Like last summer, Diagon Alley was crowded and bustling. Witches gossiped arm and arm, heels clicking on the cobblestones; some of them pushed sleeping babies in prams, haggled with grocers. The street Tom Riddle walked down shared none of the panic of London outside the Leaky Cauldron's door. He supposed wizards would never concern themselves in a war between Muggles, and Diagon Alley must have its own magical protection from anything that threatened to fall on it from the sky.
He paused at a stand that sold stoppered bottles of pumpkin juice; between the late August heat and the hour he'd just spent digging through a second-hand shop for this term's textbooks, he was parched.
He searched his jacket pocket for his money bag and closed his hand around it. Empty. The allowance he'd withdrawn from Gringotts that morning was only enough for the supplies he needed for his second year at Hogwarts – no more, no less. He moved on; maybe he could nick a bottle of lemonade in Muggle London on his way back to the orphanage later.
Tom came across a scattering of tables and chairs on a small terrace that jutted out into the street. He deposited his bags of books and potions ingredients onto one of the tables and sat under the shade of a striped umbrella that sprouted from its centre.
He was in no rush to return to Wool's. With the declaration that London's "most vulnerable" would be evacuated from the city, the orphanage was thrown into a sudden panic over where they would end up, if they would be able to leave at all. Tom slipped out as a harried Ms. Cole announced they would be put trains headed to the countryside, shuffled out of harm's way should bombs start dropping on London.
Tom would be making his own train journey, from King's Cross, of course, but destined for somewhere much more exciting. While the orphanage would disperse to a cluster of farms in Lincolnshire, Tom would be welcomed by a grand, ancient castle nestled among mountains, its towers and corridors so charged with centuries of sorcery that nothing mundane and non-magical could even step through the front door.
Thinking of the comforting lap of waves against the porthole window in his dormitory, Tom took a battered copy of Securing the Statute of Secrecy from his stack of new textbooks and started reading. He quickly became absorbed, so much so, that it took a loud snapping of fingers next to his head to shake him out of it.
"Sorry, lad – didn't mean to startle you. I said we're closing up soon."
A man with longish, wavy brown hair, a short beard, and soft blue eyes kneeled at the table next to Tom. Tom took in the crisp, newly-painted letters of the sign of the shop: Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour .
"Last call for ice cream, I'm afraid - I'm about to close up for the night – keep sitting here if you like. Getting a bit late though, I'm sure your Mum and Dad will want you home. Last night before Hogwarts and all."
"I won't be long," Tom said.
Fortescue stood up and waved his wand, closing the umbrellas. He eyed the title of Magical Relations in Europe: The Past One Thousand Years laying on the top of the stack and pointed at it, grinning..
"That's one of my favourites, that one. I analysed the first ever Triwizard Tournament for my History of Magic N.E.W.T." he said. "Do you enjoy that subject?"
Fortescue clearly did. Tom contemplated whether or not he wanted to continue talking to this man, and lied. "No, not particularly."
Fortescue laughed. "No one ever does."
A bell on the door jingled as he walked back inside the shop, and Tom returned to his book.
He narrowed his eyes, but kept them on the pages in front of him when Fortescue returned moments later and placed a towering sundae on the table. Tom hadn't asked for an ice cream – he had no money left – and he especially didn't ask for one smothered in chocolate and strawberry syrup, with chopped nuts and a glowing red cherry on top.
"I like to give a little reward to anyone who reads or studies here. Especially if it's history." Fortescue explained. "I always say, the best way to make sense of the present–" he gestured to the brick wall that separated the Leaky Cauldron, seemingly indicating Muggle London beyond its boundary "–is to learn about the past." He disappeared behind the jangling door once again.
When the sun had sunk below the horizon, it became too dark to read, and he couldn't avoid the tense climate of Muggle London any longer, Tom gathered his things and set off for the Leaky Cauldron. The sundae, untouched, had melted completely, the cherry sinking all the way down to the bottom of the glass.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Florrie?"
Liv was standing just outside the shop's open doorway, wavy hair backlit in the morning sun, the windows still boarded up. She refused to step inside, claiming the smell was enough to make her sick even from the street. Florina was examining the tipped-over stools, the dusty cracked glass that covered moulding ice cream tubs, what had to be a rat's nest in the open cash drawer…
"There's people you can hire to clean this up, you know – get it back in shipshape, sell the building…" Liv stepped forward tentatively, covering her nose with the front of her robes, the smell pronounced in the early summer heat. "Just because Grandad left you the business, it doesn't mean you have to run it like he did…"
She trailed off as Florina ignored her and walked behind the counter to their grandfather's kitchen. It was just as dusty and vandalised as the rest of the shop, but she was determined to find what she was looking for. All those summers she spent back here washing dishes, or pouring sour milk down the drain in the floor, or finding answers for her History of Magic essays in the books he kept here, interspersed with cookbooks and ledgers and –
"His recipes!" She murmured excitedly, unearthing the hand-bound sheets of parchment. It looked like someone had taken their arm and swept it across the shelf, knocking the contents to the floor. She pressed the parchment to her chest and rejoined Liv in the alley, careful not to trip over Ancient Ways of Wandlore on her way out.
She was just getting used to letting go of some mad hope that her grandfather would return to shop someday, where he'd smile at customers from behind the counter with those kind eyes of his, invent new flavours, spend a few more good years at the shop before eventually retiring on his own terms.
Last year, after Grandad had disappeared, the Aurors had done a full investigation of the mess the shop was left in and dubbed it, "unquestionably the work of Death Eaters". With no Dark Mark hanging over the building, no body to be found, all signs pointed to a kidnapping. The Aurors asked them all sorts of questions, but for the life of her, Florina couldn't guess what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named could possibly want from an old history buff who gave away ice cream to kids.
Back in September, Florina's boss at the Apothecary "temporarily" moved the business to mail-order and let her go. As more and more shops along Diagon Alley followed suit, Florina found herself out of a job for the first time leaving Hogwarts.
"What about this?" She'd asked her sister over breakfast one morning, pointing at a classified ad in the Daily Prophet. "'Ministry of Magic Educational Collation Associates, 6 Galleons a day, must own a legally-obtained wand – will be subject to inspection' …"
"It's putting together this rubbish," Liv said bluntly, picking up a brochure that had come rolled up in the paper ("Friend or Fraud? How to Know when it's Time to Turn in Magical Thieves"), brandishing it in Florina's face for a moment before sending it into the fireplace with her wand.
"It's such a state at the Ministry these days, Florrie, I wouldn't recommend getting involved right now, even for a piddly little job like this." (Florina frowned at this, as she'd never made 6 Galleons a day before at any job.) "I told you I don't care about the rent right now, the best thing you can do is keep your head down until all this blows over." She grabbed one last piece of toast, pulled her cloak on and Apparated to work right there in the hallway.
Autumn, then winter, then spring melted together with little definition. Fog and dread settled over Diagon Alley. At night, Florina was kept awake with persistent, creeping thoughts that "all this" wasn't about to "blow over" anytime soon, if at all. So she often found herself dozing off on the sofa in the daytime, startling awake in the evening with Liv's crack of Apparition.
When she was jolted awake the morning of May first, she muttered her annoyance as usual ("Merlin's pants, Liv, do you have to do that right by my head…?") but Liv didn't answer, and Florina opened her eyes – not to the view of the fireplace in the living room, but sunlight streaming through her bedroom window. She could hear shouting on the street below – less irate than usual, more excited.
She sat up and gasped when the room went dark and something – something big – flew past the window, blocking the sunlight and plunging the bedroom into darkness. She watched as the dragon flapped its wings, gaining height, then gliding into the distance until it was a tiny speck, disappearing into the clouds.
Everything happened very fast after that. There was news of a break-in at Gringotts; a special report on the Wireless that broadcast all night, a battle at Hogwarts, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named defeated at the hands of a seventeen-year-old.
Liv started working overtime at the Ministry as people all over the country came to themselves after months living under the Imperius curse, but she was always in a good mood when she walked through the door each evening.
Until, of course, they found Grandad. Aurors came to the door, they said they'd launch a full investigation, but Florina never heard from them again.
At his funeral, Florina was sure she saw a young man with messy black hair and glasses in the back row – but he left before anyone could introduce themselves. In a stuffy solicitor's office a week later, some old warlock recited his will. "To my granddaughter, Florina, I leave Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, business and premises located at 31 Diagon Alley, London."
She tried to remember if Grandad had ever mentioned leaving her the ice cream shop before… admittedly, regrettably, she'd sometimes tune him out once he got going about goblin rebellions or alchemists. It made sense, she supposed, with Dad retired already, Liv locked into a permanent position at the Ministry.
She enjoyed working there, those summers before, but she'd only helped out, she didn't know the first thing about making ice cream or running a business. Something about the months she'd just spent mostly on the sofa and the way the sun was starting to come out again made her want to be in that kitchen again, trying something new even if she failed at it, just for the opportunity to do it at all.
After that first visit to retrieve the recipes, with Liv's begrudging help, the shop was put to rights – she said she was getting sick of Florina's ice cream experiments making a mess of the kitchen in the flat, anyways. The sign outside was repainted, the umbrellas replaced, the stools and the long counter repaired.
The fog lifted over Diagon Alley, as people returned to the street. They hurried between their destinations, quickly finishing their errands and leaving. As Florina worked on perfecting her grandfather's old recipes, she handed cones and sundaes out the window to whoever happened to be walking by.
They often started off looking a bit uncomfortable, having to stand there with nothing else to do, nowhere to sit until they finished and could give Florina their feedback. But as they stood, they waved to family walking by, old friends, colleagues – people who walked up for ice creams of their own, falling into deep conversations that ended up lasting long after the cones were finished.
The shop opened in August to a reliable base of Diagon Alley regulars (many who'd spent the previous weeks peering into the window, hopeful for more samples) along with the ebb and flow of shoppers as they returned to the winding, cobblestoned street. Witches from the countryside, idle teenagers with nothing to do before school started, and frazzled Muggle parents of new Hogwarts students who were just relieved the ice cream didn't change colour or taste like rotten eggs. Whenever Florina spotted one cracking the spine of a fresh book from Flourish and Blotts, excited and oblivious to the fact that they were lucky to see Hogwarts at all this year, she dropped a sundae on the table – on the house.
The long, crooked street was pulsing with activity. People strolled freely and unhurried between the shops, balconies of flats above shops spilled over with plants, their doors left ajar. Harry watched the path of a distant Muggle plane cut across the overcast sky, swirling white and grey like the inside of an impenetrable crystal ball.
The summer that had dragged on cruelly and slowly as it was happening was suddenly over much too fast, as Ginny and Hermione were set to board the Hogwarts Express in the morning, leaving Harry and Ron in London to begin Auror training next month.
Harry and Ron had excused themselves from Flourish and Blotts – packed as it was with last-minute shoppers – promising to meet up with Ginny and Hermione later. Harry was secretly relieved for the excuse; watching them consult their book lists and point at spines on high shelves for the staff to retrieve triggered a wistful pang in his chest he wasn't expecting.
He and Ron walked past the Apothecary (where a line had formed out the door), glanced guilty at the repaired marble facade of Gringotts, and peered in the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. Harry still needed to replace his Firebolt, but with training coming up he wasn't sure when he'd even have time to fly a broomstick.
He was about to suggest a quick pint at the Leaky Cauldron as they neared one of the few shops that hadn't reopened. Ron stopped, peering up at a lamp burning in the window of the flat above Weasleys Wizard Wheezes.
"Do you reckon we should…"
"You go on up," Harry said, "I'll go to the Leaky Cauldron."
He continued along the winding street, absentmindedly feeling for the wand in his pocket as he moved through the crowds, wrapping his cloak around him in the cool early fall air. Stalls displaying bright bouquets of flowers (magical and non-magical), bottles of pumpkin juice and Butterbeer, and souvenirs lined the street. Though eyes flicked up to his scar, as usual; people mostly left him alone. The apprehension he'd felt about coming back here started to chip away a little, for the first time in years it felt like things could be normal again some day, or at least as close to it as he'd ever known…
He turned the corner, surprised to see a patio crowded with tables and blue umbrellas, most of them occupied with young families or witches deep in conversation. He could have been thirteen again, ready to spend the afternoon under an umbrella writing essays, aided by a steady supply of ice cream and wisdom from Florean Fortescue.
The bell on the door chimed as he walked inside; catching the attention of a woman with wavy brown hair counting coins at the register, her eyes catching his as he slid onto a stool.
He ordered a treacle sundae, the ice cream just as rich and creamy as he remembered. The woman behind the counter attended to a steady stream of customers, her kind eyes so familiar to Harry that, when there was a short lull, he found himself asking – "Excuse me, are you Mr. Fortescue's…?"
"Granddaughter," she smiled, holding out her hand to him. "Florina. Yes, I am named after him, I inherited the shop, opened it up about a month ago, I don't have any chocolate ice cream because I can't get it as good as his yet but I'm almost there." It sounded like she had rehearsed this for customers many times before.
"Harry," he replied, shaking her hand. By the way her eyes flicked up to the scar on his head, though, he thought she probably knew his name already.
She held his glance, hesitating for a moment, before saying, "I thought that was you at his funeral. I didn't realise my Granddad knew Harry Potter."
"The only perfect mark I ever got in History of Magic was because of him. I came here every day for weeks to write my essay and he–"
"Gave you loads of free ice cream?"
Harry nodded.
Florina shook her head, smiling a bit sadly. "Sounds just like him."
She excused herself to help a nervous-looking couple in Muggle clothing and their young daughter ("... and Vanilla is just vanilla, right? No frog eyes or dragon scales or anything…"). When Harry heard the news that Florean Fortescue's body was found at Malfoy Manor, he got the time and date of the funeral from a published list in the Daily Prophet. He'd been to so many funerals – some more difficult than others, some that blended in to each other, some where he arrived as late as he could and left as early as possible – and what he remembered after Florean Fortescue's was the senselessness of it, that no one knew why Voldemort would kidnap an old man with an ice cream shop.
When Fortescue read over Harry's homework, he seemed to always have a story that made everything fit together perfectly, something you wouldn't be able to find in books. He thought of how Voldemort interrogated people like Ollivander and Grindelwald, anyone who he thought knew more about something than he did… He fished the last of his sundae out of the bottom of the glass. Maybe Kingsley would let Harry in on the investigation if he asked…
There was a rap on the window by his head, and turned his head to the small crowd of people outside: Hermione and Ginny, waving madly, their arms full of shopping bags and flowers; Ron, grinning; George, pale and thin behind them all but managing a light-hearted thumbs-up. The door chimed again when they filed in, loud and cheerful, surrounding Harry. Ginny tossed a bouquet of marigolds at him and kissed him on the cheek.
"We were just on our way to the Leaky Cauldron when we say this was open, Ron said–"
"I knew he'd be in here, he always went on about this place–"
Florina was back again, taking his empty glass and eyeing Hermione and the Weasleys as they settled into the other stools around him.
"Another?" she asked.
"Another."