Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

A/N: Written for Weasley Jumpers Comment Fest 2021 (prompt: swimming) and Sunshine Challenge 2021 (prompts: Amphitrite and Zephyrus).

Wanderer on the Shore

In the deep of the moonlit night, Bill Weasley strolled barefoot along the shore on the beach, the sand warm and hard underfoot. The summer wind carried the smell of sea salt, and for a disconcerting moment, the smell reminded him of rust. The dark sea shimmered beneath the moonlight, as if a school of silver fish was swimming beneath the waves in a crowded, imaginary fish tank.

As he looked up at the bright summer moon, he was stricken with a fit of wanderlust verging on lunacy. He breathed deeply, and the sea breathed with him, even and slow. The sea was as empty and vast as the desert in his memory, and the moon a cold silver coin in the hot, dry nights of Egypt.

He remembered spices and skin musk and sultry nights spent in dingy rooms. Night after night he and his lover lay in bed in their little slice of paradise, making love and telling each other stories by the shaded lamplight. He remembered the low, hypnotic voice telling him tales of djinn, and fingers playing with his hair, fingers that had explored every inch of his body. They were good together, he and his lover.

A flicker of regret and restlessness came over him. Taking a deep breath, he tore his gaze away from the moon, from the sea, from the mirage of the desert in the depth of his consciousness. Memories of his life in Egypt ebbed away with the waves, a dream slipping out of his grasp like sand.

He turned towards the Shell Cottage. Perched atop the cliff, the cottage resembled a forlorn creature about to take a leap, a leap to release its myriad of seashells back to where they belonged. A rusty lamp burnt golden and low on the porch, painting a splash of colour in the corner of reality.

Fleur was not in the cottage. She had left him and returned to France, away from the land of rain and overcast sky. Her floral scent, however, lingered in the cottage like a ghost, haunting the rooms she no longer occupied. Some weeks after she was gone, he opened all the windows in the cottage and let the wind exorcise the ghost. He let the sea breeze gradually erode the home and the memories and the love they once shared, leaving cracks and rust and decay.

No, she did not leave him, he told himself, his lips twisted in a bitter smile. He was the one who refused to go with her and start a new life elsewhere, away from the lingering revenant of war. He was the one who refused to set aside his role as the eldest son and the eldest brother after Fred was gone—even though he had run away once before. (Charlie, who left the Burrow for the dragons and rarely looked back, understood him better than any of their siblings.)

A sea breeze touched his bare skin and tousled his hair, chasing away his reason and stirring up his impulses, his impatience, his reckless, restless self. The scars on his face tingled, salt stinging invisible wounds. The pale shape of the cottage burnt itself into his eyes and left an afterimage behind.

He wanted to take the earliest portkey back to Egypt, back to the life he had forsaken, back to his lover's arms. He wanted to hop on a broom and fly over to France and ask Fleur to let him stay with her. He wanted to strip off everything and run until he collapsed from exhaustion. He wanted to jump into the sea and swim until the waves pulled him under. He wanted to howl and curse and dismantle the Shell Cottage piece by chipped piece.

In the next beat, his impulses faded away as swiftly as they came. Letting out a breath, he swept his gaze across the sky, the sea, the stretch of sand. In spite of the moonlight, his footprints could barely be seen in the sand. He walked up to the edge of the shore; the water was cool, cooler than he had expected. As the waves surged and ebbed against his feet, he collected his thoughts and found his calm once more.

The waves were strong tonight, and they were strong on the morning he found Harry sitting on the beach, as though he were washed ashore by the waves or carried to this corner of the world by the wind. The sun had not risen yet, and in the blue hour light, Harry's figure was a deep shadow against the blue of the sky and the blue of the sea. A head of unruly dark hair rustled in the wind; a sheepish smile touched his lips when he turned to look at Bill.

Even though Harry was no longer the scrawny boy he once was, something about him reminded Bill of a stray cat, a stray cat he could not ignore. For the first time in a while, Bill made breakfast for someone besides himself. For the first time in a while, there was someone sitting opposite him at the breakfast table—and he tried not to think about Fleur or how she used to sit at the same place Harry was sitting.

"You are out and about early. What brings you here?"

"I thought I'd come by and visit Dobby and maybe take a walk," or so Harry said, but he seemed weary and distracted, as if he had not slept well last night if at all. "Sorry, I didn't mean to trespass."

"I don't mind. No one owns the beach anyway. Come by whenever you like. There's just me, and I'm usually away."

There was a flicker in Harry's eyes, and his gaze fell upon Bill's hands, perhaps looking for the wedding ring that was no longer there. "Are you..." Harry paused. "How are you?"

Bill picked up his cup of tea and took a sip. A whiff of steam rose from the cup, bringing with it an aroma of citrus. The tea warmed his insides and gave him comfort on this cool, cloudy morning. "I'm all right," he heard himself say. "How are you?"

"I'm all right." And Harry said no more. Bill fell silent as well, and the sound of waves filled the space between him and Harry, swallowing up their words and their voices.

Harry came by every so often after that—for a walk, a swim, a ride on the broom. He took to the air with the grace of a bird—or the grace of a fish swimming among the clouds with other imaginary fish. The sight stirred up an itch in Bill, an itch not unlike wanderlust. Harry was less graceful in the water, however, and Bill kept him company just in case. He had seen Harry after dark and before dawn, watching the stars or waiting for the moon to set and the sun to rise.

They had drunk together on the beach; they had cooked together in the cottage; they had gone for motorcycle ride on lonely roads. Sometimes they talked at length; other times they let the wind and the waves wash over their silence. There were times when Bill found himself watching Harry; there were times when he caught Harry watching him. When their eyes met, Harry would smile that sheepish smile of his, and Bill would find himself returning the smile.

Sometimes they slept together—in the open air, in the cottage, in bed. It was like an extension of their conversation and their silence. He thought about Harry's bright green eyes, the green of spring and wild magic. He thought about Harry's scars, scars that no one should have needed to bear. He thought about Harry's fingers, playing arpeggios on his skin. And he thought about the lonely figure on the lonely beach at the edge of the world.

Feeling butterflies in his stomach, he stepped away from the water and back to reality. The sky and the sea melted and bled into one another on this night, and he was alone—it was not necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps he would go to Harry in the morning, perhaps not. He would make up his mind in the morning. After casting one last look at the moon, he turned on his heel and made his way back to the cottage, to the light.


Finis.