Drabbles

Fleur is shucking oysters at the kitchen table. The precise stab and twist of her knife, the way she’s not really even watching her hands as she does it, is soothing in a way that Bill can’t qualify.

The briny aroma pulls the outdoors in so that even though the window above the sink is closed, it feels like he’s standing on the beach beyond the panes. As he wets his hands, Bill takes a tiny moment to appreciate his newly-enhanced sense of smell. Most of the time it’s a burden, like a high-pitched ringing he has to intentionally ignore; Tinnitus of the nares.

Today, it’s a gift.

He closes his eyes and sinks just below the surface, down to where it’s easy to tease out the specifics. Proximal scents drift forward first: the shallot on his fingers and the metallic tang of the stainless steel bar Fleur insists he uses to remove the sulfuric residue. Powdery soap. Ginny’s abandoned cup of tea. Thyme.

He inhales slowly, expanding his reach.

It’s been hours since she’d dabbed it to her throat and wrists but Bill can still smell the notes of Fleur’s perfume; head, heart, and soul. It mixes with the heady, rich scent of what he left her with in the shower that morning. Below closed lids, his smile curls at the reminder.

The scents sharpen and new warmth to his left has his eyes drifting open to see that Fleur has joined him at the sink, gently placing the bowl and knife in the basin as she gazes out the window.

“They’re going to freeze,” she remarks, bemused.

Down on the beach, Ginny and Harry are tussling, moving around one another in a way that can only be described as scampering. It’s playful and lighthearted, almost like a game of tag. Their feet are bare, licked clean by the icy tongue of sea only to get covered in sand straight after, but they don’t seem to notice the cold or the grit. Harry is laughing so loudly Bill can hear it across the dunes. Ginny is prancing out of reach, as agile on the earth as in the air, taunting Harry with a wide smile.

Bill leans to press a kiss to his wife’s temple. “Up to them,” he murmurs, and feels her smile under his lips.

“Yes,” she agrees softly, then squeezes his bicep affectionately.

He steals a slow inhale at her hairline then kisses her again, before she drifts off to retrieve the bottle of champagne from the icebox; some for the mignonette, most for them.

In the sink, Bill’s motions turn rote, washing the bowl absently as he watches Harry finally snag a handful of Ginny’s hoodie, yanking her bodily to him. Ginny squeals, trying to spin free, but Harry’s not one to let a quarry go. He gets his other hand on the hoodie and the motion brings them down to the sand, knees just shy of the shoreline. Harry is determined, half pinning Ginny under his thighs as he begins to tug the garment off her.

Well then, Bill thinks, and looks down.

It’s the first of February and, to Fleur’s point, literally below freezing, but he’s intimately familiar with how the urgency of love can negate one’s surroundings. Just—do they have to do it right there?

He braves a peek up to see if he ought to abandon his post before the job is done in order to avoid seeing something he really doesn’t want to, only to find that Harry is now pulling the hoodie on.

Bill frowns, then snorts softly. Ah. The name POTTER is printed along the shoulders, an old Quidditch hoodie of Harry’s, apparently stolen and thus reclaimed.

The words Ginny trills are unmistakable even from a distance but Harry’s never been scared of his name, no matter the tone of voice it’s delivered in. He grins in triumph and Ginny instantly retaliates, her fists curling into the soft material over Harry’s chest and yanking him to her. The elastic holding her ponytail together is failing miserably, spilling coppery strands everywhere. Mussed and shouting, eyes bright and smile wide, covered in sand and wintery seawater. Harry looks at her like she’s holy.

He kisses her until she stops laughing. It takes a while.

Bill shares a wobbly smile with the suds, turning the tap on to rinse the bowl clean. Seeing his little sister so full of life pulls emotion straight through him, nearly painful in its intensity.

In the next room, Fleur pops the champagne with practiced ease, filling the air with a fruity, bready aroma that smooths out the new burn of salt in Bill’s sinuses.

Soon, she’ll light a fire, adding woodsmoke and the carbonic scent of charcoal to the background of his awareness. Soon, Ginny and Harry will trudge up the dunes, windswept and shivering but lit from within, warm where it counts, bringing the scent of the beach with them.

Later, they’ll sit in the lounge, sharing the meal Fleur insists must ring in the second month of the year, the components romantic and sentimental in equal measures. Ginny will spill half her champagne and Harry will be wary of the oysters, but Bill will refill the glass and Fleur will drizzle mignonette, encouraging him in rapid French, and they’ll finish it all, talking and laughing until midnight.

Later, he’ll nuzzle against the nape of his wife’s neck, her hair like silk against his cheeks, and will smell only her.

But now, Bill shakes off his hands and turns to prop himself against the stone counter, drawing in a full, deep breath and savoring the complexity of it.

Today–it’s a gift.