Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N: New version, but not much is different. I want to thank my betas Minerva Solo and Lisa, any remaining mistakes are my own.
Ronald Weasley sat half asleep by the small round kitchen-table in his flat. He stared blankly at a bowl of porridge from under half-closed eyelids. A noise from the hall told him that the mail had arrived, so he rose, yawning and stretching, and slowly went to pick it up. Early mornings weren't his favourite time of day. The hall-mirror made a disparaging remark about his sleepy appearance, but he chose to ignore it.
Two envelopes, one Muggle-newspaper and a brown parcel covered the tiny doormat entirely, but he already knew what the horrid rug looked like, and he didn't really want to see the cheerful "HOME SWEET HOME" right now. He snatched the mail from the floor and fled to the kitchen again, trying not to look at the bright orange rug with its black block letters. Ginny had made that terrible mat for him when he moved to this flat. He appreciated the gesture, but the violent colouring was probably harmful for his eyes.
The porridge was a bit cold, but he ate it anyway as he read the comics in the Muggle-newspaper. The unmoving pictures never ceased to amuse him. Sometimes he poked them to see if they would move, feeling very stupid doing so. He browsed the headlines to see if he could find something of interest before giving his attention to the rest of the mail. One bill that he would deal with later, and one letter that offered to sell him custom-made wool socks at an incredible. That one went directly to the rubbish bin. No letters from the family, and nothing from his contact in the Ministry, such things usually came on Thursdays.
Only the parcel left now, he shredded the wrapping-paper eagerly and revealed his strongest link to the wizarding world. The Daily Prophet. He put his bowl away and brushed some crumbs from the table before putting the newspaper in front of him. This was his moment of the day, no work, only the pleasure to watch what was going on in the wizarding world in his absence. Halfway through the sports section his wristwatch politely told him that he was late. It was a neat little thing, charmed so that it would appear to be an ordinary Muggle watch, but to magical people it acted as a normal clock. The little hands of the clock currently pointed at "You're late" and nagged at him for not being properly dressed yet.
His tangled hair got a quick and painful brushing as he looked for some clean clothes. There where almost no clean socks left; he had to do the laundry sometime later this week. He left the apartment in a hurry, almost forgetting to bring his wand. It wasn't exactly necessary for work, but he liked to take it with him anyway. It gave a sense of security, and a feeling of home to have it tucked away in the back of his trousers.
It was a fine morning and he took the time to enjoy the walk despite the fact that he was a bit late. He passed the place where he had met that strange man the other day and slowed down almost without noticing. When he realised that he was scanning the crowd to see if he could spot the man, he felt a bit stupid. He had looked for him every day this week without finding him. Why am I looking for that man anyway? There wasn't any good reason really, but the feeling remained; he needed to see him, if only just to try and get his Knut back. He willed himself to speed up again and managed to get the small teashop almost on time.
He could hear the phone ringing angrily inside as he struggled with unlocking the store. The amount of security was ridiculously huge for a tiny teashop and he cursed himself for not getting here earlier. The last lock finally opened and he rushed inside and snatched the phone from the counter.
"The Yellow Teapot," he took a deep calming breath, "how can I help you." He tried to sound cheerful and not like he had just finished a marathon.
"You're late." the voice of an angry woman shouted in his ear.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Murphy, I..." he tried to apologise but to no avail.
"You're still late," she bellowed, "I want the shop to open nine o'clock sharp!"
"Yes ma'am." he said seriously. No use to argue when she was in this mood.
"We're going to have some deliveries on Monday morning." she shouted, "Make sure to be here on time."
"I'll be here, don't worry." he said and scribbled a quick note on a paper bag.
"And make sure Tommy feeds the Kneazle." she barked before abruptly finishing the call.
Ron rubbed his sore ear and tried to remember what that thing about the Kneazle was supposed to mean. He wrote it down to be on the safe side, one could never know with Mrs. Murphy. He had a feeling his employer was a bit deaf and possibly senile too, and if she kept on shouting at him like this he would soon be as deaf as she was. He sighed and removed the cover from the ancient cash register. Another day of work had begun.
Settling down on the high stool behind the counter, he picked up his copy of the Daily Prophet. People rarely visited the shop this early whatever Mrs. Murphy said. His employer would surely throw a fit if she caught him reading, but he could see no harm in him entertaining himself in between customers. Half an hour later the bell above the door chimed. A middle-aged man entered; the first of today's many customers, passing by in a blurry of wrapping-paper, tea-blends and gift-boxes.
The little old lady that visited the shop at least once a week showed up in the early afternoon, happily chatting about the horrible weather as she folded her umbrella. She usually wanted to smell all kind of teas, preferably the ones on high shelves, and this day was no exception. She made him fetch at least twenty different sorts for her to try before deciding to buy the same tea-blend as usual. He was relieved when she left three quarters of an hour later with a tiny bag of "Earl Green", a green tea with the same flavouring as Earl Grey.
The instant she turned to go he picked up his newspaper again. Not very polite, but he had reached the horoscope section, and he always read that. Call it a morbid obsession, since his horoscope always seemed to foresee disasters, toothache or mad dogs. The horoscope for Pisces was, if possible, even more unpleasant than usual today.
The past will come back and bite you today. It will tear off a big chunk and then chew on the pieces before spitting it out on the floor, making a mess. Then you die. So it's no use cleaning the floor today; it'll be dirty again tomorrow anyway.
He looked at the tiny wizard-photo under the column. A young mysterious looking woman with more jewellery than his old divination-teacher gazed into an orb. The name under the photo read Lavender Sphinx, but it was none other than his former classmate Lavender Brown. Apparently her name wasn't mysterious enough when she started working at the newspaper. He had a feeling she always gave Pisces a bad horoscope just to annoy him, but that could be his paranoia speaking. He never liked divination much, not even when the centaur had taught the subject, and Lavender didn't appreciate him ridiculing her favourite subject.
The horoscope for Aquarius didn't sound much better than the one for Pisces.
You are in great risk of dying a painful death today. If you don't die, someone else surely will. It's one of those days. Stay away from big, black, scary-looking dogs, evil old ladies and train-crashes.
That was downright depressing and Virgo didn't make sense at all:
I sense a lack of clothing in this sign. You might "get lucky", but it's more likely that someone hits you with a streaking-curse during the day. Watch your back. Oh. And you're going to die.
This got scarier and scarier. Trelawney must be smiling atop her cloud, she would surely have been proud over her morbid ex-student. Lavender was worse now than he and Harry had ever been when they tried their best to invent new disasters for their weekly divination homework. He tried the horoscope for Gemini in a final attempt to find a horoscope that didn't predict doom and destruction.
If you fail to notice something important a great opportunity might be forever lost. You'll probably survive the day, but I wouldn't want to be you tomorrow.
If he knew Lavender it wouldn't get much better than this. He turned the page, not noticing that another person had entered the shop as the talkative lady left.