Emmylou loved working nights in the cozy, updated teashop: the weather outside was no match for Puddifoot’s warmth, nor its delicious smells. Those settling into an after-work cup were much more relaxed than those patrons rushing around in the morning, and Lou could idle in conversation a bit more while still doing her job. She didn’t shy away from diving into conversations with customers from all walks of life; it was one of her strengths on the job, and made up for a less-than-stellar resume.

Despite the weekend, there were still plenty of people tucking into their second post-work cup; Hogsmeade was often busiest on weekends, and so were its employees. Of course, the regulars were no match for the Hogwarts crowds, nor the Saturday nightlife that came in droves from all over Wizarding Britain. There were dates aplenty, young couples taking in a quiet night, or else pre-gaming for the clubs and pubs with a classier bite to eat at the coffee shop.

One such wizard waiting on a date seemed to be running out of luck. His familiar mug did not prevent Emmylou from feeling a bit bad, if also admittedly slightly amused: someone standing up a professional quidditch player didn’t happen every day, at least in her estimation. Not that his job could make or break him, as far as dates went. Emmylou had met plenty of quidditch players who were not worth their pickup lines. If she had just gotten out of a relationship with one, it did not color her opinion to the point of writing them all off. After all, she had played quidditch in school was still an avid follower of the sport.

“Can I get you something else?” She asked, stopping in front of his table with her usual tray. She hadn’t wanted to poke around while he waited: it was more customary Her apron was stuffed with a pad, a pen, and her wand. Her eyes wandered to the empty seat across from his, and back to Roger Davies. “Maybe she’s fashionably late,” she offered, her tone sympathetic, her lips curved up with friendly humor. “You wouldn’t believe what we go through sometimes.” Because sympathy for his absentee date was exactly what he wanted to hear.

Roger seemed to find himself at Puddifoot's more often than not lately, something that he wouldn't readily admit in a conversation. He'd come by at least three times last month, once to pick up tea and cupcakes for his mum for Valentine's day, and then again when his mum guilted him into going because he had forgotten her birthday. Roger would also never admit he really liked their rose and strawberry tea (of course pressed into a ridiculous heart shape) and stopped by twice on his own in the last month to pick up a batch.

No, this time Roger had came to Puddifoot's on a date. Or at least, it was supposed to be a date. To be honest he felt a little silly, going on a date at Puddifoot's at the age of 32. Then again, the girl in question was only 26, though sometimes she acted fresh out of Hogwarts. She was what they called a 'broom bunny', a very attractive woman who only dated Quidditch players. After a half-an-hour he'd pulled out a small piece of parchment and sketched a small pitch then wrote down some numbers next to it. Roger loved math; it was the only thing he could really count on.
Looking up from his equations, Roger paused to consider the waitress; she'd walked by a few times before, though hadn't really said too much. Putting down his quill, he smiled ruefully.

"Oh, she's fashionable alright," His thought of her perfectly cut blond hair and expensive clothing. Good thing the league paid him so much. "But no, thank you, I'm alright." Roger was being polite. Really, he just wanted a pot of that stupidly delicious rose-and-strawberry tea pressed into the stupid heart shape.

Emmylou laughed, thinking of the quidditch WAGs who always scored the best seats at games. It took her long enough to get ready when she was putting in effort, and she was sure many men people didn’t know how time-consuming it could be, but she didn’t think she had anything on those women with perfect hair, who wore heels to matches. “Quidditch has nothing on the sport of shoes,” she lied boldly. She preferred the former, most definitely, but Lou, like many people, did have a soft spot for shoes.

“It looks like you’ve found entertainment,” she agreed, her eyes shifting down to the parchment and quill. “Secret moves for your next game?” She looked back up at Mr. Davies, her brows seeming to dance a bit, as if encouraging him to share the highly classified tactics. But the numbers suggested something else, portents for upcoming matches, maybe. “Or just a bit of Divination… Or, er, arithmancy.” If they were getting technical. She trailed off, smiling, close-lipped.

“You sure? You know, it’s sort of my job to get you to buy things.” If she’d had a name-tag, she would plucked it away from her shirt to make her point. “We do make delicious drinks,” she enticed. “You don’t need to wait for your date to enjoy tea.” Tea was a universally beloved thing to be enjoyed any time of the day.

“Women’s shoes look like modern torture devices.” Roger’s voice was light, but contained a suppressed shudder. “I don’t know how you women stand it. I’d honestly think there was some sort of pain-easing potion or spell if I hadn’t seen muggle women running around in them.” Indeed, he’d rather spend a day at St. Mungo’s than jam his toes into a teeny-tiny point with a ridiculous arch and impossibly high heel. Taking bludgers to the body all day seemed easier than walking around in heels, and knew this from experience; one Halloween night some odd years ago he’d crossed-dressed on a dare. While Roger did make a somewhat convincing lady under the wig and heavy make-up , the heels were enough to never repeat the costume endeavor again.

He was happy their conversation turned to the little piece of paper before him.

“This?” Blue eyes traveled from Emmylou to the parchment. “Ah, calculations, actually. Supposedly it is supposed to be a rather damp afternoon, so I’m drawing up an outline to calculate the moisture density in the air, plus the absorbency of our gear and the effects any slickness will have on passing and catching.” Roger said all of this simply, as though he were explaining red and blue. Math had always made sense to him. With a heavy sigh, he placed the quill down on the table and stretched luxuriously. “You know, I think I could go for a bit of tea. I, erm, I enjoy your strawberry and rose blend. It is quite tasty.” A slight red tint crept upon his cheeks. Perhaps it was the ridiculous heart shape of the tea leaves, but it made Roger feel a bit silly to order it.

Emmylou shrugged, smiling close-lipped. “You get used to them I guess. And sometimes not at all.” It really depended on the shoes. If she was going to wear heel, it was usually a nice, thick one attached to a solidly made boot, and not a stiletto that would leave her toes screaming. But that was just her. “There are potions, but most of us don’t bother. We can take it.” She lifted an arm, baring a small muscle, the universal sign for strength.

“That sounds like something from my NEWT exams. Are you sure you don’t work at the Ministry on weekends?” If games were on weekends, it was a negligible point. She was only teasing him— but who said the chaser for Puddlemere couldn’t secretly have horcruxes, Polyjuice clones, or time turners? Maybe he was a genius under the poster-worthy hair and smile. Emmylou was of the belief that one could have it all. It would certainly explain her awesomeness.

“Oooh, good choice. Waiting on your date in style.” Which made sense, if she was fashionably late. “One strawberry and rose tea coming right up.” She turned to leave, but puased, and pointed to the little holders and tins of napkins, straws, extra sugar. Salt and pepper shakers. “If you really want to have fun, you should try your hand at paper quidditch. Like its muggle equivalents, it involved creating little balls and goalposts. The difference? They had magic.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and headed to the bar to pull down the tin of leaves. A few minutes later, after preparing and steeping it, Lou was returning with the fragrant, delicious brew, complete with the appetizing, heartfelt display. She set it down gently, and a bit proudly, and stood there with the tray at her side. “Anything else?” She asked, brows raised, though her eyes wandered from Davies to the table, curious as to whether he was still going on with his equations, or if wanted a proper (paper) quidditch game.