Cappuccino After Eleven
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Chapter Three
Hands
Hermione hadn't seen the Redhead (as she had come to call him in her head) for almost a full week.
Not that she had been actively looking.
Of course, she hadn't.
Okay, so maybe a little, she had to admit, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.
For some reason, she had come to miss him. Her one meaningful human encounter in the protective bubble she'd built around herself. Or rather, the bubble that just seemed to build itself, supposedly meaning to keep people out.
At some point along the way of all the meaningless encounters and empty friendships, she had realized – and in some sense also accepted – that her role in life may perhaps be a people repellent.
Hermione shook her head, and breathed in some of the suffocatingly dry, hot air.
She had almost passed her favourite café – Pasticceria e Caffetteria Georgina – when she got the whiff of sweet, fresh baked goods. Looking at the time – a little past two – she decided that she might as well treat herself to some of their delicious masterpieces.
Entering, she heard the bell cling happily, and was instantly met with the smile of the middle-aged baker of the café.
"Ciao!" he said, bright smile beaming.
"Ciao," she replied, feeling some of the sluggish dark clouds lessen in her mind.
She had been to lectures from the early morning and had hardly had time in between the breaks to finish her work. Her papers lay stacked heavily in her bag. Their weight only seemed to increase at her own reminder of them.
Hermione grimaced.
"Un cornetto, per favore," she said, tongue feeling thick and clumsy in her mouth. She stumbled over the syllables, but the baker's smile only seemed to brighten, as happy as a man that loves his work.
He said something in fast Italian phrases like he usually did, then nodded when her face went blank. He put the cornetto on a plate and handed it to her.
With the heavy bag slung over her shoulder, she made her way to the table by the window.
For a couple moments, all she focused on was her breath.
In.
And out.
Then, repeat.
She tore a piece from the cornetto. It was crisp and sweet. She could feel the powdered sugar melt on her tongue.
She tried to enjoy the rest of the pastry without thinking about the papers in her back. All the work that was still waiting for her when she would come home.
It would still take hours.
She had decided to take an extra load of courses compared to her classmates – an impressive mix of credits in social sciences, engineering, and biology.
Just as she had thought, trying not to think about the homework only seemed to make her think about it more. Soon, the pastry was gone and far from enjoyed.
Hermione sighed.
Might as well get started with the stack of papers she carried.
It was time to get back to her apartment, where she would try to cook some food while shaking her flatmates' sour glances off her back, and then finish her papers.
Just as she was collecting her things, the happy little bell above the door chirped.
It snapped her halfway out of her daze.
Yet, Hermione didn't think any more about why the bell had chimed before she looked up.
And, as if taken straight out of a fairy tale; there he was.
Here.
In the café.
In her café.
His red hair glinted in the sun from the windows. He wore a worn, green jacket that complimented the colour brilliantly. His brows were furrowed and his eyes downcast.
She almost tripped when she got up from her chair by the window. Her body moved on its own.
His red hair was dishevelled, like he had been running his hand through it one too many times. He shook his head and more red strands fell into his eyes.
She followed his gaze, and she immediately understood why.
Under the steam of a fresh cup of cappuccino, he was searching frantically through his wallet. It was terribly messy, filled with old and crumpled receipts, ID cards, and she could almost swear that she had spotted a dried leaf in there somewhere.
But one thing was for sure; there were no coins.
His face lit up, his fingers gripping a coin. He held it up, and even the baker's face faltered when the redhead realized it was a wizard-world Sickle.
Hermione couldn't contain her snort.
He looked up, and his blue eyes locked with hers.
It occurred to her that he was tall.
Very tall.
She felt the hot blood pool to her cheeks.
She had never been closer to him than what she was now.
From up close, she could even make out the individual freckles on his cheeks and nose. Nothing – absolutely nothing – though, had prepared her for the absolutely stunning blue colour of his eyes. So light that she suddenly felt very exposed under his gaze.
His brows shot up in surprise.
Without looking away, she hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder and brushed past him.
When she had passed him, she turned and shot him a shy smile, then slipped two coins into his hands; Euros – the right currency of Muggle Italy.
He blinked, and she was out the door.
She heard the clipped sound of the bell ring behind her.
She took a deep breath in the rush of fresh air that greeted her outside.
Then, a split second later, the sound of the bell struck like a gunshot in the air behind her, and she froze in her steps.
"Hermione!" the redhead said.
Hermione turned around, her bag heavy, yet lighter than it had been moments before.
"Thank you," he breathed, "For the coffee,"
She stayed silent, looking at him. The tips of his ears were red, and his green jacket open in the wind. He spoke in a light British accent she couldn't quite place.
He seemed to relax, then asked in a small voice, blue eyes fleeting up to meet hers, "Maybe next time, you would like to have it with me?"
Her throat tightened, and the bottom of her stomach fell.
Even her fingers tingled.
She hoped he wouldn't hear her thundering heart in her voice, and forced out, "Yes, that would be very nice,"
"See you around, then," he said and flushed deeply red.
"Yes," she replied, cheeks burning just as warm, "See you around,"
He didn't go back inside the café, so she turned around and walked to avoid the uncomfortable silence that would definitely follow.
When she had turned the corner of the street, certain that he could no longer see her, she let out a quiet squeal and excitedly clapped her hands. She couldn't contain the gleaming smile on her face.
His hands had been very smooth.
The thought came uninvited, but she didn't mind.
She put her own hands on her cheeks. She touched them.
They burned.
With a sigh, she let her hands fall, then touched her own palms.
With a butterfly in her chest, she wondered if he thought her hands were just as soft as she had found his.