A/N: I apologize for the delay in the updates of this story, but, well, college is hectic and I'm on the mad search for a job. I've been writing this chapter bit by bit and I finally have enough to post a decently-lengthed chapter (shorter than my usual standards, but at least it's something). The first couple of chapters are being re-tooled because I'm not satisfied with them. Expect at least a couple of rewrites throughout the course of this, and lengthening of chapters. I feel bad for not having updated in some time and I thought giving you this would be better than a few more weeks with nothing.

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Chapter Three: First Day

"Do you think this looks alright?" Fred asked George nervously.

He stood in front of Ginny's door-length mirror, which he had borrowed that morning without permission. He figured that it shouldn't matter—she'd been grooming in the bathroom for a good two hours each day. He turned sideways and cocked his head a bit.

"I think it's a bit girly, don't you?" he asked.

"It's not girly," George muttered from his bed, where he was leisurely flipping through a magazine Lee had sent him.

Fred scoffed and turned to his twin. "I'm wearing an apron. Mum wears aprons."

"Well, yes, Fred, but you make it manly," he said dryly, turning another page. "All the girls will fight to sit at the tables you wait on, I'd wager."

Fred sighed and took a seat on the edge of his bed. He ran a hand through his hair. "I dunno about this, George. I don't know a thing about muggle coffees or behaving around them—I don't even behave around witches and wizards! What if… what if they figure me out?"

George closed his magazine and sat up, facing his brother. "If they figure you out, they figure out the whole family, and that means a hell of a lot of memory charms. So best to mind your p's and q's, eh?"

A whole new level of fear sunk into Fred. He hadn't even thought about the others being figured out. It did make sense now that George had said it. The entire village of Ottery St. Catchpole had found the Weasleys to be something of an enigma: a large family who only came to town a handful of times a year, sent their children to a mysterious boarding school nobody had heard of, lived in an isolated house that nobody had actually seen, dressed offbeat, and said funny words that only they seemed to understand. They, along with the Lovegoods, were very strange indeed. Somehow the Diggorys had never had that problem.

Fred swallowed. "Let me see that book again. I want to make sure I've got this right."

"You've read it four times," George said, handing it over anyway.

Fred ignored his twin. After dutifully looking over each and every word in the passage about muggle restaurants, he closed it and handed it back to his twin. He wrung his hands, looked at his watch, and stood. It was nearly time for him to leave.

"How can you not be nervous, George?"

George shrugged with one shoulder. "Easy. My bosses are little old muggles who can't see well anyway. If I blunder, they won't realize it. I slip up with the phrasing of something and I'll tell them that it's new 'teenage slang'." He made quote marks in the air with his fingers.

Fred sighed again and took one last look in the mirror. "Alright… well, wish me luck."

"Good luck."

Molly had never been so proud of her twin sons. Finally they had bucked up and gotten some responsibility. Fred would be working at a muggle coffeshop, which worried Molly to no end until she had seen how hard Fred was studying their behavior in order to replicate it. George would be doing yard work for an elderly couple a few miles away. Perhaps the realization that they were entering their seventh year had finally hit them, and they'd decided to grow up.

She allowed her mouth to split into a vibrant, proud smile as George slid down the banister and Fred hopped over the side of it, landing gracefully (he'd had a lot of practice over the years) in front of George. Ginny was the only other one awake in the house, as Arthur was off at work and Ron was making his rafters vibrate from snoring.

"You two are up early," Ginny remarked before taking a sip of pumpkin juice.

"You mean Fred is up early," George corrected, pulling out his normal chair and sitting down.

"Same difference."

"Fred and George start work today," Molly beamed, plopping down plates of pancakes in front of her sons. "Eat up, you'll need your energy."

Fred grinned and eyed his mother jokingly. "I thought you said if we had any more energy we'd be human bludgers."

"You know what I mean, dear. Now you'll be focusing your energy on positive things." She set a pitcher of pumpkin juice on the table.

Normally Molly's comment would have started an uproar from Fred and George, but neither felt like arguing with her. She was proud of them for once, and she had even made them pancakes. She had never done that before—only the three eldest boys warranted special breakfasts, never the twins.

When Fred and George departed, having been hugged and straightened up at least four times each by Molly, they waved to their mother and sister. They vanished over the hill quickly and began the walk to Ottery St. Catchpole in near silence.

"Nervous?" George asked.

"Yes. You?"

"Not entirely. Be strange without you there, though."

"That's what I was thinking," Fred replied. "Almost unnatural."

"More than almost."

Neither could think of anything to say until it was time for them to go their separate ways. They performed their secret handshake, wished each other well, and started in opposite directions. George made for a two-story house on the edge of the village while Fred headed for the center of town.

George inhaled deeply and held his breath as he gazed around the yard. He exhaled, relieved that many of his tensions were released in the process. In spite of what he had told Fred, he was nervous. He was less likely to be discovered as a wizard by his employers, but it did not change the fact that he would be working for muggles.

He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and the porch creaked. He adjusted the strap of his bag. It was digging into his shoulder.

He began to wonder if the Seagraves were even home. He had rung the doorbell twice in the last ten minutes and nobody had answered yet. He turned to venture down the front steps and see if either of them were in the backyard, but just as he was about to step down onto the first stair, the door swung open.

Mrs. Seagrave, a tiny woman with curly white hair and a lazy eye, stood looking at him as if she were waiting for him to speak.

"Err… good morning, Mrs. Seagrave," George began, moving back onto the porch. "I—"

She snapped the door closed in his face and he heard her shuffle away. "ROGER!" her voice boomed through the house. How could such a tiny woman make so much noise? "SOME LAD IS HERE SELLING THINGS!"

He rang the bell again and soon Mr. Seagrave opened the door.

"Oh, George! Wonderful! Mary said somebody was here to sell us something and I'd come to tell you off." He smiled at George, who stood at least a head and a half taller than him, and ushered him into the house.

Mrs. Seagrave was sitting in an armchair near the fireplace, and the fellytision was on. George had to curb his interest in the piece of technology as Mr. Seagrave took a seat in a chair next to his wife's to explain what he expected of George. Mrs. Seagrave eyed him suspiciously as he stood near the coffee table.

"Strange get-ups your generation wears," she commented huffily before turning back to her program.

George looked down at his clothes, fearing he had made some sort of mistake in his attire. He had cross-checked several sources and even wrote to Hermione. She had replied with a list of suitable clothing styles for teenage boys, as well as clippings from magazines and suggestions on what to wear for the types of work he and Fred had gotten into. Today he sported a pair of work boots, worn jeans, a baggy shirt his mother had given him for garden work at home, and a denim jacket he had found in his father's collection of muggle clothing. How could he have gone wrong?

"Oh, don't listen to her," Mr. Seagrave said, waving off her comment like it was an annoying fly. "She thinks all young men should wear slacks and ties for everything."

"It's only right," she snipped.

Mr. Seagrave rolled his eyes and began to explain that he would need George for the entire summer. He was too old to perform much maintenance himself, and needed a young back for his house repairs. George would be responsible for painting the entire house, both inside and out, planting, weeding, watering, mowing, chopping, and running errands into town each week. He was allowed to show up whenever he could work, so long as it was after four in the morning and before seven at night, when the Seagraves retired to bed. Mr. Seagrave gave George the keys to the garage and shed, along with a list of chores.

George sighed heavily as he shut the back door behind himself. He gazed at his surroundings and began to wonder what he had gotten himself into.

The yard was overgrown, the trees were crowding around the shed (which looked like it was about to fall apart), the ivy that crept up the side of the house was dead, the flowers were overrun with weeds, and the patio furniture had to have seen at least four terrific storms. The paint on the side of the house was peeling off in large chunks and George wondered why the owners of the house had not hired somebody sooner.

With another heavy sigh, he set his pack down and started for the shed.

"Fred, m'boy!" Lionel exclaimed as Fred nervously opened the door to the café. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to make it on time."

He chanced to look at the clock out of the corner of his eye and saw that he was two minutes early. "Sorry. I guess I underestimated the time it would take to walk here from my house."

Lionel smiled at Fred and strode out from behind the counter. He clapped a hand on the teen's back and twitched his mustache. "It doesn't matter; you'll know for tomorrow, then. Now, come on back here and have a look at what you'll be doing here."

Using the hand that remained on Fred's back, Lionel steered him behind the counter through a set of swinging doors that only came up to Fred's thighs. He released Fred, who was eyeing what he thought was a coffee machine with a confused look on his face, and bent to grab his own apron. He put it on and tied it behind his back with ease.

"Never used one before?" Lionel asked, watching Fred study the various buttons on a blender.

Fred looked up, nearly lost for words. He did not know how to use a blender. He was surprised he even remembered it was called a blender. Would a normal muggle boy know how to use one?

"Um," he answered intelligently.

"Don't worry about it. I couldn't figure out those blasted things until I was in college." He reached for a mug and poured himself a cup of a strong-smelling liquid Fred supposed was coffee. "Easy to learn, at any rate. Now, I'm going to be occupied with payments this morning, so I can't do your training. Laura's going to help you out and show you around. Today won't be too busy since there's a town picnic."

"Oy, Lionel, the washer's broken again!" came a shout from the back room.

"Wait a tick," Lionel muttered, vanishing into the kitchen with his cup of steaming… coffee?

Fred took the opportunity to look around. The café seemed much bigger from behind the counter. There were about fourteen small, circular tables with two chairs each, though there was a stack of extra in a corner. The walls were brilliant white and a faint smell of fresh paint caught in his nose. The café was carpeted in dark brown, but behind the counter it was tile. The shelves below the counter held various packets with names Fred did not recognize, silverware, containers of a sweet-smelling liquid, small plates, a rubbish bin, rags, and several strangely shaped bottles that Fred surmised contained cleaning products. There was another, higher counter behind him, which was home to several machines that he dimly recognized: coffee maker, hot cocoa mixer, blender, and a heater for pots of coffee and water to rest on while not being used. On the wall, there was a small refrigerated unit that held various pastries and pie. There was a bowl of fresh fruit next to the cast register and a larger refrigerator beneath the side of the counter that was on the opposite side of the small swinging doors. Fred opened it out of curiosity and found buckets of freshly chopped salad with a strange clear material stretched over the top of them. There were also large containers of things that he had seen muggles put on their salads as well as sliced lemons, also covered with the strange clear material.

"It'll be enough to get us through the day, don't worry," came a voice from behind him.

Fred turned to see the girl who had hit him in the face with a door when he had first came into the café to use the restroom. "Err."

"I just got done with this," she hauled another container of salad onto the counter above the fridge. "That way if there's a rush, we'll be prepared." She nudged Fred out of her way and shoved the container into the unit. She straightened up, adjusted her apron, and held out her hand to Fred. "Laura. I'm still terribly sorry for hitting you with the door."

"Fred," he replied, taking her hand, "and it's no problem."

She let go of his hand and leaned in to get a better look at his nose. "It's healed already?"

His hand darted up to touch his nose. "Yes. Quick healer." Actually, George had healed it for him when they'd woken up the morning after their fight.

"I guess so! Well, come on. I'll show you some things before the regulars start coming in." She turned and made her way to the end of the counter, her ponytail bobbing up and down behind her and the rims of her glasses glinting in the morning light.

By the time Laura had finished explaining the workings of the machinery to Fred (it took her a couple of hours because she was repeatedly interrupted by customers), it was time for lunch. She led him into the kitchen, which he found to be much smaller than the one at Hogwarts and much warmer, and the two sat at a table designated for employees. Mitchell, the cook, sat a couple of sandwiches in front of them and wandered back to his position by the ovens.

"What do you think so far, Fred?" Laura asked, peering at him over the top of her ham sandwich.

He finished chewing his roast beef and swallowed. "Not bad. Still not quite sure what I'm doing, but it'll come."

"Don't feel bad," she encouraged, "it took me a couple of weeks to get everything down. Although, I've always known what a cappuchino machine was called." Her eyes glittered with laughter, and the momentary fear that had arose in his chest diminished.

"Well. You have me there, I suppose."