This story has been on the go for ages in one form or another but I got side-tracked. Anyway it is finally finished and I'm glad to be rid of it! I hope to submit a new chapter every week once I have spell/grammar checked it.

Complete disclosure: I know very little about jewellery and gemstones and every 'fact' I have used has been gleaned from the internet. Apologies to those of you who know more than me/the right way of things.

JUNE/ALEXANDRITE

A variety of chrysoberyl, alexandrite has the rare geologic property of colour shift in varying levels of light. In Russia it is considered a sign of good omens and fortune. In Vedic astrology it is linked to Mercury; the enhancement of communication, mental clarity and emotional balance. However, given its colour changing properties, it also links in with Mercury's reputation as both the messenger and the magician. It reminds us how quickly our thoughts and mind change.

The Golden Snitch was one of the oldest shops in the village of Twain and by far the prettiest. Built in the 1890's, it had been owned by the Vossler family since the first brick had been laid and had been passed down through the generations. Its current owner, Wilhelm Vossler, had taken over when he was just 25 and had remained devoted to upholding the beauty of the shop and the reputation of the business to this day. He was scrupulous in the maintenance of the unusual caramel-coloured ceramic tile shop front with its extravagant arched windows and cornicing. Inside, the emerald carpets were brushed and vacuumed fastidiously so the pile remained high and customers could feel themselves sink into it when they entered. The original mahogany cabinets and brass fixtures were polished to a high shine regularly so the shop always held the comforting, old fashioned aroma of beeswax. Once the building had housed the shop on the bottom floor and the family residence on the upper, however Wilhelm had chosen to sell the second floor and now lived in a comfortably grand house in the village.

Wilhelm's great-grandfather had opened the shop with the meagre savings his family had so it been important that he provide a service that was more genuine, personal and sumptuous than his rivals. The store had to succeed and Jacob Vossler toiled hard to ensure his customers received the very best. The jewellery and gemstones he sold were sourced from carefully researched sources, the watches from only the finest watchmakers.

He was not without humour however. When it came to naming the little shop on the corner of Elsmore Street, Jacob felt that 'Vossler's' would be a name that got lost amongst that of his competitors. It needed to stand out.

The story that was passed down to Wilhelm was that his shop was named after Jacob's wife's beloved cat Mittens, a large ginger beast who did not favour Jacob and was accustomed to waking his mistress in the night if Jacob had not come to bed and was partaking in a glass or two downstairs. When Jacob Vossler finally retired for the night, both Mrs. Vossler and Mittens would be awake, sitting in bed waiting for him so his wife could express her disapproval. Jacob could often be heard lamenting that 'the Golden Snitch' was always watching, ready to tell tales. When he unveiled the newly named shop, Mrs. Vossler was so tickled by him 'honouring' her cat that she purchased a red velvet cushion for the counter and Mittens would sit in state, presiding over the daily comings and goings. How Jacob took the omnipresence of his nemesis remained unknown although it was said that when Mittens died at the grand old age of 21, Jacob had him stuffed and mounted, mouth sewn shut.

Hermione had worked in The Golden Snitch since she was sixteen. What had started as every Saturday afternoon, progressed to a summer job when she returned from university each year and when she bounded home for the last time, degree under one arm, ready to take on the world, she found herself agreeing to work there full time, until she got a 'proper job'. That was eight years ago.

Hermione had been cognizant of the fact that History of Art wasn't exactly a practical qualification and that it might take some time to find a role where she could use her knowledge. Still, as she worked away each day at the jeweller's, she comforted herself with the knowledge that eventually, the right job would come along; perhaps she could be a curator for a museum or an archivist. She had even thought about teaching.

Despite all her daydreaming, however, something kept her with Wilhelm Vossler. Jobs would appear in the local paper or online and she would duly fill in the application, send it away. But something would always happen in the meantime. The time of the interview didn't suit or she had run into an old university friend who had worked at the prospective company and warned her off. If she did attend the interview, she might be put off by the facilities or Head of Department's attitude. In her time at the Golden Snitch she had received four serious job offers and had turned them all down for one reason or another.

Sometimes, when she thought about it, that surprised Hermione. She had been fiercely ambitious at school and university, racing through exams and extra tuition, burning through projects and dissertations. She wanted to get out there and make a difference. If sixteen year old Hermione had been told that she would still be working in the Golden Snitch at 29 she would have scoffed. Children see things in black and white and working in the jeweller's seemed like something you did until you became a real grown up. Who turns their Saturday job into their career?

The benefits of adulthood are though, that you can start to see the grayscale and the grayscale in this case was simply that Hermione loved her job. Mr. Vossler was a sweet man who trusted her implicitly with decisions about the business and gave every suggestion she made due consideration. The working hours were good: she had every evening and Sunday off plus generous holiday leave which she mostly didn't take because it left the shop short staffed. She liked working with the antique jewellery and researching its provenance and she especially enjoyed selling the pre-owned pieces on to a new person. There was something so satisfying about beloved heirlooms getting a new lease of life with someone else.

An added bonus was that Wilhelm would let her wear the pieces while she worked in the shop and she had her pick. Hermione's tastes were pared back and simple and she often chose a fine gold necklace or charm bracelet, much to Wilhelm's displeasure. He couldn't quite persuade her to don any of the flamboyant costume jewellery he loved so much, though he tried frequently.

Today, Hermione was wearing something that actually belonged to her: a set of drop earrings with green alexandrite set in yellow gold. They had been a gift from Wilhelm Vossler on her 21st birthday and were easily the most expensive thing she owned. They had been Wilhelm's mother's and it always put a spring in his step to see her wearing them.

She had teamed them with a light green linen shirt that was as thin as she could get away with whilst being professional. June had brought with it a sweltering heat wave and the shop with its opulent carpets and acres of windows was not the ideal place to spend 8 hours a day. As she laid out the green velvet trays in the windows, she heard the door to the back room open.

"Another glorious day Hermione Granger," Wilhelm singsonged, depositing a large ginger cat on the carpet. Bogart was one of a long line of cats that had graced the shop floor. Despite Jacob Vossler's strong misgivings about Mittens it had been seen as a good omen that the shop did so well in his presence. Thereafter, the Golden Snitch had never been without a cat; they all had to be male and they all had to be orange. The current resident was named after Wilhelm's favourite black and white movie star and wore a smart purple collar with a bell.

"I could do with a little less heat Wilhelm," she replied, giving Bogart an obligatory scratch on the head as he sauntered by. "It's like a greenhouse in here."

Wilhelm nodded absently, humming as he adjusted items in the cabinets. Hermione finished with the window and returned the boxes to the drawers by his feet. As she stood he gently grasped her arm and studied the earrings. "So beautiful in the green. Any sign of the red?"

Hermione smiled ruefully and shook her head. Since the day he had presented them to her, Wilhelm had insisted the alexandrite was of the rare variety that can appear to change colour. He had never witnessed it himself but his mother had told him in certain lights the green gems would appear to be shot through with red. Hermione had taken the earrings into all sorts of lighting conditions but they had never appeared anything other than resolutely green. She didn't have the heart to suggest to Wilhelm that perhaps the stones weren't what he thought.

"Never mind," he chirped cheerfully, "It will come."

Their routine was reassuringly familiar: opening of the doors for the start of business, something sweet for Wilhelm's favourite part of the day 'elevenses' and then the rest of the day passing in a blur of customers, repairs, researching, polishing and buffing.

This morning, the box that Mark presented was mint green which meant macarons, which they ate with tea from a warmed pot in their favourite cups. Wilhelm was telling them about a delivery of watches due to arrive tomorrow that would require engraving when an ear splitting drone resonated through the shop and reached them in the back office.

"God, are they ever going to finish those renovations?" Hermione spat angrily, having listened to the same noise or a variance of it for the last six weeks.

Wilhelm raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Have you met them yet? I heard it was a family that had moved in," Mark replied nonchalantly, swiping an app on his tablet.

"It is two brothers I believe Mark," Wilhelm said at last, wiping his mouth politely. "I met one of them a few weeks ago, George Weasley. A lovely chap, moved up here from Devon. Ottery St Catchpole. Isn't that a magical name for a village? He apologised for all the noise and dust. I believe the shop upstairs was in rather a sorry state. It has been derelict for years. So refreshing that it is having new life breathed into it."

Wilhelm had repeatedly complained to the Twain council about their dilapidated neighbour, saying its slow decline was ruining the aesthetic of The Snitch. When the council cited cutbacks as the reason for their reticence to improve the façade, Wilhelm paid for the brickwork to be repointed and the window ledges sandblasted and painted so it could at least look, from the outside, well maintained. The inside, however, had been left to rot.

"But how can they still be at it?" Hermione demanded now, aware she was taking the seemingly continuous noise much harder than anyone else. She reasoned with herself this was because she spent more time than anyone else in the shop, closest to the racket. Last week the dust had been so bad they couldn't open windows so she had steamed like a side of ham all week in the baking hot sun, becoming more and more irate.

"These things take time Hermione. Besides, all stories need to throw the heroine a few little irritants every now and then. It makes life interesting." It amused Wilhelm to narrate Hermione as though she was the protagonist of a film of her life, muttering little asides about the men she dated as being worthy or unworthy of being contenders for the role of leading man. Not that she dated that much; when you live, work and socialise in the village you grew up in, the dating pool tends to be limited to boys who used to ping your bra strap in school, old teachers and babysitting charges from when you were fourteen.

Every so often she would renew her efforts: taking up offers from friends to stay weekends in London, Glasgow and Belfast to go out and meet people, joining dating websites, allowing her well-meaning best friend Suzy to set her up on blind dates. It never stuck, even the ones she was faintly hopeful about at the start. Inevitably something would turn her off them or them off her and she would accept defeat. Wilhelm told her she was her own crown of thorns, that she couldn't just let things breathe and come right in their own time. 'Letting the petals open before you sniff the flower' was how he put it.

Hermione wasn't one to let anything happen by itself- she was pushy by her own admission. It was what got her a First at university and it gave her the edge when she sold pieces in the shop. She had drive and determination and it rankled slightly that this didn't seem to sit well with the men she dated. Why couldn't she meet someone who liked that about her? Who just liked her?

The day rolled on, the noise unceasing although it alternated between loud sharp bangs, dull cracks and the long whine of a sander which added a bit of variety. Hermione spent the afternoon interspersing changing watch batteries and looking at VAT forms with bouts of unadulterated rage. Was at this really necessary? What were they doing up there, these odd brothers she hadn't even seen in the six weeks they had been tearing down the shop upstairs.

I bet they're old and really weird, she thought spitefully, flipping the back off a fob watch. I bet they lived with their mother in Devon and now they're going to open a shop selling DVDs of alien autopsies or outfits for cats or something else bizarre. Probably a real pair of shut-ins.

The door jangled and she looked up, lost in her daydream. The man that walked through the door was tall and lean, lengthy limbs wrapped in dusty blue jeans and fitted grey t shirt. His hair was red and shaggy, curling in sweaty loops on his neck and forehead. A dark V of sweat clung the t shirt to his skin, displaying a chest that wasn't exactly brawny but sort of hard. Firm. Like it had been toughened through physical labour. The sleeves of the t shirt stopped mid upper arm, revealing the cut of his biceps. Again, not hugely enlarged but certainly defined. He looked strong and capable.

Hermione surprised herself with deducing all this quite so quickly, in just the split second of his entrance. He took a moment to look around, spotted her standing behind the counter and ambled over.

Smiling, he wiped his hand down his thigh and held it out. "Ron Weasley. We're going to be neighbours."

Big hands. "Hermione Granger. And will you be making that racket for much longer Ron?" The barb was out of her mouth before she could stop it. This was the shut-in?

Ron laughed as he turned a full 360 and took in the shop. "Not for too much longer Hermione. We have a few more things to square up before we open and then we'll be all set. This is a really nice place. Expensive no doubt."

"It depends what you buy I suppose." Her eyes followed him as he bent to look into the cabinets, resting one hand on the glass top. She could already see the dust shedding from his skin and resolved to grab the Windolene the minute he left.

"Mental note," he replied, whistling between his teeth, "Don't buy anything from this counter!" Hermione opened her mouth to sharply respond when he glanced up and smiled at her. A full force, megawatt grin that she felt somewhere in her knees. His blue eyes sparkled with humour and she paused for a second, taking in his charismatic face, smudged with dust.

Feeling something akin to horror but unable to stop herself, Hermione watched her hand reach out towards his face. Ron stilled as it approached him, the ghost of his smile still on his lips. Within inches of his skin, she pulled her hand back, wondering what the hell had just happened.

"I... uh. You have dirt on your nose. Did you know?"

Ron laughed again and straightened. "I have dirt everywhere Hermione. It's a filthy business taking down walls." He made for the door and turned back to look at her over his shoulder. "Well I just wanted to drop in and introduce myself. I'm sure we'll see more of each other. Now I'm on top of you."

The little bell rang again as the door closed behind him and Hermione stood, mouth slightly agape. Did he just say...? Had he been flirting with her? She raised a sweaty palm to her cheek and found herself flushing, if that was even possible in this heat. She was still wondering what had just occurred when Mark came out from the back office and skirted round the counter.

"It's not five o'clock for another ten minutes," she tutted, regaining her composure.

"I'm not ruled by The Man Hermione. I'm a lone wolf, I follow my own rules."

She smirked. "Wilhelm has sent you on some mad errand hasn't he?"

Mark grimaced. "Auction house. There's a lot of Alexander McQueen he wants. Tomorrow fair maiden." He dipped low in a curtsey and left.

The week passed at a snail's pace, Wilhelm in unusually foul form because Mark had failed to secure the McQueen. The only bright spells had been glimpses of Ron Weasley as he whipped by the shop window, suddenly incredibly visible; one minute lugging boxes, the next pushing a trolley on which a cement mixer was precariously jolting around. There was something strangely enticing about him and Hermione didn't put her finger on it until Friday afternoon as she watched Ron and George standing next to their skip, full to the brim with dust covered items, eating ice cream cones. Ron said something and laughed, which caused George to shove his arm before breaking into laughter himself. Dr Foley had joined them as he walked from the surgery and they chatted to him easily, as though they had been friends for years.

That was when she had realised what was so appealing about Ron. He was… warm. It was a stupid word to describe him but it was the best she could do. He was friendly, nearly always smiling or laughing. Watching him in the sun animatedly describing something to Dr Foley she felt herself grin. It was infectious.

She watched them until they finished their ice cream and went back upstairs through their separate front door at the side of the building, lazily pretending to be cleaning the glass topped cabinets. As they disappeared Wilhelm entered the shop and starting working the till, huffily stabbing buttons.

Hermione smiled ruefully and squeezed his shoulder. "There'll be more McQueen."

"Not like these," came the almost imperceptible reply, "One of a kind."

They worked in silence, Wilhelm examining the display on the till, Hermione removing the window trays and bagging the jewellery. She has just locked the last cabinet when Wilhelm let out a squeal.

"You didn't tell me!" he admonished, rushing to her side, "When did it happen?"

She stood for a moment, utterly confused. "What? What is it?" He reached up and brushed her hair back from her neck before lightly touching her earlobe.

"The alexandrite. When did it change?"

It took another extended pause before she realised what he was referring to. "I…. What's happened to it?"

Wilhelm reached behind them and lifted a mirror on a long, thin silver stand. Setting it in front of her, he gently pulled aside the curls that had escaped her hair clip and nodded towards the glass. Hermione leant forward and, for the second time this week, found her mouth dropping open of its own accord. Slightly, but most definitely, the teal of the alexandrite was giving way to red, a barely discernible ribbon of claret curling through both earring drops. How could this be? After eight years of wear, how could they suddenly appear reddened? It was impossible surely.

At least it had improved Wilhelm's mood exponentially, he was practically dancing next to her. "Oh Hermione, this is a good omen indeed."

She glanced at him quickly, still mesmerized by the alexandrite. "Is it?"

"Oh yes," he nodded, pressing his palms together. "Good times ahead."