Balancing a stack of teacups that was taller than a baby, Emmylou tossed a nod at an incoming patron. “I’ll be with you in just a moment,” she promised, turning sharply with luck-infused balance to find room on the shelf for the shiny white china. It became apparent in one glance that it wasn’t going to fit in a singular tower. With a wave of her wand, she magicked the stack in half, and the teacups shivered onto the shelf with a certain sassiness.

Her mother had owled her earlier to tell her that George was finally a new father. Lou had almost wanted to Floo in sick to work that day, so that she could ambush George at her other place of work (St. Mungo’s), but she liked Pandora too much to do that to her without actually having at least a cold.

And so Emmylou was counting down the hours, waiting to hop over to Honeydukes and buy mountains of pink-coated (or red-coated) chocolates for a baby who was too young to eat chocolate. But Lou could eat chocolate. So could George. And Nolan, if she wasn’t busy fretting over the dental health of her hours-old baby. Combatting Waker’s Ravenclaw nature would take more than just George. If the baby was going to end up in Gryffindor one day, they had to start her early. Emmylou had this.

She also had a job to do. Buying chocolate— and paying rent for her own place— meant working. She liked Puddifoot’s, its pace, its atmosphere. It was a good fit at this point in her life. The facelift Pandora had given the formerly stuffy teashop made Emmy glad to stroll in every morning— even if sometimes she’d rather be sleeping. She enjoyed coming to work here as much as she enjoyed spying on healers at her other gig. It kept her busy from pondering her breakup, or whether her sister’s judgmental stares and tired words had any merit.

“See, I keep my promises. What can I get you?” She asked, stuffing a tea towel into the waist of her apron and leaning into the counter with a toothy smile.

The atmosphere in the establishment wasn't exactly his normal idea of a good place to hang out, but they had some killer coffee.  He walked in with his usual smirk on his face and found a table near the back.  He hadn't been in here in awhile, but he'd heard that there was a cute girl or two working here now.  Arrow watched as a waitress levitated a couple stacks of cups onto a shelf and then go to a table close to him and ask what she could get them.

Arrow couldn't resist, he cut in before an answer could be given and replied, his smirk firmly in place and a spark of humor in his eyes, "I'll have a coffee, black, with a shot of you." He knew it was cheesy, but sometimes the cheesiest lines worked on women.  The younger the better he'd found.  He smiled and wiggled his eyebrows as he waited for her response.

Lou’s brows danced upward as the newcomer’s waggled, and her mouth seemed to settle somewhere between caught-off-gaurd and most-definitely-humored. She shifted back on her elbows, straightening up a bit even as she conspired. She pegged him with an inquiring look. “I bet you say that to all the small town baristas.”

Hogsmeade was a small town, even if Emmylou from Birmingham and lived in London.

Straightening up completely now, she smiled the kind of smile that prefaced a laugh, and tilted her head just a bit to the side to size up the somewhat familiar, not unattractive face from a different vantage point. "How about a shot of espresso? Ours is killer.”

As she waited for confirmation of his order— who didn’t like coffee on top of coffee?— she decided they’d definitely been in school together. Despite his tastes in pickup lines, he hadn’t been her housemate. “Were you a Slytherin?” She tried, eyes squeezing a bit as she ran through her memory.

Roger Davies had forgotten his mother’s birthday. Well, that wasn’t entirely correct; he had been aware of his mother’s birthday but with the hoopla of two grueling matches and the endless media circus circulating around the names of the World Cup players – Roger reprising his role on the Irish National Team – there simply hadn’t been enough hours in the day to steal away and visit his mother… but it wasn’t every day your mom turned 50.

Chocolate shop or Puddifoot’s… Chocolate shop or Puddifoot’s. Roger's mind weighed between the two options while he raised his bag free hand to scratch absent-mindedly at a spot on his cheek… what would be the best Please-Don’t-Hate-Me-Mum-I-Didn’t-Mean-To-Forget-I’m-Stupid-But-I-Love-You gift? He knew how much his mom loved chocolates, and yet she always tried – and failed – to drag Roger to Puddifoot’s for brunch. His hand dropped with a tired jerk, slipping into the pocket of his jeans. A cigarette would be the perfect thing right now. Roger retrieved the small rectangular package containing the clove cigarettes, placed it between his lips and exchanged the pack in his pocket for a small matchbook with two matches. The first match burnt out in the wind before he could light the cigarette. He inhaled the phosphorous smell; it scraped his throat, and stung his nose. The second match broke in half from the ferocity he struck it with.

He gave a huff as if with that, he could blow his thoughts too and then tossed the unlit cigarette to the ground. Oh well, I really shouldn’t smoke anyway. Pinching the bridge his nose, he sighed. At least mum would be happy In the fifteen years since he’d picked up the disgusting habit, Eily Davies had not stopped nagging him to quit. He knew he should quit, but if a bludger didn’t kill him then he doubted a cigarette could.

Making up his mind, Roger strolled into Puddifoot’s; at the very least he could pick up some loose-leaf tea and a box of their fantastic scones. Inside, he paused to look around. It didn’t look nearly as obnoxious as he remembered from his Hogwarts days… days when he brought more girls here than he honestly could count. Ladies seemed to like it, anyway.
Giving a smile and nod, he walked up to the counter and paused, waiting for the exchange between the younger man and the barista to end; he knew that body language and didn’t want to ruin someone’s game.

Unfortunately for the aspiring Arrow, Rick, on the other hand, had no such qualms, and upon stepping into the tea shop– almost spotting Emmylou instantly– Rick went right for her, an easy, drawling smile dimpling those stubbled cheeks. “Hey,” he grinned, and lightly touching an elbow he leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Long time no see. You working here now?”

Despite the pretty large age gap between them, the Gryffindor alumnus was okay for a kid, in Rick’s opinion—which, coming from him, was high praise for anyone above the age of thirteen. She was bright, with a fire that kept him from dismissing her outright, and a hands-on approach to things he could understand. The sass, too, was a good thing; for all the werewolf griped and scowled about disrespect, it was as much an invite as any to let go himself, basically a welcome mat for his own brand of snark.

And Rick – while perfectly capable of politeness to make any mam proud – relaxed best when he wasn’t holding back. That didn’t mean he used it as an excuse to like, lay waste to all and sundry, but the ‘real’ Rick wasn’t a very nice one. He snapped and sneered and mocked like any cursed mirror, and took to rudeness like a duck to water. Sometimes he just was simply by being, like now.

Merlin knew how Lou coped, but she did, or seemed to, and he… He appreciated it. Which was why he was here now, dressed comfortably in snug black denim and a plain henley under that leather jacket, his boots one of the ‘nice’ pairs he had. She was a friend– or as much a friend as any eighteen-nineteen-something-year-old could be, in his case– and that meant looking at least semi-human-decent when one went out to see her. He didn’t even bother with the usual excuse of tagging along with CeeCee, who he would have lurked behind, pretending he was there against his will.

(Though that, he’d insist, was because he already had his own, legitimate reasons for being on his own.)

But before long, the werewolf seemed to realize that, yes, she had been dealing with another person, this one smelling vaguely young male-ish (which was to say, of an amalgamation of scents most typically associated with one young and confident, if his appearance was anything to go by) and a little sour, so he backed off enough to give her space—albeit barely. “Sorry,” he blinked down at Arrow tonelessly, the same way one would go huh. “Didn’t see you there. Friend of yours?” The question directed at Lou, Rick lifted a brow.

KNAVE, the kid’s knuckles had read when he’d looked at them. Jesus.

Deciding that he better quit while he was ahead and said, "Sure love, coffee with a shot of espresso would be delightful.  And yes, I was a Slytherin, was I that easy to read?" he asked her and then leaned back in his chair.  "I try so hard not to act like... oh who am I kidding, I act the same way now as when I was in school." [1]

1.	sorry it's short

Lou grinned approvingly, glad to take an order she could fill. If bartenders had to put up with flirty, uninhibited patrons throwing back the pints, baristas dealt with those of the caffeinated persuasion. Although this one didn’t have the coffee jitters yet, and he was already feeling bold. She guessed when you had a face like that— and added in a Slytherin pedigree degree, because Emmylou was proudly biased— things slipped off the tongue. Nothing she couldn’t handle and match with her own brand of banter.

“I think we graduated the same year,” she prefaced, softening the evaluation. “And you weren’t in my house.” It was said, like frequently, in a voice that was a wink. "So how many shots have you had today?” She ventured boldly, still grinning. She wasn’t talking about actual shots.

But before she went to pull the actual shot for her chatty new customer, another walked in. And then another! Puddifoot’s was booming at this odd hour. Emmylou knew how to bring all of the tea-drinkers to the yard.

She offered a nodding smile at the first man, and if she wasn’t juggling (expertly) her attention and the mighty tasks of her job, she would have more immediately recognized Davies, the chaser for Pride of Portee.

The third familiar face was the most familiar, and the witch turned her bright grin on him. “Hey, yourself,” she greeted, managing to snake a hand around Rick to give him a squeeze just after her other hand picked up a coffee cup. “I am. I only hope CeeCee doesn’t take it as a sign of dissent.” They both knew she didn’t, his brilliant sister. “What are you doing in Hogsmeade?” She asked nosily, but not unkindly

Her eyes followed Rick’s back to the Slytherin alum and her smile redoubled. “We’re ex-classmates.” Which was true, even if they’d never really talked. “He’s letting me in on his secrets.” Lou turned to pour the coffee, set it aside for a moment, the looked over her shoulder as she began to pull the shot. “What can I get you two?” She asked, eyes roaming from Rick to the other man— on whom they lingered. “Pride of Portee,” she assessed triumphantly. “You’re Roger Davies.” It was a friendly accusation.

She turned around with another set of raised brows, poured the shot into the coffee, and pushed it proudly in front of the younger man with a kind of flourish. “Enjoy.”

Watching the strange scene unfolding before him, the handsome young man trading subtle barbs and postering for the attention of the pretty barista from the much more intimidating friend of the girl, Roger sighed softly. Damnit, all he wanted was to get some tea and get out of here. He'd let his mind wander, tired, until the mention of his team's name snapped him back to life.

"Ah, right you are." Roger gave her a polite smile, nodding his head. She didn't seem like a crazed fan; he'd already had one of those earlier today when a man slipped a piece of parchment under the door to the loo. Roger had been so taken aback he'd actually signed the damned thing with an awkward 'you're welcome'. The other two men seemed interested in placing dominance over the pretty barista's attention, so he took the opportunity to get his much needed gift. "I, uhm, need to get a gift for my mum. Something that lets her know I'm not a terrible son for not sending her flowers and chocolate on her birthday."

Though he snorted at Arrow’s answer, it was a quiet one, albeit mostly because Rick didn’t bother to look his way. Instead, eyes on Emmylou, the corners of his mouth twitched up into a grin; he’d wish the kid good luck if he thought she’d let him get away with it. “Black,” he replied, eyes crinkling with amusement as he watched her attention drift.

It was enough for him to make up his mind.

As Emmylou poured, Rick pulled himself a seat– at Arrow’s table. He was neither noisy nor particularly obtrusive about it (though God knew just the action alone was obtrusive on its own), but as big as he was… well. He had a way of taking up space. Settling back in his chair, the werewolf looked every inch at home in the tea shop– which was to say, content where he was. And he stared.

 The kid was good-looking enough, Rick supposed as he took in the sloping cheek bones, but cocky. Even if he hadn’t opened his mouth the proof of it was right there, plain as day as the ink on his hand, in the form of an air the werewolf knew all too well, because he had it himself; it was the knowledge of knowing what you had and being used to that. It was, in all honesty, as much as anyone could expect of a kid of his looks and age.

But it remained to be seen if the kid actually knew anything more than that. He looked like he was still in the business of biting off more than he could chew.

Suddenly the thoughtful look stretched into a broad, lazy grin. “Donovan,” Rick smiled, offering him a hand. It was, by all appearances, perfectly harmless.

Arrow didn't show any sort of surprise to the person who was now sitting at the same table as him.  He didn't really care who he kept company with and rather enjoyed new acquaintances.  "Thatcher," he responded, giving the offered hand a firm shake with a smile on his face.  "I do believe you are stealing the attention of the young lady away from me good sir." he said good-naturedly, he wasn't going to start anything in here, he'd been banned from too many places lately.

"I, uhm, need to get a gift for my mum. Something that lets her know I'm not a terrible son for not sending her flowers and chocolate on her birthday.”

“Sure thing. I’ll get you samples of our most popular, and some of Dora’s favorites. Or does she like any particular notes?”

Emmylou started to move on to the next drink while she waited for Roger Davies to elaborate. Some days were slow, even boring in terms of customers, but now was anything but. As she continued lending a barista’s ear to the gifts-for-mum dilemma (she knew the struggle was real) and pouring their strongest black coffee for Rick, she couldn’t help her darting eyes. The customer at the front of the queue was a quidditch star, and America’s finest export had taken a seat with Puddifoot’s newest knave, the sort of introduction one didn’t even pretend to not watch.

She levitated the coffee over to Rick and began to pull down tins to offer samples to Roger. “This one’s rose and chocolate. You’ll get your flowers and sweets in in one go,” she explained. “And this is a stronger black tea, no nonsense, but all of the hardcore tea drinkers love it. And this—”

"I do believe you are stealing the attention of the young lady away from me good sir.”

Oh, dear.

Lou’s face displayed a sudden talent for animation, mixing a couple of expressions at once, the result being a blab-before-thinking countenance that she nevertheless wore well. The huge grin layered beneath a yikes and cushioned by a rare bit of stagger was accompanied by a momentary pause, her hand midway to another scoop of loose leaves. Her eyes landed not on Thatcher, but on Rick, whose reaction she shamelessly awaited.

Her hand remembered its task in the same second. “I’m a good multitasker,” she promised, her voice friendly as she addressed the Slytherin alum and continued to pull up the next sample. He’d so eloquently called her a young lady, so she felt the need assure him.

Her eyes reluctantly peeled away from the scene and landed back on Roger, whom she offered a smile. “Plenty of attention for everyone.” But then her gaze returned to the table again, flickering back and forth like a clock on speed potions. She held up the sample. “Orange blossom.”