On the morning of August 1st, the villagers slowly began to trickle into the Bed and Breakfast around eight, like they always did. The room was as clean as always, the room warm and inviting… yet, something was missing. There was no tantalising scents of baking, wafting out through the open doorway. There was no sound of boiling kettle or clanging trays, for all that Mr Wesley was notoriously careful. The knives and forks, usually lovingly displayed on the central tables, were missing completely.
And, when they peered into the kitchen, usually so full of activity, not only was there no food to be seen, nor any indication of future cooking… there was no Mr Wesley, either.
Minutes passed, and the villagers began to worry. What could have happened to Mr Wesley, that he would abandon this activity, which was such a constant in all their lives? How could his lethargy have grown so great? Or was it something different? Maybe he was sick; though, now that they thought, Mr Wesley had never once shown any signs of even the slightest cold. Was he injured, perhaps – had he cut his fingers on a knife, and was even now fixing himself up? What if it was something worse, what if he needed help? Had anyone seen him last night?
Half an hour passed, and the discussions grew steadily more concerned. This was not like Mr Wesley, not like him at all. Mr Clary was almost at the point of sending out a search party, however, when they were surprised by the sound of whistling. It was barely audible to begin with, under the loud chatter, but as the villagers began to listen, it could be heard more clearly – a simple, happy little tune, without any unduly high notes. And, they realised, it was coming from just outside the house.
Curious, and not a little concerned for the young man, Mrs Eddison poked her head out the back door to enquire, as the rest of the crowd waited eagerly. But as she stepped out the back door, she was surprised to see the oblivious form of Mr Wesley, happily pruning his roses, which seemed incomparably different to the sight she had seen just the previous day.
As if he had felt her presence somehow, or maybe heard her open the door, he gently laid his secateurs on a drier patch of rock, before turning to face his new companion. "Mrs Eddison!" he exclaimed, surprised. "What brings you here so early?"
Smiling slightly at the rare smile on the other man's face, something that took years off him, she amusedly replied, "It's after nine, young Blake. And the villagers are currently trying to decide whether you've caught the Black Death or been mauled by a bear. I do believe there may be some dredging of the river planned for the afternoon."
Shocked, Mr Wesley began to stammer. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to worry anyone," he began, as if ashamed of the fact that they cared. "I simply lost track of the time, you know? When I saw how damaged my poor darlings had grown… well, I just had to do something!" Affectionately touching one of the roses, he caught sight of the dirt on his hands, and added, "I'll just quickly go clean myself up, then I'll get right back into the kitchen. Can you tell the others, before they start planning my funeral?"
"Of course, young Blake," she replied warmly, glad to see the younger man in such a good mood. "And," she added, as he began to almost skip up the stairs, "I'm glad to see you happy again."
For all that it had begun late, and the tension beforehand, it was widely agreed among the residents of St Just that this was one of Mr Wesley's finest breakfasts. There seemed to be a special something more to the seasonings, quite apart from spices, though he had in fact attempted several new concoctions, each absolutely delightful. No, they agreed, it was his attitude. It wasn't until they saw Mr Wesley that bright summer morning, smiling slightly as he put the food on the table, whistling slightly in the background, with a spring in his step and almost friendly greetings for the visitors, that they realised just how quiet and withdrawn he had always been. But today Mr Wesley seemed alive, for the first time in ten years.
Many suggestions began to make their way into the low buzz of conversation. Could he have family or friends who had contacted him, even after all this time? Maybe she was coming back to him, if she had left, or was still alive, if he had thought her dead. Maybe he had won a contest, one person suggested, though that drew several disdainful looks – anyone who knew Mr Wesley at all, knew that he preferred to stay out of the spotlight. Maybe, some of the youngfolk suggested, to the despair of their elders, he had been 'shagged.' But whatever it was, everyone was curious.
Then, not long past ten, their answer stumbled upon them. Dressed in a faded cotton shirt, and old jeans that looked vaguely familiar, with eyes slightly glazed from tiredness and hair still tousled from bed, Mallory Blanc almost fell down the stairs, before drinking two mugs of strong black coffee before their astonished eyes.
"Blake Wesley," he said quietly as he put down the second mug, the whole room leaning in to hear, "You are my God. You just can't buy coffee like this in London! Believe me, I've looked."
Laughing, Mr Wesley walked out of the kitchen, a steaming tray of pancakes in his hand. This was his special recipe, villagers murmured to each other, only made for special occasions, as they intently watched the two men interact. "Here, Mal," Mr Wesley replied, with a strange affection to his voice they had never before seen, "Get some of this into you. Can't have my worshippers dying of starvation, after all."
He was still chuckling fondly as he walked back into the kitchen, while Mallory ravenously attacked the first pancake, almost like a starved man, though he had lost nowhere near as much weight as their Mr Wesley. Quickly, though more sedately, the rest of the villagers joined him, each eager to get their hands on a share and, more, to pester young Mallory. Perhaps, where Mr Wesley had remained strong, Mallory would tell…?
They had been confused, when Mallory vanished without a word, and lost as they saw Mr Wesley's subsequent despair. But now, seeing him again, and the impact he had had on Mr Wesley… they were baffled. Uncontrollably curious, young Hannah Fitzgerald asked what the whole room had been dying to know. "Where did you go, Mr Blanc?"
"Er," replied Mallory, fidgeting uncomfortably at the focused attention, "I had to return home suddenly… my mother was ill," he added, almost as an afterthought, though the villagers nodded, accepting the explanation.
"Is she better now?" Hannah asked, before her elders could shush her.
"Er… yes, she's fine, she's gone off to France now, all that fresh air… anyway, I think Blake could do with some help," he said, retreating to the kitchen, though all of them could have told him that Mr Wesley never accepted help, no matter how busy. But minutes passed, and when Mallory failed to reappear, the villagers began to realise just how close this stranger had managed to grow to their Mr Wesley, in not even two months.
It was strange.
If any of the villagers could have heard past Draco's hastily-cast silencio on the kitchen door, they might have been much more confused.
Idly spinning his wand between his fingers, Draco sat on the bench and watched, as Blake washed the plates and trays by hand. "You know, Harry," he suggested, "They would get done a great deal faster if you would use magic. And don't try to tell me that that isn't your wand in your pocket."
Blake smiled fondly. "You purebloods are always trying to accelerate things using magic, but sometimes it's simply better to use your hands. And drying by towel is certainly superior for avoiding germs, so much so that even house-elves do it. Besides, it's relaxing."
Draco raised his eyebrow in disagreement, but knew better than to disparage muggles in Blake's presence. And, besides, for all their primitiveness, he'd found them to be generally decent people, quite unlike what his father had always said.
"But anyway," Blake added a few minutes later, as he placed the last plate on the dish-rack to drip, "What brings you in here, Draco? Shouldn't you be eating? I expect those pancakes to be finished, you know," he added firmly, though not without a smile in his eyes.
"I'm sure the villagers have that well in hand," Draco replied, smirking, before weakly adding, "And… I wanted to help you?"
Harry snorted. "You're a Slytherin, Draco! You should be able to lie better than that!"
"Well…" Draco responded, shamefully, "I'm kind of… hiding from the villagers."
Harry laughed. "Hiding? You?"
"They keep asking me questions, staring at me… it's disconcerting. How did you ever survive in Hogwarts?"
"I didn't," Blake replied. "Well, not really – I didn't even return for my last year, remember? Anyway, you have to eat some pancakes before they take them all – you're too thin, Draco!"
"Only if you do too, Harry," Draco replied stubbornly. "You look about as fleshy as a skeleton."
Opening his mouth to disagree, Blake caught sight of the determined look in Draco's eyes, before sighing in acquiescence. "If I must… mother…" he muttered, as he followed Draco out into the dining room. "But don't think this will decrease the stares."