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“Good morning,” Harry says quietly, trying his best to sound chipper and kind but it’s 7 in the bloody morning and he has a lecture to get to and he really does not have the energy to be chipper and kind.
He clears his throat. “Can I – uh – can I have a small black coffee please? Thank you,” he says to the barista, who is smiling brightly, his dimples popping out and freckles on display and the logical part of Harry’s brain screams pretty , but the tired part of his brain doesn’t want him to be in love, apparently.
The barista (his name tag says Ronald, but who would name their kid that willingly?) grins at Harry. “Alright, I’ll get that ready for you, mate. Anything else?” Ronald asks, and Harry purses his lips, his eyes flickering across Ronald’s face, and he finds it hard to not smile back at him.
So he does. His lips twitch slightly at the sides and he shakes his head, reaching into his pocket and pulling his wallet out. “That’s all,” he tells Ronald. “Thanks, mate,” he says, pulling his card out as he looks at the chip reader, seeing the amount on the screen, and he taps it quickly, waiting for it to be confirmed.
“Alright,” Ronald trails off, and Harry hums, putting his card back in his wallet. “And can I have your name?” He asks swiftly, and Harry blinks, not quite catching his words before he looks up at Ronald, furrowing his eyebrows. It’s - what? Harry feels his cheeks flushing and he clears his throat.
“What?”
Ronald’s lips twitch a bit, and Harry’s eyes flicker down to his lips without him having a chance to think. “Your… Name? Like, for your order,” he explains, his lips twitching into a smirk, and Harry feels his face flushing in embarrassment as he stutters, tripping over his own words.
“Oh! Uh,” he clears his throat again, biting the inside of his cheek. “P - uh - Potter,” he tells Ronald, who blinks at him and then raises an eyebrow.
“Your name is Potter?” Ronald teases, and Harry clenches his jaw, narrowing his eyes. “Do you own a flower shop, or something?” He asks, a light laugh leaving his lips, and Harry wants to throw something at Ronald all of a sudden because why is this random bloke he’s never met making fun of his bloody name?
Harry scowls at him, his lips pressing into a frown. “My dad does, actually,” he tells Ronald seriously, and Ronald looks a bit stunned as he begins to blink rapidly, a red flush spreading across his cheeks. “It’s called Potter’s Plants – can I please have my coffee now? I have a lecture to get to,” he sighs heavily, and he watches Ronald give him a tense smile before his co-worker passes him the cup of coffee, and he slides it over the counter for Harry to take.
“Maybe if you didn’t drink black coffee everyday, you’d be less snappy,” Ronald suggests, and Harry narrows his eyes at him before he takes the cup and mutters cheers , before promptly walking away without bidding him farewell.
-
It’s no surprise that when Harry goes to the coffee shop the next morning, Ronald is standing there with a big grin on his face, his blue eyes sparkling, and Harry heaves a heavy sigh out of his nose as he walks up to the counter. Honestly, he doesn’t know if he has the energy to deal with Ronald’s irritating chirpiness this early, but he has to or he won’t get his bloody coffee, so he sucks it up and opens his mouth to speak.
“Black coffee again, Potter?” Ronald asks, flashing Harry a cheeky grin akin to the Cheshire cat and Harry clenches his fist, his fingernails digging into his palm before he takes a breath and nods, not even bothering to give a proper verbal response to his question. “Lucky for you, I’ve already made your coffee,” Ronald tells him, and Harry feels his eyebrows furrowing in question, his nose scrunching up.
The words get stuck in Harry’s throat, even as he opens his mouth to speak. It’s not a new thing for him, there are some days when words are just way, way too much for him. It’s part of the reason his dads taught him how to sign, because his Baba has a hard time talking some days and his Dad finds it easier for them to communicate using BSL rather than writing with a pen and parchment.
‘Thanks,’ Harry signs. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, then his card out of the wallet, tapping it without even reading the screen on the chip scanner, and he watches Ronald slide his coffee over the counter to him with a grin.
‘See you tomorrow,’ Ron signs back, and Harry blinks at him, stunned, his stomach flipping a bit at the sight of somebody simply replying to him in BSL rather than replying verbally when he didn’t want to be verbal. It’s refreshing, really, and Harry feels his cheeks flushing slightly as he waves a quick goodbye, picking the cup up off of the counter and walking away slowly.
When he raises his cup up to his lips and tastes the coffee, he squeaks in confusion, eyes widening as he pulls it away from his mouth, vanilla and caramel covering his tongue, and he reads the coffee label with furrowed eyebrows and a face flushed with embarrassment.
Chai latte
Vanilla syrup
Caramel syrup
Two shots of espresso
Oat milk
And in messy, purple, scribbled handwriting at the bottom of the label,
– you need to spice up your caffeine intake so I made you a specialty drink. you’re welcome Potter :-) — courtesy of Ron Weasley
Harry has a hard time fighting off the smile that spreads over his lips as he glances through the window, seeing ‘Ron’ leaning over the counter slightly to speak with another customer. How sweet , he thinks to himself, a slightly giddy pep in his step developing as he sips the latte slowly on his way to campus.
-
“Baba, really, you can stay in the car,” Harry sighs, glancing over at his dad, James, who arches an eyebrow in question. “It’ll take me like, two seconds, and I already know what coffee you want –“
“Are you meeting someone here that you don’t want your dad and I to meet –“
“Oh my god , baba, no ,” Harry groans, his head hitting the headrest of his seat. “Honestly, I just – you know what? Okay. Just – whatever. Let’s just go, I want coffee,” he mutters under his breath, and James sighs at him.
“You know,” James starts, taking his keys out of the ignition. Harry hums, opening the door and stepping out of the car. “Sometimes I wonder if you got your attitude from me or your father, but I think you got it from your Uncle Remus,” he comments, and Harry finds it hard not to snort at his statement as they step into the coffee shop.
“Uncle Moony isn’t that bad when it comes to his morning tea,” Harry tells James, walking ahead of him to step into the line. “Maybe he just doesn’t like you. He’s perfectly nice and kind to me when I spend the night over there,” he snorts, and James playfully ruffles Harry’s hair, causing Harry to huff out a breath and push his hand away lightly. “Baba, please don’t touch my hair –“
“ Haripala –“
“Potter!”
Harry lifts his head, blinking a few times before his face flushes on its own accord and he wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps up to the counter and gives Ron a tense smile, clearing his throat. “Morning, Ronald,” Harry says to him, giving Ron a curt nod. “I’ll –“
“I’ve already made you a drink, Potter,” Ron tells him, giving him a lopsided grin, and Harry feels his ears begin to burn and he fights the urge to stomp on his dad’s toes when he hears him snickering quietly. “I – uh – should I have made two? I – um –“
“‘S alright, mate,” James interrupts, giving Ron a warm smile, and Harry pinches his nose. “Just a small coffee with vanilla creamer, please. Cheers,” he says, smiling again, and Harry crosses his arms over his chest, trying his hardest to not make eye contact with Ron or his father because good god he feels like he’s going to faint.
Between the pretty barista with warm, rosy cheeks and soft freckles and pretty blue eyes smiling widely at him and his father snickering like he knows something , Harry honestly doesn’t know if he wants to pass out or just die.
“Alright, I’ll get that started right now,” Ron says slowly, and he clears his throat. “And your name, please?” He asks, his lip twitching, and oh lord , Harry really does want to die now.
“Harry?”
Harry hears his dad’s voice and his whole body actually cringes, his eyes squeezing shut as he turns his head to look at him, slowly opening one eye. “Yes, baba?” Harry asks, slowly opening the other eye as well to see James raising both of his eyebrows at him.
“You’ve been coming to this coffee shop for almost two months now and you haven’t bothered to tell this nice boy your name?”
“Actually,” Ron cuts in, clearing his throat, and Harry wants to throw a bloody scone at his face. “Mr. Potter – that’s right, yeah?” He asks James, who nods with an amused grin, and now Harry really understands what his dad means when he says James always had a shit-eating grin back in school. “He’s just been giving me his last name for the past two months. So, he didn’t not tell me his name… He just didn’t tell me his first name –“
“Ron,” Harry says through gritted teeth. “I will quite literally give you fifty pounds to be quiet right now because I will never hear the end of it tonight at dinner if you continue speaking,” he tells Ron, who laughs lightly at him, and Harry honestly finds it hard not to smile because the sound of Ron’s laugh just makes his chest feel really, really warm and it feels like his heart is collapsing in on itself and inflating so big his ribs might burst.
And then Ron’s eyes twinkle in his direction and he looks dazed and Harry meets his eyes and his knees actually buckle . “You didn’t call me Ronald this time,” Ron points out, and Harry’s cheeks blaze embarrassingly red as he pulls his wallet out and quickly pays for both his and his dad’s drink.
“Goodbye, Ronald,” Harry tells him, dragging out his words as Ron slides both of the drinks over after they’re given to him by his co-worker. Harry takes both, giving Ron a curt smile before walking ahead of his father, grumbling under his breath as James follows all while snickering quietly.
Harry knows he won’t hear the end of this at dinner tonight.
-
“So,” Hermione breathes out, linking arms with Harry as they step out of her house. Harry hums, sticking his hands in his pockets and allowing Hermione to stand closer to stay warm. “Last night before he dropped me off, your dad asked me if you’ve said anything to me about coffee boy –“
“ Oh my god,” Harry groans, rolling his eyes. “Was it Baba or dad?” He asks, and Hermione snorts at him, bumping him with her hip.
“How angry will you be if I say both of them asked? One before I left and one when I got home?”
“ Oh my god.”
“Come on , Harry,” Hermione chuckles. “They just want you to be happy, you know that –“
“And I do not fancy this random man who serves me coffee every single day,” Harry grumbles under his breath, his cheeks flushing slightly, and he can feel Hermione’s eyes on him.
Really, it’s true. He doesn’t fancy Ron, he barely even knows the bloke. How could he possibly fancy somebody that he doesn’t even know? A part of Harry truly wants to shove Hermione into the snow for taking the piss, but he knows that she means well, he does.
His cheeks flush embarrassingly regardless, and he knows that Hermione is smirking just by the way her voice sounds when she talks to him, but he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore than he has to when he gets home later.
-
Before he gets home though, he stops at the coffee shop. Not because he wants to see Ron, no. That’s not the bloody reason, not at all. He wants coffee, though, and he knows that Ron will make him something fun and sweet and somehow, he’s grown to enjoy sweet coffee overtime.
It’s odd, really, because Harry doesn’t particularly enjoy sweets. They make his stomach hurt, they always have, but somehow Ron’s lattes always make him feel giddy inside.
If he’s being completely honest, though, there’s a part of him that is a little excited to see Ron. There’s something about watching the way his eyes light up when he passes Harry’s latte over, when he watches Harry roll his eyes, the way his smirk stretches over his teeth, all of it makes Harry’s chest feel like it’s constricting every single time he steps into the coffee shop.
The small bell on top of the door rings as Harry pushes the door open, a nervous feeling filling his chest and he doesn’t really know why but his hands are a bit shaky as he steps into the line, keeping his eyes trained on the floor to avoid checking the counter because no , he is absolutely not going to do that, nope .
When he steps up to the counter and looks up, though, he’s met with the smiling face of a different barista, and the butterflies that were filling Harry’s stomach die in their wake when he realizes it’s not Ron. It’s a bit embarrassing really, and because Harry sort of planned to have his drink already made for him, he feels the need to cry because now he doesn’t really know what he wants, and the words barely make it out of his throat when he kindly greets the barista and tells them that he’d like a small black coffee.
-
When Harry walks into the coffee shop the next morning, his face is set in a hard glare. He’s not angry with Ron, really, but he’s also not not angry with Ron. Mostly, he’s just a bit upset because if he’s being honest, a part of him misses Ron .
It’s a bit mental, really, that he would miss a man he barely speaks to aside from during his daily coffee runs. But honestly, Harry’s grown quite fond of his bright smiles and red hair and the way his eyes light up when he passes Harry’s drink over to him across the counter.
When Harry sees Ron, he also sees that his drink is already made for him, and the glare that was painted across his face is immediately replaced by a soft smile as he walks up to the counter.
“How much –“
“On the house,” Ron tells Harry with a small wink, and Harry feels his cheeks growing red, but he can’t wipe the stupid smile off of his face.
“Is this your way of apologizing for leaving me in the dust yesterday?” Harry asks, tilting his head to the side, and he watches as Ron’s cheeks turn a light pink color.
“A bit,” Ron tells him, giving him a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
Harry waves at Ron quickly before slowly walking away from the counter, looking down at the table on the drink.
Vanilla latte
Peppermint syrup
Whipped cream
Red and green sprinkles
And in bold, messy handwriting at the bottom of the cup, there are 7 digits and a little message below it:
text me :-) – Ron Weasley