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Snow drifted over London in soft, lazy spirals — pretty when admired from indoors, but miserable as it pelted rosy cheeks outside. Hermione Granger swept into Weasley’s Winks, a family-owned toy and joke shop tucked between a bakery and a bookstore she frequented far more often than she cared to admit.
Weasley’s Winks looked like Christmas had spilled out of someone’s childhood and refused to clean itself up.
From the street, the windows glowed amber and gold, fogged faintly by the warmth inside. A Christmas tree stood proud and a little crooked at the centre, draped in mismatched ornaments — tin stars, chipped baubles, tiny toy soldiers dangling by string. The lights weren’t elegant or coordinated; they blinked and hummed and twinkled with a kind of earnest enthusiasm, like they were trying their very best.
The displays were busy — delightfully so. Plush animals were stacked shoulder to shoulder, their button eyes catching the light. Teddy bears adorned with red ribbons lounged in baskets, like they’d settled in for the season. Precariously stacked wooden blocks spelled out nonsense words. Old-fashioned toy cars sat beside rockets and spinning tops, their paint slightly scuffed, as if they’d already lived a little.
Inside, shelves climbed the walls, packed tight with puzzles, prank kits, canisters of marbles, and toys that whirred or glowed or made noise for no practical reason at all. The air smelled faintly of pine needles, dust, and wrapping paper — thick and crinkly, the kind that fought back when you folded it. Strings of fairy lights zigzagged across the ceiling, taped up in places, sagging in others.
It wasn’t sleek.
It wasn’t curated.
It was alive.
Nothing matched, and somehow everything fit perfectly.
The kind of shop where children pressed their noses to the glass and adults slowed down to peek inside without meaning to. Where whimsy wasn’t ironic or manufactured, but worn-in and loved. Where joy was a little loud, a little chaotic, and entirely sincere.
A place that didn’t care if the world outside was cold — because inside, everything glowed.
The bell above the door let out a cheerful, borderline obnoxious chirp as Hermione stepped inside.
She inhaled sharply, bracing herself.
She worked for the governor’s office — long hours, strict schedules, endless crises wrapped in polished language and careful phrasing. Romance was something other people had time for; her life had no space for anything that didn’t fit neatly between a policy meeting and three unanswered emails.
Her parents had retired years ago and moved to Australia, chasing sunshine and ease she couldn’t quite imagine allowing herself. She couldn’t — or wouldn’t — take time off long enough to follow them across the globe. She had no siblings, no sprawling family orbit to pull her home.
Harry was the exception.
He was her constant, her family, ever since their boarding school days — shared textbooks, late-night studying, and stubborn loyalty. Now he had a son, and somehow that made everything feel heavier and brighter all at once.
She blinked around at her charmingly chaotic surroundings.
“God,” she murmured to herself. “It’s like someone let a five-year-old design a shop.”
"I guess that's our aesthetic!" A voice from the corner responded.
Hermione startled so hard she nearly dropped her tote bag.
A tall redhead straightened behind a stack of novelty toys, grinning — wide, boyish, and annoyingly handsome for someone wearing a staff apron with a cartoon whoopee cushion printed across the front. Beneath it, he wore a light blue button-up, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. The fabric pulled slightly across broad shoulders, and Hermione found herself momentarily — and unhelpfully — distracted.
Mid-twenties, she guessed.
Too handsome for retail.
Owner?
“Oh,” she breathed, recovering. “Hi—”
“Sorry — didn’t mean to startle you,” he said easily, wiping his hands on his apron. “Welcome to Weasley’s Winks. What can I help you find today?”
Hermione pressed her lips together. “A Christmas present. For a five-year-old.”
He nodded gravely, as if she’d announced she needed a rare surgical instrument.
“And you’ve never met a child before?”
“I’ve met them,” she said, exasperated. “I just… don’t shop for them. Ever. Especially not at Christmas.”
“You’ve been here thirty seconds,” he said, amused. “You’re already spiraling. Impressive.”
She bristled — because he wasn’t wrong. Harry was the first in their friend group to have a child, and Hermione had no idea how to navigate this new terrain. Or what a five-year-old even liked beyond vague concepts like noise and chaos.
“It’s not spiraling,” she shot back. “It’s stress. There’s a difference.”
“Mm,” he said lightly. “If you say so.”
Hermione huffed despite herself — because yes, he was irritating, but also irritatingly funny.
“It’s my friend Harry’s son,” she explained. “First Christmas since the adoption. I don’t want to be boring.”
“Aww,” he said, eyes softening. “So there’s pressure to be the cool honorary aunt.”
“Exactly! And I am not showing up with socks.”
“At least you know that’s illegal in most social circles.”
Hermione laughed — unwillingly, but sincerely.
“So,” he said, rubbing his palms together, “tell me about the kid.”
“He’s five.”
He waited.
She stared back blankly.
“Alright,” he drawled deadpan. “We’re working with a lot of information here.”
Hermione paused, gathering herself. “I haven’t spent much time around him yet. I’m… trying. I just want to be the cool aunt-figure.”
“Ah.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “You want to impress the kid and look good in front of the dad.”
“No — I mean — Harry is like my brother.”
“Sure,” he said, giving her the most unconvincing nod in human history.
Her brow creased. Why did she feel the need to clarify that?
The thought lingered longer than she liked — like she cared what this stranger thought of her.
He pushed off the counter. “Alright. Mission: Impress the five-year-old is a go. Tell me what he likes.”
“Uh… well.” Hermione stalled. “As I mentioned — he’s five.”
He stared at her expectantly.
She stared back.
“That’s all you’ve got?” He asked after far too many seconds of silence had passed. Hermione felt like she was failing a test that she hadn’t studied for, in a class she didn’t want to attend.
“That’s literally all I’ve got, she admitted with a resigned huff.
“Well, brilliant,” he muttered, though his grin never faded. “Come on then. Crash course in child enthusiasm.”
He led her through aisles upon aisles of colorful nonsense — fake snowballs, plush dragons, LED wands, things that jangled and flared for no reason other than to annoy parents. And yet, Hermione found herself smiling as she followed him.
As they flitted around the shop, she noticed the way he greeted people along the way — a quick grin here, a gentle joke there, remembering a child’s name, crouching to answer a question at eye level. He seemed entirely at ease, like his lanky form belonged among the clutter and noise.
She’d thought he was tall at the counter.
Walking behind him, she realized just how tall he actually was.
Her gaze snagged — unhelpfully — on the broad line of his shoulders, the way he had to duck slightly beneath a strand of drooping fairy lights. He had to be well over six feet. Closer to six-three, maybe even six-four. The thought landed with an odd, fluttery weight in her chest.
“You really enjoy this job, don’t you?” she ventured.
He glanced back over his shoulder. “Yeah. I do.”
There was something warm and wondrous in his tone — and unexpectedly sincere.
“Turns out helping people laugh is a decent way to spend a life,” he added quietly.
Hermione looked at him longer than she meant to.
He noticed — and immediately knocked over a stack of plastic buckets.
They clattered loudly across the floor.
She smirked. “Smooth.”
“I meant to do that,” he muttered, ears pink.
Side by side, they knelt to gather the buckets. Their hands brushed once — bare skin against bare skin — and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat.
He paused, too, eyes flicking up in surprise.
She snatched her hand back as if burnt by the contact, and stood far too quickly, putting some much-needed distance between them. “So. Gift ideas?”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Option one: dinosaurs. Universal classics.”
She squeezed a plush T. rex jutting menacingly from one of the haphazard shelves. It roared so loudly she startled back.
“No,” she said quickly. “Absolutely not.”
“Option two: prank kit.”
“A hard no. Harry would never speak to me again.”
He winced. “Fair point.”
“What else?” she asked.
His eyes lit in childlike excitement, snapping his fingers. “I got it. A rocket kit.”
Hermione perked up. “A rocket?”
“Build-your-own. A classic. Safe, but ridiculously cool.”
She smiled — delighted. It was educational and wouldn’t cause Harry to tear out his hair — but would still earn her serious cool aunt points.
“That’s perfect.”
He grinned, lifting a box from the shelf. “So are you.”
Hermione’s breath halted.
His smile faltered as he registered her expression — eyes widening just a fraction — and in his sudden panic, his hand tightened around the plush dinosaur tucked under his arm.
The T-rex let out a deafening, electronic ROAR.
They both jumped.
“Oh— I—” He winced, fumbling with the toy, cheeks flaming. “I didn’t mean— I mean—”
The dinosaur roared again.
Hermione bit back a laugh.
“…I meant,” he said finally, mortified, “like, you’re good at finding things. Gifts. Whatever.”
“That made no sense,” she murmured, smiling now.
“I panicked,” he admitted.
She bit her lip to hide her grin. “Thank you, though.”
He ducked his head, pleased and embarrassed all at once. “C’mon. Let’s ring it up.”
As they rounded the counter, he added, a little too quickly, “We do gift wrapping, by the way.”
“Oh, good,” she sighed. “Please. I need all the help I can get.”
“Pick a paper.”
She studied her options — and immediately despaired. Technicolour stars, glitter explosions, screaming snowmen, dinosaurs wearing sunglasses. Everything was too bright, too loud, too… neon.
“Please choose for me,” she whispered.
He laughed softly. Reached past her — too close — and brandished a navy blue roll printed with white and silver little bows.
“This one suits you,” he said, voice lower than before.
Her stomach dipped. “Does it?”
He didn’t move, didn’t step back for just a half-second too long.
Then he wrapped the gift, his large hands surprisingly deft and gentle as they folded each corner with care. Seconds melded into minutes as she watched him, and she couldn’t help but feel disappointed when he finished, tying a neat red ribbon around the package.
“You’re good at this,” she marvelled.
“Occupational hazard.” He slid the box toward her with an easy shrug. “And I like making people happy.”
She took the gift, her fingers brushing his.
A scintillating spark.
Again.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Anytime.” A beat. “Well…I had to save a kid from receiving socks. Shopkeeper’s duty.”
She laughed. “I promise socks were not an option!”
Then Hermione hesitated as a hazy plan unfurled, her heart tapping faster than it should. “Are you… working Christmas Eve?”
“Yeah.” His smile curved, slow and crooked. “Planning to panic-buy fifty more presents? Should I be worried?”
She rolled her eyes. “I was thinking of bringing you hot chocolate. As a thank you for your help.”
His grin softened into something shy and warm and unmistakably interested. “I’d really like that.”
Her cheeks reddened. “Good. Then… see you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow.”
She stepped back into the snow, rocket kit tucked safely under the crook of her arm, her heart far too toasty for the December chill.
Behind her, through the frosted window, he leaned on the counter and watched her go — smiling as if Christmas had come early.
⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆
Ron Weasley flipped the sign on the front door of Weasley’s Winks from OPEN to CLOSING SOON, though the shop had been empty for nearly half an hour. The streets outside were quiet, softened by a blanket of fresh snow. Inside, only the squeaky nasal jingle of a novelty reindeer kept him company.
He swept the floors again — not because it needed it, but because it kept his hands busy while he fought against the hope clawing in his chest.
She said she’d come by.
The pretty brunette with the quick wit and sharp tongue. The one who blushed when she laughed and bit her lip when she tried not to. The one who’d wandered into his shop yesterday and somehow lodged herself in the quiet places he hadn’t looked at in a long time.
Ever since the clock struck six, he’d been glancing at the door every few minutes.
Ridiculous.
He should not be this eager. Not after one random interaction. Not when she was clearly so polished and educated — probably a lawyer, or a professor, or something fancy involving briefcases and deadlines. The type of woman who ran her life like a well-organized folder.
And he was… just a guy in an apron covered in novelty food jokes.
He sighed, leaning the broom against the counter.
“Don’t get attached,” he muttered to himself. “People get busy. It’s Christmas Eve. She probably had a better offer than bringing drinks to some bloke in a toy shop.”
Still… the way she’d looked at him yesterday — surprised and amused, hard edges softening as they strolled around the shop — it had ignited something warm in his heart. Something he wasn’t sure he deserved, but God, he missed feeling it.
He tugged at the apron strings, suddenly restless.
This time last year, he’d been in a suit and tie, working on the stock exchange — staring at numbers until they blurred, competing with colleagues who treated burnout like a badge of honor. He’d been praised for his “grit,” his “hustle,” his “capacity.”What they really meant was: you’re good at destroying yourself.
By spring, the headaches were constant. The panic consumed him. The emptiness crept in.
So he quit.
Luckily, he had savings. Investments. Enough to step away and breathe for the first time in years. Enough to join George at the shop and not feel guilty about it.
Working here… with family, with kids, with laughter… it was the happiest he’d been since he was a teenager.
But the brunette — the mystery woman with the intelligent eyes — she sparked something else entirely.
Hope. Maybe.
Which was stupid.
“What if she doesn’t show?” he muttered as he began to pace.
His stomach dipped.
“What if she does?” whispered a more dangerous thought.
Ron exhaled sharply.
He was getting ahead of himself. Again. And yet, he waited.
On his fifth pass by the till, the bell above the door chirped.
Ron’s heart lurched.
A gust of cool air swept in, along with the scent of cinnamon, winter, and something faintly floral he remembered from yesterday. Her.
She stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed from the cold, wool coat dusted with snowflakes. She carried a paper drink tray as if it were an offering.
“Hi,” she said breathlessly. “I hope I’m not too late.”
Ron stared. Just stared.
“Y—you came back,” he finally managed.
She smiled — slow, genuine, warm enough to melt frost.
“Of course I came.” She lifted the tray. “Two hot chocolates. I didn’t know which kind you’d like, so I brought options.”
Ron swallowed. No one had ever brought him hot chocolate. Not once.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” she cut in.“Peppermint or marshmallow?”
He blinked. “Uh — either?”
She tutted and passed him one of the cups. “Here — marshmallow. It felt… festive.”
Her gloved fingers brushed against his bare ones, a soft spark shooting through the thick fabric and ensnaring him anyway.
“Good call,” he said, grinning as he took it. “Thanks.”
They stood there for a second longer than necessary, closer than necessary. Only the steam of the hot chocolate curled between them, the shop still except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.
“Oh,” she said suddenly, tilting her head. “I just realised — I never got your name last time. I feel like most places have name tags, but…” She gestured vaguely at his apron. “You don’t.”
He glanced down at himself, the corner of his lips twitching. “Ah. Yeah, we’re not big on formality.”
“I can tell.” She grinned. “I’m Hermione.”
The name landed softly — precise, elegant. It suited her.
“Ron,” he said. Then, after a beat, added, “My brothers own the shop. I just… help keep things running. Make sure nothing sets fire.”
“Well,” Hermione said, lifting her cup, “you’re very good at it.”
Something warm loosened in his chest.
She wandered a few steps deeper into the shop, glancing up at the twinkle lights strung unevenly across the ceiling. “It’s even more charming at night.”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “Charming is… not the word I’d typically hear.”
“Well,” she said, sipping her drink, “maybe most people don’t know how to appreciate whimsy.”
“Whimsy,” he repeated, amused. “That’s definitely one way to describe it.”
“You should hear the words I use when I’m impressed,” she teased.
His ears turned pink.
Slowly, they drifted back toward the counter, standing a breath apart in the quiet of the shop.
“Do you always work Christmas Eve?” she asked.
“Not usually,” he said. “But this year felt… right. Ending the year doing something that actually feels good.”
Her expression softened — truly softened — in only the way someone could when they recognized their own story reflected back at them. It only intrigued him more.
“That’s brave,” she commended quietly.
Ron hummed.
Brave wasn’t the word he’d ever used. Quitting had felt like failing.
Like walking away from everything he’d worked for.
But she looked at him like she saw something admirable in the wreckage.
He cleared his throat. “Mostly I just wanted a year where my job didn’t… eat me alive.”
“That sounds very reasonable.” She nodded.
“What about you?” he asked. “You seem like someone with… I dunno. An Important Job. Capital I, capital J.”
She laughed under her breath. “Why would you think that?”
“You’ve got the… presence?” Ron winced. “Is that weird? That sounded weird.”
“A little,” she teased.
He groaned softly. “Told you.”
She leaned her hip against the counter, turning to face him fully now — open, curious. “You made your last job sound horrible,” she said gently. “Tell me what it was, and I’ll tell you what I do.”
Ron hesitated.
He hadn’t meant to talk about it. Hadn’t meant to crack that door open. But something about the way she asked — steady, no pressure — made it feel not only possible, but freeing.
“I used to work at the London Stock Exchange,” he said. “Finance. Long hours. Longer days. Everything was urgent, everything was competitive, and if you weren’t burning yourself out, someone else was happy to do it for you.”
Her expression didn’t change — didn’t flinch or glaze over.
“It just…” He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “It took over. I didn’t like who I was becoming. Didn’t like how little time I had for anyone who wasn’t work.”
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. That was probably a lot.”
“It wasn’t,” she reassured immediately.
Then, after a beat, she added, “I work for the governor’s office.”
His eyebrows lifted. “That is an Important Job.”
She smiled, but there was something rueful in it. “It’s demanding. And I want to go into politics someday. Actually be in the room where decisions are made.”
Ron watched her closely.
“But,” she continued, voice quieter now, “it’s… harder than people think. Especially when you’re young. Especially when you’re a woman. People don’t always take you seriously.”
Something in Ron’s chest tightened — admiration, sharp and immediate.
“That sounds exhausting,” he said.
“It is,” she admitted. “But I care. And that makes it worth it. Most days.”
Their eyes held — too long, too knowing — the air between them thick and thrumming with something honest and fragile. And terrifyingly, he found that he wanted more than this brief moment taking shape between them. He needed more.
Ron took a steadying breath.
Now or never.
“Listen,” he said, words tumbling out a little rougher than planned, “I was thinking — maybe after Christmas… if you wanted… we could grab a drink. Or dinner. Or something less terrifying than how I’m wording this.”
The moment the words left his mouth, regret flickered.
She was beautiful. Successful. Clearly driven. She probably already had a boyfriend, or at least someone pining after her. Hell, maybe even Harry, since she hadn’t mentioned him having a partner.
Ron internally cringed, already bracing himself for a polite smile and a gentle letdown.
Then her expression brightened — unguarded and certain — blooming like the first spring flower from the embers of winter.
“I’d love that,” she enthused.
Ron blinked. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She beamed, then added gently, “You’re very easy to like.”
Ron laughed — disbelieving, breathless, undone. “Well. That’s good. Because so are you.”
She glanced down at her cup, then back up at him, eyes dancing.
“By the way,” she said lightly, “I should probably know your number if I’m agreeing to a date.”
His smile turned sheepish. “Fair point.”
They traded phones, fingers brushing again as they passed them back and forth. Hermione typed his name into her contacts, then glanced up at him.
“Ron,” she read aloud.
The way she spoke each letter of his name made his chest do something alarming.
“So,” she continued, stepping just a little closer, “after Christmas, then.”
Before he could even register, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek — brief and soft, yet unexpected and devastating in the best possible way.
He felt something expand — warm, hopeful, undeniable.
“After Christmas,” he echoed.
As she stepped back, she waved, then turned and slipped out into the flurrying snow.
Outside, it fell soft and steady — like a promise.
Inside, Ron Weasley leaned against the counter, hand brushing the curve of his cheek, still flushed where her kiss had landed, and heart filled with renewed hope.
FIN
⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆