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Being a squib isn't so bad. It's kind of like being a muggle, except you're gifted with the beautiful unending knowledge that magic does exist. Magic you get to see in action almost every single day of your life. With magical parents and six magical siblings I've never gone a day without it. At least until I went to the mainland for school.
Taking the galleons from the young witch in front of me I smile brightly. No one can tell I'm a squib since the bakery part is run behind closed doors. Plus Fred and George stop in every morning to set up any spells I need. Everytime they also take the opportunity to make off with a dozen donuts. Each.
Out of all the magical siblings possible on the planet those two are undoubtedly the worst two older brothers a bloke could ask for. Actually I love them for it though, because they've never treated me any differently growing up like Bill, Charlie or Percy did. In their case they either tried too hard, or in Percy's ignored me entirely.
It was kind of fun helping raise Ginny though. She has always come to me with her problems because I'm different, just like how she's the only girl besides our mum. Besides, best quidditch player in the league? I get to say that's my little sister.
"Thanks," the blond witch says, taking her small bag of biscuits.
“Have a good day," I recite easily.
Customer service isn't different between muggles and the wixen. The muggles might be a bit ruder actually. Why? I have no idea. Maybe because they are reliant on each other when they don't want to be.
Diagon Alley is still busy but the morning rush has gone, giving me time to let Neville take a break. He's an odd bloke trying to find his lot in life, but he's nice. If he lasts the month maybe we can get a pint together. As a new boss I don't want to give wrong impressions.
Two women and a man sit over in one of the booths along the wall. I may have gone a little to muggle with my interior design. I blame the fact that the only culinary schools that exist are muggle, but aside from a few curious glances given when people first walk in, business is good. The looks in a new shop are expected anyways.
It's why seeing the black haired bloke opening the door raising an eyebrow as he looks around doesn't bother me. The other customers are just hanging about having a good time so I focus on him. Something he quickly notices, his cautious surveying giving way to a perfect grin. Cocky bloke.
"Morning. What can I get you?" I ask, and I'm surprised when he stuffs his hands in his long black coat instead of leaning arrogantly against the counter. "Fancy a pasty or maybe some muffins?"
Pointing up to the hanging menu, I then gesture to my left. Quite the assortment of bakes are in clear cases ready to go. He's probably already seen the options set up against the window to tempt people inside.
"I suppose you could get me a lot," he says.
While he's tall, the bloke still manages to look at me through his lashes. The fact I like men allows me to read into his words. Admittedly when a handsome man tries to make a move on me I usually jump like a slag.
"My name's Harry," he offers. "Haven't seen you around the alley before."
"Well, it is a new shop so…" I trail off because honestly that was an embarrassing line. "Ron."
Harry nods his head approvingly, which makes me want to comb his hair. It's a bloody bird's nest, not at all matching his otherwise professional attire. I blame Ginny and the years spent doing her hair.
"You know what, just give me a bag," he shrugs, not sparing a glance at anything other than me. "Stuff it for me… with whatever you recommend."
Turning to the task quickly, I move away before a blush forms. I don't know if that was a play on words also or if my brain has dropped down into my trousers. Based on the warm auror coming from the bloke, and his soft green eyes that don't match the overconfidence I wouldn't put it past the latter.
"You look familiar," Harry suddenly says. "What year were you?"
"Year?" I repeat, thankful for the distraction.
"School?" Harry clarifies. "1997. Slytherin. You definitely weren't in my house or year."
"Oh," I realize, trying not to panic because not all wixen are accepting of squibs and I'm interested in him I think. "Uh, 1996. Hufflepuff."
"Aww," Harry coos and every stereotype I know instantly calls me a prat. "No wonder you look so sweet. I can only imagine the taste."
"Oi," I breathe in disbelief, going back over to him and sitting the bulging bag down with an overwhelmed laugh. "Bit forward are we?"
"What do you mean?" Harry asks, smiling smugly and great I've met a trouble maker.
I send him a playful glare. Calling customers names, even teasingly, isn't good form. At least vocally. It's tempting though when he raises his dark eyebrows knowingly.
"9 galleons and six sickles," I tell him and he digs around in his coat obediently before producing the money.
"I think I'd prefer the mobile with you," Harry says at random, and I'm confused until he pulls a business card out of thin air. "Call me."
Harry doesn't wait for a response. He sits the card down, grabbing his bag as he turns on his heel and heads back out the door. I watch him disappear past the window before picking it up to see what it says. The information makes my ears ring in a way that has nothing to do with the hybrid phone number.
Harry Potter
Quidditch World League
Official Broom Designer
London, United Kingdom