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Come with me to Diagon, only let us go in those quiet periods after the school rush, but before the great buzz of holiday shoppers descends, when the nights grow long and the Alley becomes grey and listless and colder with every moment; and even nearby Knockturn has quieted and become almost quaint, as the Dark wizards retreat indoors to plot, away from the awful fog and the annoyed Aurors who know, and resent, that today they will not be home by sunset.
There is little to see in Diagon at this time. Only a few small local children, clustering round Mr. Fortescue for something hot. And sometimes scarred Mr. Weasley coming forth from Gringotts, running errands for goblins who prefer to linger inside warm barrows. And the lone daytime buyer — some tall, clear-eyed beauty (pureblood, we assume, with little else to occupy her time) — venturing into Malkin’s and Twilfit’s, and spending the day poring over yards of silk and velveteen, bejeweled hatpins, fur collars. Only the brief sound of the doorbell announces her, but it rings out like a siren, so still and serene the Alley is.
The Alley is not very magical at these times — or, at least, not magical in the way we think of magic. For magic is exploding snap cards, and floating bits of fire, and vast starry ceilings, and midnight duels, and everywhere some new bit of excitement: werewolves unmasked, or sudden and terrible incursions by Dark Wizards, or at the very least a great crowd of young and bright persons rushing to and fro. Magic is chaos and noise, and feeling alive. Magic belongs to four kinds of persons — loud Gryffindors, snapping Slytherins, brilliant Ravenclaws, and even the jolly Hufflepuff, a being which they say resides near warm, well-lit, lively kitchens and delights in warm, well-lit, lively pursuits.
But now the Alley falls asleep. To ward off the cold, it wraps itself up in small meetings and quiet ventures. Mr. Weasley’s red scarf fades in the wan light, seems to blend with his hair; and the pretty witch at Miss Malkin’s could be anyone, really, not the privileged daughter of a pureblood house, but perhaps simply a shopgirl dressed up and playing at privilege. Even the local children are formless, young, not yet Sorted, not yet proper witches and wizards. If there is magic in them, it is brief and flickering and unobtrusive: nothing loud, nothing powerful, nothing special.
This might be any Muggle town.
This is my favorite time of year.