thought of this, oh, i dunno, a few days ago. the name is blatantly stolen from a coffee shop near my house; don't sue me. ;) i wrote this during school -- in sparkly pink gel pen, no less.
(extended metaphor, anyone?)
It always surprised people that Hermione didn't like her coffee black.
She had acquired the taste for the drink the summer after fourth year, and therefore thought nothing of it when on September Second of Fifth Year she filled a mug halfway with coffee, the next quarter of the way with skim milk, then the rest with sugar. Harry and Ron, however, had stared as if she had begun to apply lipstick.
(On his good days Harry would ask her if she wanted coffee with her sugar as Ron protectively swallowed his usual tea.)
And now, seventeen years old on a chilly May morning in the Great Hall, was finally the day she thought to ponder what everyone else saw as an anomoly.
Black coffee was bitter. It was strong. It was plain and got the job done. She supposed that she should like black coffee, not the milky brown that she adored that was sitting, innocently, in front of her. Professor McGonagall liked her coffee black.
Strong coffee had its allures, particularly on the days she had stayed up late (or early, however one wants to look at it) doing homework. But she just couldn't resist the allure of the sweetness with a hint of bitter nutmeg and cinnamon.
Suddenly, Ron's face appeared in the peaceful surface of the drink she had been considering, the red in his hair tinting perfectly with the brown of the background.
Hermione screamed.
There was a noise behind her, and she twisted around in her chair to see that the real Ronald Weasely had jumped backwards in alarm.
"What the -- "
"You scared me!"
He goggled at her, his confusion and her accusation rising the volume in his voice. "How?!"
She glared at him, shaking considerably for someone who had only had a person's face appear in the surface of her coffee. To do something to save her the embarassment of not knowing the answer to a question - his question -, she sipped the hot drink with pursed lips.
A few moments of silence cooled down the startlingly various panorama of his temper.
"What there something in your coffee?" he asked curiously (as if it were something to be curious about), and stepped forward to peer over her head into the mug that was clenched tightly in her hand.
"No," she muttered, through likewise clenched teeth.
"Why were you staring at it, then?"
"Because it's pretty," she snapped. "Now go away. I'm busy."
He blinked at her, then frowned, and she felt the warmth disappear from behind her as he walked away, muttering at her short temper today.
When he was far away enough, Hermione turned to watch him walk and pause to say something to Seamus.
She took a sip, swirled the contents in her mouth for a second, and looked from his hair to the contents of her mug again.
No. She definitely did not like her coffee black.
THE END