Winter in Diagon Alley

Diagon Alley, Is a magical place in winter. Snow falling softly covering the perfectly paved concrete. It was growing dark. And all the stores were beginning to close for the night. Except one store. A thrift store. Stood all alone in the corner of the Alley. Only a street lamp lit up the front of the store. The store sold many things, old and new. As i walked in something drew my attention. I just couldn’t get passed the smell. It was like a dirty old rag mixed with spilled puddles of steaming potions. The shelves were crammed with glass jars of repulsive ingredients like sheep intestines, pickled lizard brains, rabbit eye balls, snakes tongue and rat’s ears. I was really interested in the assortment of hats in various stages of repair on a coat stand, casting a shadow like a crazy castle. Every kind of cloak from double lined, velvety, fur trimmed winter cloaks, to light linen summer cloaks dropped in a crumpled heap by the thick oak front door. Several cauldrons bubbling and steaming with self-stirring spoons. Seemed as if the store was bigger on the inside than the outside. As if it was more than a thrift store. Outside seemed very run-down. Filthy, the store windows were so murky, you could barely catch a glimpse of the others roaming the street.

Inside all you could hear was an angry customer screaming at the old woman behind the counter. I see him as he walks in, the angry customer, before he’s even been triggered. There is a tension in his manner, a tightness in his face and his eyes move more robotically than others. Every move he makes is as if he’s got some clock ticking in his head, perhaps that’s the countdown to his next explosion. I doubt there is a thing in this world that can bring him joy, not a flower or a sunrise… the angry customer… forever in a world of grey. As he surveys the products, fingering them as if daring them to tempt him and taking a small yet pungent delight in rejecting them… a micro-power trip. He will select something soon and then, in the process of the purchase he will find a problem and the venting will start in front of the queue that is his audience. So though he is tall, to me, he is so very small.

At the counter was an old woman. Not the kind you pity with their old bones and feeble limbs, but the kind who could still run an army kitchen given half a chance. She stood quite tall and slim. Short grey hair neat and tidy. Likely styled with old fashioned rollers, the kind women used to sleep in. Her face is made up with discrete make-up except her lips. Her lips were a cherry red colour. Were she any paler her mouth would be garish, but against her sun-kissed skin it looks right. When she extends her hand to shake mine I see the soil beneath her fingernails. A gardener I’ll bet. Then I notice her neck scarf, patterned with small roses. I’ll bet she has the best front yard on her street. She didn’t seem to be one to own a store like this