The Red Hawk is smack dab in the middle of Diagon Alley, a prime spot for any establishment. The warm lights from inside, are more than enough to draw people inside along with the alluring smell of scrumptious food wafting into the streets. A modest little chalk board sits outside, hovering just beside the door, where the menu changes in accordance to the time and day, the food usually depending on the chef’s mood. Whatever his mood however, customers can be guaranteed an amazing meal.

Choruses of voices are the first things that come blaring through when the doors to the Red Hawk are opened. The hum of customers with a low piano underneath it indicates the laidback atmosphere of the gastropub with the occasional soft screech from the establishments own ‘bodyguard’ and faithful pet of the owner, Ed.



The entrance leads a customer right into the bar area. The large mahogany bar, gleams on the side with a row of matching stools. Glasses and bottles of the gatropub’s sold spirits line the wall behind the bar while a few witch lights hang in midair, hovering just above the bar surface to be lit when the natural light outside disappears. A bartender is always behind there ready to serve customers, and the bartender’s are told that if anyone needs an ear or a shoulder to lean on, they should be obliged to provide those too. Across the way, an assortment of circular tables crowds the floor space where patrons who don’t want to sit at the bar, are more than welcome to sit with their parties while waiting for their tables. Each and every table has a similar lamp hovering above the table to shed some light but not enough to blind patrons. An old black piano sits in the corner of the bar room where magic plays it; don’t try asking for requests though – it seems to have a bit of personality and stubbornly plays what it pleases.


Once customer’s tables are prepared, they would be led into the back where medium sized rectangular tables are set with matching tables. The walls are painted a dark red, with pictures lining the walls, a few of the owner a few celebrities that have stopped by. The tables are plainly decorated with tiny pots of flowers in the morning and afternoon, and at night a small pool of water with witch light floating inside that gives the room a comfortable, warm glow.

The kitchens are tucked away so that if you don’t look close, enough you wouldn’t notice it. But if people listen close enough, some of the noise contributed is from the kitchen where people can hear Damian’s booming laughter. “You’re going to burn it if you keep it like that, Brown! Come on now – don’t make me jinx your eyelids so that they stay open.” The owner sometimes comes out in his food splattered chef clothes, his blue eyes glittering as he makes his way around the gastropub checking in on how things are doing. Later in the evening, when the demand for food is less great, he’ll take up shop at the bar, more than happy to listen to people’s stories no matter how silly or outrageous they may be.

This evening though he has his bartending clothes donned and he’s wiping down the bar just as the door opens, letting in a pleasant night breeze. The witch lights have just started glowing and the establishment is washed in a warm, sleepy light. Damian looks up grinning, “Welcome to the Red Hawk! What can I get ya?”