Title: Smells (1/1)
Author: Eleret
Author E-mail:Eleret@aol.com
Category: General
Rating: PG-13 (deals with suicide)
Spoilers: All the Cannons
Summary: "She is a young woman, but she has the look of someone very old. She is coming back here one more time. And only to collect what she has forgotten over the years." Suicide fic.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N: Hello all!
This is a short piece I actually wrote quite a while ago, but recently
re-discovered. I liked it, so I'm posting it. Also, here's a bit of an update
on Understand Me, for those of you who have read it. I have been wondering when
the Writers' Block would catch up to me, and it
finally has. I am hard at work on the 7th chapter, but I've been
taking a bit of a brake. Part of this is due to the fact that I recently
watched the second LotR movie, and became emersed in
LotR fanfiction. So, I wisely decided to stop the
Harry Potter for a second and let the phase blow over. Unless, of course, you
would *like* having elves and powerful rings and hobbits to start appearing in
the middle of UM7. However, the phase is now beginning to blow over (oh, who am
I kidding? I'm obsessed!) and I am beginning to get back to work. I apologize
profusely. You see, I am the sort of person who gets tired with things and then
moves onto something else (God forbid I ever get into dating! Think about the
number of hearts I would break!). I am not moving on from UM, I merely needed a
small brake. I am sorry! Alright, now you can read the fic.
Smells
She walks around to the back of the house first. Her battered black leather boots scuff the cold, early November snow. She is a young woman, but she has the look of someone very old. She is coming back here one more time. And only to collect what she has forgotten over the years.
Out back, there is his large garden; the plants are old and dry this time of year. And under the empty grape arbor: there is her garden. Only one plant remains: the lavender. She walks over to it; the ground is freshly weeded. One sprig of lavender for her first one.
Inside the house now, she takes off her boots. Her feet are bare. She walks through the kitchen to the closet. Inside is the usual jumble of herbs, tea, and food that she left such a little while ago. Nothing has changed.
A fond smile on her face, she picks up the small bottle of vanilla extract and opens it. One quick smell of it brings back the memories of one of her men. He was very much like the delicate and sweet smell of vanilla. She picks up the almond extract as well. Mixed together, they create his smell. One drop of each goes into the vial along with the lavender.
Next comes cloves. The spicy, rich scent mirrors him perfectly. She coughs slightly after smelling it; he did that as well. One shake of the ground cloves goes into the vial. The smells mix.
And after that is rosemary as gentle as he. Three leaves are placed into the vial. Then she shakes it. Opening it back up; the smells are nearly intoxicating, as they were all together.
Then the dining room. In the cupboard next to the table there is a box of crayons. She picks a random one; red, how perfect. She cuts off a bit of the crayon for his sent. He always had that waxy, earthy smell.
After that is a special blue bottle in the living room. It is filled with the sour sugar powder that he loves to eat. It reminds her almost exactly of one of them. She takes two pinches. The first goes into the vial and the second goes into her mouth. She tastes him again, just like he always was. Sweet, sour, muffling, and slightly dry.
Then she goes upstairs. First, to her room, where she stayed after they stopped sleeping together, right before she moved out. It is just as she left it. The pictures of the horses coat the walls. The fresh, flannel sheets with their light pink design of roses stay the same. The bed is made. And on top of that old mahogany bureau are some more of their smells.
Here's the bottle of Morning Glory perfume that matches his soft but commanding one. She sprays some into the vial. And here is her favorite hand cream that she left behind. White Lilac she sees as she puts some on her hands. It is far too delicate and feminine to be any of their smells.
And over on the window sill is a bottle of his favorite cologne, which she had bought the summer after he left, and kept ever since. It was rich, intoxicating, and suffocating, with a strong, syrupy sent. It was just like him. She put one small drop in the vial; more would have drowned out the rest of them.
As she leaves the room, a sad smile escapes her lips. People say that her senses are dulled, but she doesn't know what they mean. She can remember the scent of every man she ever had. If some of her senses are dulled, they surely aren't her smell or her memory.
Now, she is in their joint bathroom. It is exactly as she left it. Two large mirrors, the dressing room, and the bottles of soaps, face washes, toothpastes, and countless other smells on the counter beside the sink.
First comes the tea tree face scrub. A glob of it in the vial. She gets too much and takes some out. Her lips curl in an ironic smile. She always did overdue her doses of him.
Then comes a drop of the delicate smelling hair gel that he keeps but never uses. It reminds her greatly of one of them. The oily liquid swirls gently with the rest.
After that is a bit of mint toothpaste. Another of the long-gone memories.
There are only two left; the one before him, and him.
The one before him smells of her old hair spray that he still keeps. She sprays some into the vial and shakes it.
Then, with a deep breath, she reaches for the cucumber-scented shine control cream that he always smelled of. Opening it, she takes a long, ragged breath of it. It smells like heaven. She is tempted to go back and make her amends, but she will not. She would only end up hurting him again when that restless urge caught her soul. She takes a finger of it and puts in the vial, then shakes it up. She takes a bit more and puts it on her own face so that she can continue to smell it.
She walks out of their bathroom, down the stairs and into the shoe room. She pulls her black boots back on. And she leaves with all of her men in the vial tightly clutched in her hand; apparating for home.
***
Back in her apartment she goes to the bathroom, taking her knife with her. There is just one thing she will do to complete the perfume that echoes her life. It is her own blood that she needs.
Slitting both of her wrists, she collects a few drops of the blood in the vial. She lets the rest of it flow. She will die soon, she knows. As she lies down on her bathroom floor waiting for death, she thinks of the many men in her life.
The first was Tom. He, of course, was the expensive cologne.
Next was Harry, who had been the lavender, partly because he smelled like it and partly because that was who he had really wanted to get when he had been going out with her.
Then there was Seamus; the vanilla and almond extracts. He had always had that sweet smell.
Cloves had been Terry Boot of Ravenclaw.
Rosemary had been Dean, though their romance was hardly more than a fling.
The crayons had been Neville. He had died in their final year, hence the fact that red was appropriate. She missed him very much.
And the pixy stix had been her only muggle boyfriend, George MacGordney. He had lasted for nearly a year, and it had certainly been an eventful one.
The Morning Glory was Stanley Moon. He had been the Minister
of Magic for several years before he was killed by an assassin. She had mourned
his death, and then left again, this time for
Now she is feeling the affects of the loss of blood. Lying on her bathroom rug, she begins to feel light-headed. She continues her remember; she must finish before her death.
The tea tree scrub was Jeffrey Lincolnson. He was a very important American wizard who owned a string of broom shops. She had liked his money and his looks. The rest of him she had ignored. He hadn't lasted long.
The hair gel is Colin Creevey, whom she had met again in
The mint toothpaste was Gordon Lee, a professional Quidditch
player who was originally English but vacationing in
And the one before her last one. He had been a big-shot singer trying to become famous. He had left her, which made him special.
Then, there was him. Draco Malfoy….
She had met him upon her return to
Close to death, she sighs, Oh, Draco, you were better than all of them. You were the best. I loved you.
And, with her last movements, she writes a message on the towel, in her blood.
***
Hours later, when the police find the message they read it and contact him. He reads it, and smiles at what it says.
Dear Draco,
I love you. I always
have. I'm sorry for the pain I caused you, and for the things I have taken from
your house today. You were always the best. I'm leaving now. I've finally
followed your advice. I'm going to fly.
Ginny Weasley.
He leans over the corpse of his lover and plants a kiss on her cheek, breathing in her scent of roses and oranges, mixed with blood and the smells from the vial in her hand.
"Fly with my blessing, Ginny Weasley."
As he leaves the room, he swears that he hears someone laughing, and the smell of roses and oranges engulfs him.
***
A/N2: And here
ends the first one-shot I have ever completed! I would also like to thank
everyone on the What do Your Favorite Characters Smell Like? Thread on
Fictionalley.org. I meant to say that at
the beginning, but the A/N got too long, so I figured I'd split it. Thanks to
everyone who has reviewed my other fics and poems. I wish I could do personal
thanks for every one of you, but I don't have the time! I'm very sorry; you
deserve better thanks than you get and I take you for granted! You guys are
absolutely wonderful and I love every single one of you!