Chapter Text
Tinworth, in Cornwall, was laid out in a modest wheel-and-spoke design with all the shops and municipal offices located in the village center. Beyond the multiple roads leading outward sat numerous row houses, and detached homes further out. Few automobiles passed through Tinworth; one assumed on seeing such a contraption that it either belonged to a Muggle who lost their way, or one visiting a resident in town. On the rare occasion Bill Weasley spotted one while shopping, he noted the make, model and color. His father, ever the Mugglephile, enjoyed hearing the reports.
Today, however, Bill paid no mind to drivers or pedestrians alike. He walked the main streets of Tinworth as though in a trance with his magicked bag slung over his shoulder. Tuesdays were market days, and the combined population of the village (wizards and Muggles) milled in and out of the shops to stock up for the week ahead. Bill preferred not to spend any more time here than was necessary.
When he and Fleur first set up housekeeping in the ancestral Shell Cottage, near the coast, they enjoyed this chore. Hand in hand, negotiating the bumpy cobblestone sidewalks, they’d glance in shop windows and debate which indulgences to sacrifice for necessities, and vice versa. They were young, on a budget, and very much in love. Presently, two out of three wasn’t… well, it wasn’t good , but the tight finances had nothing to do with the gradual evaporation of the third thing.
Which was why Bill wanted to buy his bread and deli meat, his butterbeer and his cigarettes and get home as quickly as possible. Tinworth was small, as in everybody knows your name and your business small. Here wizards lived among the modest population of Muggles, the latter of whom either turned a blind eye to any peculiarities in the wizard-run shops or suffered generational confundus , having inherited the confusion from ancestors struck too many times with the charm.
And where is your lovely wife today, Bill? Is she not well? Kindly villagers asked after Fleur the first day he came to town without her. Visiting her family in France was the excuse. He decided against inventing an illness on the chance a well-meaning wizard might break his wards and show up at his door with a homemade potion. He kept the truth to himself. Giving it voice, he felt, gave permanence to what he perceived as his failure.
He paid for his groceries with Muggle bills though the shop owner was wizard-born. Tinsworth’s entrepreneurs seemed to value that currency, and exchange it at a high rate elsewhere. Bill dropped everything into his bottomless bag and set for home. The wind was picking up, so he pulled his old Gryffindor scarf over his nose and mouth and double-timed it down the narrow road toward Shell Cottage.
As expected, he entered into an empty hole, devoid of emotion and color. Oh, the interior of the modest home looked bright and cheerful thanks to the makeover achieved with their wedding gifts and his mother-in-law’s generosity. Without Fleur to greet him, Bill may as well have walked into his tomb. He glanced at the long table before the living room sofa, then at the open window. No owl delivery yet. Not that he anticipated to hear from Fleur today.
With all the perishables in their place, Bill grabbed a butterbeer and set outside for a walk. Despite the cool weather, he chose the open space over sulking indoors. Eventually, he’d have to contemplate more important decisions related to work, and his marriage. He’d taken leave from his job at Gringotts and had a week left. On his return they wanted to send him back to Egypt and train two newly hired Curse-Breakers prior to their transfer to different markets in Asia. He’d said nothing to Fleur about it, mainly because he doubted a change of scenery would make a difference.
This was a mistake, yes? Her words echoed, hollow but not unkind, in his head. Tinsworth, Egypt, London, the bloody moon… put him anywhere and he was the same William Weasley.
A mistake.
His wandering led him to the garden and a familiar sight–the modest grave surrounded by wildflowers sprouting from the sand. Bill paused before it and read the inscription for perhaps the thousandth time:
Here Lies Dobby
A Free Elf
Bill raised his butterbeer in tribute. He hadn’t known the poor elf well, but mourned him all the same. The stone ought to have inspired melancholy thoughts tied to the Second Wizarding War, a dark time for the wizarding world and his family. He lost a brother–almost two, but Percy had come to his senses and the light. The one happiness for him in that dark era had been his wedding…
“Stop it, Bill,” he chided himself, and crushed his now empty can in his fist. No sense dwelling on the past. Time for a distraction, he realized. Perhaps he ought to cut his vacation short and return to the office. Prepare for Egypt.
Or he could stand here by Dobby’s grave and follow the path of that unusual comet streaking closer to the village.
What in Merlin’s name…? Bill shielded his eyes from the sun, squinting at the glowing white light against the blue sky. It started as a twinkling but grew in circumference until it took on a distinctive shape. Turned out he wasn’t watching an astral phenomenon at all.
It looked like a vessel. Something out of a Muggle science fiction film his father liked to watch. Coming in hot toward the shore.
Bill dropped the can and ran for the cottage to fetch his wand.