It wasn't as if he wasn't interested in meeting new women. He was. It was just that there was so much pressure attached to that first conversation. He had to be interesting, and witty, and clever, and he had to have more than one interesting, one witty, and one clever thing to say. And, in total, that was very hard work. After all, what could he say that was all that profound?

He was just Neville Longbottom.

It was as if every wizard in London had suddenly converged into this one small corner shop. The aisles were crammed with people weaving and bumping about, finding what they needed. There were even a few zipping here and there on their brooms, accidentally thwacking people in the head with strings of sausages, or in one case, a cured ham. Those still on the ground were stretching over each other to pluck boxes of biscuits, around each other to grab the tinned tomatoes, or under each other to pick the jars of jam that they wanted. Many chose to Accio items rather than reach for them, and this led to further accidental thwackings. He stood dumbfounded until those same people began to elbow in and out around him and, feeling it best not to continue to block the door, he moved to gather a hand-basket.