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Butterbeer is and has always been Dean Winchester's preferred drink.
Occasionally, he asks the Hogsmeade bartender, a feisty old witch named Marge, who is often wearing the most hideous plaid kilts, to spike it with alcohol. But that's only when she seems chipper (which is, admittedly, not often) since she's threatened to report his habits to his father during multiple instances. Not many things can scare Dean, but John certainly does, being a well-known Auror having taken down many a dark wizard in his time. Dean has long grown used to the side comments and exclamations of 'Oh! That Winchester!' He sometimes wishes that they knew the extent of John's 'heroics' and that being his son isn't all it's made out to be.
So now, as Dean sits, he refrains from requesting that extra shot. Instead, he listens to the incessant chatter of witch and wizard alike and subtle meow and coo noises sounding from just outside the little café. The sun is peering over the buildings outside Hogsmeade and painting the sky with orangish yellow streaks. Feather-like clouds accent the sunrise and seem to light up in the path of the fire in the sky. The café smells of sugar, cinnamon and pumpkin spice, setting a very autumn-y tone.
Dean drinks his beloved caramel-topped butterbeer in peace, swimming in his own loud thoughts and taking in the sky as it evolves into a pale aqua. That is, until a he hears a sudden pop and a familiar flash of bright red pushes into his line of vision, barreling towards him as fast as a hippogriff mid-flight.
"Dean-o!" A girly voice sings boisterously, so far off pitch that Dean imagines that there are windows shattering in the distance.
Charlie Bradbury has a nasty, yet endearing habit of appearing spontaneously no matter the situation.
The first time Dean had the pleasure of encountering her, he'd been startled to the point that he'd whipped out his brand-new wand that he didn't quite know how to use yet and promptly turned her hair green. Poor Dean had just moved over from America too. Charlie, who had been taught apparition in her early years (her mother was a specialist) had hastily apologized to Dean and offered him a chocolate frog, assuring him that there was no problem. The two ended up sitting together on the train and conversing all the way to Hogwarts after (sort of) reversing the spell cast on her hair. They still remain the best of friends, even if the sorting hat had called out "GRYFFINDOR!" for Dean and Charlie was left sitting at the blue and bronze table.
And Dean, being all too used to Charlie's sudden appearances, only flinches slightly at her arrival. Though, once he gains his wits back, he lets out a hearty, surprised laugh and leaps up. He eagerly wraps his arms around her shoulders tightly and with no shame whatsoever. She clings to him just as tight and buries her face in his moss green coat. Her black rimmed glasses speckled with rhinestones push and poke against his neck uncomfortably but Dean can't care less, for he's missed his best friend more than he's willing to admit to anyone.
"Charlie!" He shouts, delighted and grinning from ear to ear, his dimples revealing themselves (they seldom do) "It feels like it's been ages!"
It really has been ages for two fifteen-year-olds such as Charlie and Dean. Most Hogwarts kids spend their summers meeting with friends and family but Dean is left at his home to take care of his baby brother almost every year. Thanks to the stupid no-magic outside of school rule, when his dad isn't around, Dean is forced into manual labor. Laundry, dishes, lawn mowing, cooking—Dean's done it all a thousand times over. And his smartass eleven year-old brother sure as hell is isn't doing anything about it. Not that he's complaining about being with Sam (because he's not. Really, Dean practically worships the ground his genius baby brother walks on.) It'd just be nice to see Charlie and co. during the tiresome three months.
Speaking of, as Charlie and Dean greet each other, the golden bells hanging by the door jingle softly and a few other friendly faces enter the building.
Ash spies Dean first, throws his arms out, and bellows as loudly as Charlie–possibly louder,"What up homies?" prompting a chuckle from Charlie and a, "Nothing much, man," plus a side hug from Dean. The older boy's hair is ridiculously long and sticking up in a directions as if it's a pile of barbed wire.
Dean checks the door again because with Ash, Jo is never far behind. After all, the Harvelles always stick together, even if one of them may not be their blood. It's hard to miss her with the stubborn aura she seems to posses wherever she goes.
The stunning blonde crosses her arms, rolls her eyes at her brother and meets Dean's eyes with a tiny grin. Her leather jacket is skin-tight with beige tassels hanging from the sleeves and her boots are laced up to mid-calf. She looks like Jo always has: an audacious, spunky Gryffindor who can knock anyone out with a single spell.
"Well, well, well. Look who the cat dragged in," Dean jokes, casting Jo a half smile before opening his arms for a hug. She obliges, feigning reluctance and uncrossing her arms, and accepts the warm embrace. The fourth year is one of Dean's closest friends–even family at this point.
"'Nuff with the theatrics, boy, where's my welcome?" The voice contains a motherly tone colored with amusement and fondness.
Standing by the bronze covered doorway is someone who Dean has come to think of as a second mom of sorts. She houses him and Sam on nights their father is off doing business and, though strict, never fails to offer them a family unlike the dysfunctional one they've come to know. With the strength of a grizzly bear, Ellen Harvelle hugs Dean and he tries to escape (but to no avail). It's so forceful that he expects to burst anytime soon.
After the hug starts getting a little too long Ash, while twiddling with the stands of his frizzy, unruly hair, mumbles, "Come on, Ma, don't kill 'im. We still gotta have us some food."
"That's Professor to you," Ellen quips, begrudgingly releasing an out-of-breath Dean, "But I'd say it is about time we get us somethin' to drink."
"Damn straight!" Jo chides, her arm slung around Charlie, who would have been blushing if this were three years ago, but has come to accept that her best friend is indeed 'damn straight.'
Dean nods in agreement while Ellen scolds Jo for her language and leads them back to his favorite table, the one that sits by the big window overlooking the street. He can sit here for days, his gaze following complete strangers and reading them like books. He never gets over the crazy things that unravel just outside Hogsmeade all through the year, and always makes sure to relay each instance to Sam in great detail.
The dark-haired waitress approaches their table, her redwood wand floating next to her, preparing to take their order. A small white name tag pinned to her robes reads 'Rebecca' in intricate calligraphy. Not even sparing the menus a second glance, Ellen orders herself some firewhiskey while the kids all settle for muggle drinks. Jo gets Pepsi and Charlie gets Coke while Ash enthusiastically asks for a root beer float (He's been meaning to get one ever since the muggle menus were installed. He hasn't had one since before the Harvelles moved from America). The wand's black inky streaks dictate all the orders and Dean, as always and for the second time today, requests a butterbeer with extra cinnamon and caramel on top.
The drinks are out in practically no time at all, floating over to them and almost getting the orders correct. The waitress seems to be new so they say nothing, switching Jo and Charlie's drinks only after they simultaneously gag and spit a mouthful out.
They all converse about the upcoming year– and a big one at that–with Dean and Charlie's O.W.Ls. Ash assures them that the tests weren't that hard. Though, it isn't too comforting coming from a genius Ravenclaw such as himself. He probably aced the tests without giving them a second glance. (Except maybe for Transfiguration. Ash has never liked 'mean old Professor Walker' and his brutal training techniques.)
Time flies by and the wizards never seem to run out of topics to wear out.
"Dean," Ellen grabs his attention that's beginning to falter, "Sam must be ecstatic, right?"
Dean realizes what she's referring to and chuckles responding, "Oh, yeah, he's been itching to do some magic since dad let him look at potential wands. No, scratch that, since I got my wand."
His first-year brother hasn't shut up about Hogwarts for the last three months. Not that he doesn't talk about it normally (Because he does). He's just mentioning it a lot more, happy to bring it up any time. Though it's irritating, Dean doesn't blame him. After all, the wizarding world is a magnificent place.
The topic of conversation shifts when Charlie perks up and then immediately quiets down, all while pinning her eyes on something across the room.
"Hey," her voice is hushed a little, as if trying to keep quiet in the Hogwarts library, "Isn't that one of the Novak kids?" She points not-so-discreetly at a boy sat at a table on the other side of the diner wearing a tattered, tan trench coat. He sits with a book, like how Sam does all the time, and holds it with one hand while the other holds a small, lime green box of what seems to be apple juice. He sips on the drink contentedly, paying no mind to the onlookers.
Dean averts his eyes and they widen thinking of the word 'Novak.' Why shouldn't they? The Novak family is known as one of the most powerful purebloodlines left. The kids are well known too, being kicked out of practically ever school they get put in. Though it seems hard to imagine the quiet kid in the trench coat causing any kind of ruckus that would warrant expulsion.
Staring at the raven-haired boy, Ellen nods her head, "Looks like it. That's the youngest black-haired one. I read about the whole family in The Daily Prophet. He's called Castor or something."
Jo turns back and says quietly, "I'm kinda nervous about all of them moving to Hogwarts. There's like—what, six, maybe seven of them? They'll change the whole dynamic we've got going."
The rest of the table agrees and moves on, but Dean stops listening all of a sudden because wow. Castor, or whatever his name is, has blue eyes. Like really blue eyes. They are, as cliche as it sounds, the bluest eyes he's ever seen. It's not like he's going to write poetry or anything about them. He can just appreciate the way they reflect the light. Without thinking, he glues his own green eyes on the boy's for an embarrassingly long time.
In fact, he's so entranced that when the eyes stare back, he doesn't notice. That is, until the boy tilts his head in a cat-like manner, curious and confused, and Dean becomes a tomato for a minute or two while abruptly starting a separate staring contest with the stains in his now empty butterbeer glass. He looks sort of constipated, which is accurate, since he's currently giving himself a mental beating for looking at Castor, or whatever his name is, for that long. It's too—what's the term? Oh, yeah: gay.
Charlie asks Dean about his doe-eyed staring in a teasing manner and he just coughs and says he had something stuck in his throat.
Once twenty or so minutes pass, he dares to glance back for a second but there's nothing to see anymore.
Instead, he's met with an uncomfortable looking wooden chair and a table with crumbs sprinkled across one side. For Castor, or whatever his name is, is long gone, somehow leaving without setting off the bells by the door, and all that's left is a little green apple juice box, empty at the edge of the table.
•••••
Sam will not shut up.
Just when Dean thinks he's gotten used to it, his brother spies another trinket or wizarding gadget displayed behind a glass window and his voice somehow reaches a higher octave than before.
Out of the kindness of his heart, Dean tries to cope without yelling at Sam since, after all, this is his first time in Diagon Alley for himself rather than Dean.
Getting supplies is simple: two new couldrons (Dean managed to break his last year in an unfortunate Potions accident), the essential wizarding candy (Dean's personal favorite are Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans), robes (Sam is so scrawny that Dean gets worried they won't be able to tailor the fabric to his size), books, and, of course, a wand.
Realistically speaking, they should be at Ollivander's by now. They are a ways away because of Sam, who's nose is pressed up against a display, flattening his face like a pancake. He's gushing over a new broom brand, the Leviathan. If Dean had any interest in quidditch (he doesn't; flying is downright petrifying in his opinion,) he would be just as enthralled. The Leviathan is supposed to be able to rival the lightning-fast Devil's Trap and smooth, graceful Celestial Sweeper. Dean manages to pry Sam away from the pricy brooms, assuring him that his broom, a measly Silvercut, is sufficient for training to be a keeper.
They enter Ollivander's together, Sam's eyes dancing across the room in awe-struck wonder. Boxes line the walls that reach higher than it seems they should be able to from the outside of the store. The lighting is low, a single lamp with a shredded shade and floral pattern being the only source of light. And, of course, the wrinkled, hunched body that belongs to the owner of said store. Dean finds himself remembering when the odd old man gave him his wand. As he reminisces, he instinctively grips the pale colored stick tight under his jacket, replaying Ollivander's words in his mind.
"Aspen. Ten Inches. Very firm, as well. A wand suited for one with great determination. Especially with the dragon heartstring core. Quite a wand you've got Mister Winchester, quite a wand."
Sam gazes at Ollivander with the same excitement and anticipation of every young wizard in his situation. Dean hates to think that at one point he had looked this idiotic.
The man smiles at him and turns to Dean saying in his creaky, voice, "Mister Winchester, I assume you've taken care of that wand of yours."
Dean nods with a small smile, slightly creeped out (Ollivander is, arguably, a little scary.)
Sam, who is starting to buzz like a bee in his haze of excitement, pays the man nine galleons and begins choosing his wand. Or–sorry. 'The wand chooses the wizard.'
The first wand ("Chesnut. Nine-and-a-half inches. Remarkably bendy. Unicorn hair core. If you plan on fighting professionally or pursuing a job for the Ministry, this wand is perfect, little Mister Winchester,") proves to be a horrendous idea, as the single magic-powered lightbulb in the room shatters, leaving them in complete darkness.
Wands two and three are a bust. Apparently Hazel wands have a tendency to snap around Sam. (Ollivander, thankfully, assures them they won't need to pay for them, as they hadn't needed to when Dean got his.) Four causes Dean's hair to turn fiery orange, which is amusing in a way but more irritating right now. The fifth one is the worst, setting the already bright orange to actual flames. Dean is just about ready to leave at this point.
Sixth time's the charm, right?
Ollivander pulls out another wand, looking disheveled and tired while Dean crankily casts a spell on his singed hair. The wand is a light brown and has a resemblance to pottery with small black engravings across the bottom. It almost seems like an ancient relic found in those deep underground burial sites Sam's always reading about.
"Nine inches. Mildly flexible. Hawthorn wood and Phoenix core," Ollivander rasps tiredly as Sam gingerly picks up the wand.
Immediately, Dean knows this is the one.
It's almost as if something sucks all of the air out the room, creating a vacuum. Sam's emerald eyes glow a little with power and he sighs, probably sensing the magic running in his blood for the first time. It's a feeling, Dean's sure, that he won't soon forget. It's like lightning and water at the same time. It's both hot and cold, fierce and calm, dark and light.
"I hope this suffices, little Mister Winchester," Ollivander says softly and then mutters, just loud enough for Dean to hear, "a challenging wand indeed. Fit for those in pursuit of great power–dark or good."
Sam is too enchanted to notice the side comment and thanks the man hastily, dragging Dean out the door so he can boast to his friends about the wand.
Dean lingers for a moment, curious. He pulls out his own white-wood wand and traces the faux vines with his eyes, staring at the back of the man before him.
His words echo ominously, "a challenging wand indeed..."
He follows Sam out the creaky wooden door and into the crowded streets of Diagon Alley.
•••••
He stares at him.
Castor, or whatever his name is, is stealthy. He's perched by a wall, reading and hardly being noticed by those around him.
Except for Dean, of course, who is starting to question the rumors he's heard about the notorious Novak family.
Sam is attempting to drag him towards the train so he can meet up with the other wizards in his age group. Dean stays stubbornly grounded.
"Dean, if you don't move right now, I'm taking Bones and going without you." Sam picks up the shiny new silver cage housing a red-feathered owl that is named Bones of all things.
Dean waves him off, now thoroughly intrigued by this blue-eyed boy.
"DEAN!" A different voice beckons him and he turns to see Charlie, Ash, and Jo waving him over frantically. Sam seems to have run off on his own, probably looking for the girl he met in Diagon Alley, Jade or something. He finally decides to go ahead and board the train with his friends before all the good seats are taken by the other students.
Dean hesitates. Deciding to indulge his act of kindness for the month, he glances back and opens his mouth to invite Castor, or whatever his name is, to come sit with them, but is met with a red brick wall and nothing more. There's no sign that he was there at all.
Though, a little lime green juice box is blown to Dean's feet by the force of the wind. He leans to pick it up but it's tossed away by a sudden, harsh breeze. The Hogwarts Express' whistle blows like an alarm clock.
He runs and boards the train with his friends, but keeps an eye out for the odd boy with the baby-blues, worn trench coat, and an apparent love for apple juice.