Harry Potter had hoped -- indeed, he had expected -- to be spending the entire day with his two best friends, experiencing the sights, sounds and smells of Diagon Alley, getting a head start on shopping for their sixth year school supplies.
But Hermione was taking a Muggle train back from her cousin's wedding in Yorkshire, and Ron had somehow gotten stuck de-gnoming the Burrow garden yet again. They would be hopping the Knight Bus and catching up with Harry that afternoon. Till then, he had four hours more or less to himself.
Passing through the common room of the Leaky Cauldron, he nodded absently to the customers who acknowledged him. Some of the Order's Advance Guard -- specifically Moody -- had put up the usual objections to Harry being out in public without a sizable bodyguard, and Harry was grateful for Remus's compromise solution.
Harry edged past an attractive redheaded witch, who winked at him, on his way to the rear room. He pushed the bricks in the proper order, and the passage to Diagon Alley opened itself up to him.
He had planned to spend some time at Flourish & Blotts, the wizardry bookstore, but he was dissuaded by a long line outside the door and down the street. The window display featured ads for an autograph party for the current #1 on the Daily Prophet's non-fiction bestseller list: Clytemnestra Codswallop's Perfidy! How the Hogwarts Intellectual Conspiracy Is Selling Us Out To The Dark Lord. Hermione, who bought the book the day it came out, had put an impressive hole in the wall of Ginny's room as she hurled it in disgust. ("There but for the Intellectual Conspiracy goes a good candidate for Gryffindor Beater," was George's comment.)
All I need in this crowd is for someone to notice my scar, Harry thought. He hurried past, head down, nearly colliding with a crone who was haggling over the price of a toad at the Magical Menagerie.
Inevitably, he paused outside Quality Quidditch Supplies to check out the latest Firebolt models in the window. Between the Triwizard Tournament and Umbridge's ban, it had been two years since he had played a full season. Last week he'd gotten owls from Angelina Johnson and Oliver Wood, each encouraging him to run for the vacant position of Gryffindor Captain. He was tempted, but ...
... but, somehow, Quidditch seemed trivial to him now. A death prophecy certainly puts things in perspective, he thought.
He was a little nonplussed to find a branch of Beanstrucks on the next corner, especially as he had already passed one not three blocks previous, just before the Apothecary. Hermione's right, he thought, these places are multiplying like Blast-Ended Skrewts.
Harry had felt guilty for signing Hermione's petition to Keep Beanstrucks Out Of Hogsmeade when in fact he had never been in one of their shops. (He was irritated with her when she admitted she'd never been to one either.) As good a time as any, since she isn't here to complain, he thought as he entered under the sign "Beanstrucks Coffee, Since 1995 C.E." with a logo of a pixie spitting a coffee bean in a witch's eye.
With the exception of Flourish & Blotts, the main room of Beanstrucks was the largest store space he had ever seen in Diagon Alley. There was a long and intimidating line to buy Self-Grinding Beans, Trichophyton Teas, and such daunting concoctions as Fire and Ice Blendeds, Chai Potions and Mocha Monsoons.
Above the counter was a picture of a rotund, twinkle-eyed wizard, captioned: Ozymandias Beanstruck, Our Founder, Wants You To Come Back To Beanstrucks. As Beanstruck's portrait surveyed the room, the eyes met Harry's, and the old man's picture smiled.
Harry found himself smiling back. He was overcome with a dreamy sense of well-being. This place really isn't bad at all, Harry thought. I really, really like it here ... I'm sure I'm going to love trying all their drinks ... too bad they don't have a branch at Hogwarts, or two or three ... I think I'll drop out of school and spend all my time here ... I'll just go empty the vault at Gringotts and --
Bugger, it's just coffee! With a start, Harry found himself face down on the floor. He shook his head, got up, and the compulsion was gone.
Ten minutes later, Harry reached the front of the line. "Welcome to Beanstrucks! May I take your order?" said an artificially perky witch in a green apron.
"I'll have an Iced Lepiotoid Lemonade."
"Tall, Extra-Tall, Grande, Super-Macho-Venti, or IV Bucket?"
Harry paused. "Small, please."
"I'm sorry?" chirped the waitwitch. "You want a Tall?"
"No, small. The smallest size you have."
"That would be a Tall ..."
"Tall is small ..." Harry rubbed his forehead. "Whatever ..."
Harry paid for his not-very-Tall drink. He sat down amongst the wizards and witches, each and every one alone at a table, quietly sipping their drinks, munching on various sweets and baked goods.
Harry was used to the easy camaraderie of establishments like the Leaky Cauldron and even Madame Puddifoot's, and the silent impersonal ambience of Beanstrucks unnerved him. No one would even make eye contact with him ...
In the far corner of the room, behind a table with a full plate of sticky buns, sat a familiar form, head down, writing. Harry had largely avoided Neville Longbottom since the Department of Mysteries raid, and especially since his talk with Dumbledore and the revelation of Neville's connection to the death prophecy.
Harry hesitated, but his curiosity and the need for human contact overcame his reluctance. He got up and approached his old friend, who did not look up.
"Hello, Neville," said Harry.
Neville jumped, and Harry saw that his eyes were red. "Oh ... hello, Harry ..."
Harry looked Neville in the eye, and Neville appeared to almost physically shrink an inch or two. "Neville, are you all right?" Harry asked, sitting down across from him.
"Yes ... Yes, Harry, I'm fine ..." stuttered Neville.
He certainly does not look fine, thought Harry. Harry remembered Neville, nose bloodied, standing up to the Death Eaters: "Whaddever you do, Harry, don'd gib it to him!" The Neville that sat before him, almost shaking, seemed to have reverted to something even more timid than the Neville of old.
Harry noticed the form Neville had been filling out, titled JOB APPLICATION. "Neville, what are you doing here?," he asked.
Neville hung his head. "I'm applying for a job here, Harry. And I'm not going back to Hogwarts."
Will the customers of Beanstrucks recover from their caffeine jag? Will Neville recover from his sticky-bun sugar rush? Will Harry recover from learning the contents of his Iced Lepiotoid Lemonade? Answers to these questions, and more I haven't thought of yet, in CHAPTER TWO, soon to come ...