Chapter Text
In the aftermath of the war, London's remaining magical community held both echoes of the past and whispers of profound change. The Ministry stood tall, St. Mungos had stretched its arms wider, and Diagon Alley danced with growth the like of which had been unseen for decades. As folks - entire families that had hidden themselves way to tide the dark times - tentatively reemerged into society, shedding the cloak of secrecy or returning to the embrace of the country, they brought a hunger for tradition. But, with it, they also had a desperate yearning for the new.
Enter Willbourne Street, a fresh addition to London's magical heart, named after an Auror who faced down six Death Eaters. Where it lacked the careful planning of newly expanded spaces, the mismatch of offerings made up for it. Willbourne Street had it all - from a sprouting haberdashery to an apothecary specializing in elusive Asian wonders and more.
Almost hidden, nestled next to the gemstones-exclusive store, was The Plume. No windows, no flashy displays. Just a stretch of wall adorned with deep aquamarine tiles that subtly sparkled. A grand cobalt blue door stole the spotlight, "The Plume" written in tidy letters above. To its left hung a store sign, a lone peacock feather crafted delicately from metal. Its edges, burnished until they gleamed, swayed with the wind. Inlaid with colored glass, it shimmered from every angle, an iridescent gem on the otherwise bare street.
In the late evening hours, spanning from seven to just past eleven, The Plume transformed into the most exclusive dining establishment in London and beyond. The waiting list extended a daunting six weeks, an obstacle even the Minister for Magic couldn't sidestep. It became the coveted destination, a place where the who's who of England vied for a spot at the table.
However, as the clock struck midnight, a metamorphosis occurred. The wall seemingly burst into life, a subtle glow emanating from behind the tiles. It pulsed and throbbed, accompanied by a faint melody that only became audible when one stood close enough. The tiles almost seemed to flow, caught in motion like a bird stretching its wings after a long rest.
The doors now open to reveal a dark entryway that leads directly into a ballroom, with dark paneled walls and an ornate staircase that winds up the far left corner. The stairs lead to the balcony above, with a heavy wrought iron banister that spans across the length of the balcony.
At first glance, the ballroom appears like an endless open space till you pay closer attention and notice the bar that lines the right wall. The polished oak of the bar matches seamlessly with the floor, melding the two together till it’s you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
The dance floor is bare otherwise, leaving a vast stretch of space for people to converge.
It’s chaos and freedom and everything Harry Potter needs at two am on a Friday night.
He stumbled upon the place almost by accident.
On Hermione’s insistence and careful maneuvering, he had found himself on a blind date a few weeks ago. The bloke had been nice enough, a trainee Healer who worked with Hermione and had somehow passed her bar for someone she thought Harry would like to meet. That was the only reason Harry had said yes in the first place - if the man met Hermione’s high standards for him then he was someone worth a first date.
The first red flag was when he ignored Harry’s attempts to meet somewhere more lowkey. Harry still wasn’t a fan of using his name to get things but he figured why not and ended up getting them a table at the most exclusive place in town.
The second red flag was the dinner itself when he wouldn’t stop asking about the war, the final battle, and Harry’s career - all topics Harry would rather not discuss with anyone anytime soon, let alone on a first date.
Perhaps he was bad at masking his expressions or maybe the guy had been just that loud but halfway through dinner, when he had just about had enough, his date had found himself with a salad on his head. Harry had watched on, shocked and just a little amused, as a server apologised profusely and escorted him to get cleaned up. Within seconds the seat opposite him had been occupied by someone else - Blaise Zabbini.
Harry had blinked, shocked. He can’t remember a time when he’d ever interacted with the Slytherin, any memories he had of him were about him being around Malfoy.
(and wasn’t that someone he hadn't thought about in a while)
“How’s it going, Potter?” Blaise had asked, all nonchalant like he wasn’t crashing a date.
Harry struggled to find something to say, to buy time he peeked around Blaise to check where his date had gone off to.
“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Blaise had waved his hand around, directing Harry’s attention back to him. “Pierre will keep him busy for a bit.”
“Wait, what -”
“Life is too short to waste time on bad dates,” Blaise had said, all traces of humor gone. “Life’s even more short to be used by someone for your past.”
There was a note of heaviness in his words that Harry knew stretched far beyond just that evening. Harry had nodded, grateful for the interruption but still not comfortable enough with Blaise to say that out loud.
Before he could say anything he spotted his date walking back towards the table, his eyes trained on Blaise’s back.
“Another thing,” Blaise had stopped by Harry’s chair, “come back after we close, I think you might like what we offer after hours.”
Even as he swept away and Harry’s date had launched into a long-winded complaint about service, a part of Harry had been intrigued.
He doesn’t regret taking him up on that offer.
