more fun to watch the curiosity kill you for a bit longer,” she teases, laughing when Fred lets out a groan of frustration. “Maybe I should make you try and guess.”
“Like a game?” Fred asks, standing up straight. “What do I get if I win?”
“I don’t know,” She starts, snapping a plastic lid onto her cup. She sets it aside, resting her elbows onto the counter between them and leaning against it. “What do you want if you win?”
He gives into the urge to mirror her position on the opposite side of the counter, leaning toward her as he takes in the words she’s just said. It’s a loaded question and he knows his coffee shop girl realizes it, too. He can practically feel the air crackling between them when their eyes meet, the gold flecks in her own brighter than he’s ever seen them as they point him in the direction of what he hopes is the right response.
“How about if I win, you let me take you out for coffee?”
And when she smiles brightly up at him in response, he knows his answer had been the right one.
--
She’s insistent in the fact that their little game can’t last forever, and Fred’s all too happy to agree to her terms and conditions.
They settle on giving Fred a week to guess correctly, and, with a bit of needling on his end, he convinces her to give him three hints to work off of. Which is how Fred comes to learn that her name isn’t gender neutral, is of Greek origin, and, perhaps most importantly, starts with the letter H.
He feels like he’s got a fighting chance, though a bit of the wind gets sucked out of his sails when he strikes out on his first three guesses (Helena, Hilary, and Hera.) He doesn’t have much luck the next few days when all she does is shake her head in amusement at him when he suggests Hyacinth, Heila, and Hester.
“Hester? Really?” She laughs. “Do I look old enough to be a Hester?”
“Well, for all I know you were named after a great aunt or something,” Fred quips back.
“Alright, that’s fair…” she casts her eyes down to the cup of coffee in her hand, tracing her thumb across the top of the lid to make sure it’s securely on. “Last day tomorrow— you sure you haven’t run out of names on that list of yours?”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that— I’ve got plenty of names left to try out on you,” he assures her, patting the small notebook tucked into his apron. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah— tomorrow,” she’s a few steps away from the door when she turns around and takes a few steps back toward him. “Hey Fred? For what it’s worth…I’m rooting for you to win.”
He cocks his head to the side, contemplating the way her top teeth dig into her bottom lip, the fingers of her free hand twisting into the ends of her curly hair— a habit he’d long since noticed she tends to gravitate toward when she’s nervous.
“You know I’ll still happily take you out for that coffee even if I lose, don’t you?” he finally whispers, his voice soft and just a little bit adoring.
“That’d be breaking the rules though,” she whispers back.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve always been a pretty big believer in the idea that rules were made to be broken.”
“Funny, I’ve always been a stickler for rules myself…” she muses, the skin between her brows puckering in a way that makes Fred long to reach out and smooth it out with his fingertips. Then, as though remembering herself, she sakes her head and sends her wild curls flying through the air. “See you tomorrow, Fred.”
This time, as she makes her way to the door, she doesn’t turn around.
--
Fred’s never seen The Burrow as busy as it is the next day when he comes in for his shift, the tiny coffee shop bombarded with an onslaught of cyclists who’d come in to town for the city’s annual bicycle race.
He’d been so engrossed in going along with he game he and his coffee shop girl had concocted, it had completely slipped his mind that his parents had signed The Burrow up to be a race sponsor. And as he picks his way through the throngs of bodies and bikes, he can’t deny that his parents had had a point when they’d said sponsoring the race would be good for business.
“Freddie, I need you on bar!” George yells at him from where he’s doing his best to keep the flow at the register going. “Lee’s just clocking in— he’s gonna double with you— tell him to start pulling shots so you can focus on steaming.”
He catches a spare apron that gets tossed his way, followed by a clean rag which he tucks into his front pocket. “What are we looking at here, Georgie?” Fred asks.
“Mostly caps, cortados, and shots.”
“Wicked— should be easy then,” he replies, already lining up a trio of steaming pitchers and pouring various milks into them. “Alright, everyone default to-go!” He calls over his shoulder. And then, with a quick turn of a nob, Fred gets to work.
It’s some time later before the crew at The Burrow make their way through the last of the cyclists, Fred clapping Lee on the shoulder, throughly proud of the shop’s newest hire for holding his own through one of the craziest rushes he, himself, has ever worked through in his life.
He sends Lee off to the back to get going on his break, and sets about cleaning up the mess they’d made of the bar amidst the rush.
“One more for you before you break, Freddie,” George says reaching under the bar to grab a large ceramic mug and setting it up right on the steel countertop.
“I thought we agreed to default to-go?” He says tiredly.
“Customer was insistent— something about rules being made to be broken?” George shrugs. “Thought it best not to argue with this one.”
Fred hums ruefully, but gets to work on making the drink in question— a honey vanilla latte that he’s too tired to top with more than a large heart that floats in the foam on top of the drink.
It’s a beverage he’s made more times than he can count, but his heart stutters beneath his ribs when his eyes scan the ticket and finally land on the name attached to the order. And then he’s on the move, honey vanilla latte in hand as he searches The Burrow for the only face he’s wanted to see all morning.
It seems fitting that he’d find her tucked away in the corner and sitting in his favorite armchair, but he still feels like he’s floating in the most wondrous dream he’s ever experienced as his feet carry him in her direction.
“I’ve got a honey vanilla latte for Hermione?” He says once he finally reaches her.
Fred’s setting the latte down and pushing it carefully toward her before she even has a chance to tell him that he’d finally gotten her name right, but her answering smile is more than enough of a confirmation for him.
“I told George not to tell you because it would spoil the fun,” she starts.
“He didn’t,” Fred assures her quickly.
“Then how did you…?”
“I just…saw the name and I knew it was yours,” Fred says.
“Oh,” she replies breathlessly.
“Hermione…”
He repeats it again— slower this time— enjoying the way her name feels skipping across his vocal chords and slipping out of his mouth.
“It’s lovely…” he continues. “And it’s lovely to meet you— properly, that is.”
“Fred…” she replies just as sweetly, softly placing her hand in his outstretched one. “It’s lovely to meet you, too.”