Light was just beginning to stretch across the horizon, chasing away the frost that had chilled the scenery overnight. The sound of scrabbling joined the birdsong that was rising into the air and on a fence not far from Honeydukes appeared a cat – a ginger and white Kneazle to be precise – with a pink collar round its neck.
A milkman’s van rumbled down the street just as it did every day and the Kneazle stood, waiting on the fence, for the van to pull to a stop outside that particular cottage towards the bottom end of Hogsmeade village with its white picketed boundary covered in rose bushes just beginning to flower.
The milkman switched of his engine and hopped out, picking up a basket of bottles out of the back. He opened the gate and paused there to breathe in the scent of one of the opening roses before hopping up the stone path and coming up onto the porch where he met the Kneazle he met every morning that looked up at him expectantly with a lazy yowl.
“Good morning, Willa,” he murmured with a wry smile as he set down the bottles, picking up the empties that had been left there for him along with the customary note of thanks that the Weasley woman gave, expressing her gratitude. He always coloured at the sight of it but the cat was ample distraction from his embarrassment.
“You’re thirsty, I take it?” He inquired as the cat rubbed up against him. He shook his head and took out a smaller bottle of milk just for Willa. She sat down and puffed out her fluffy chest expectantly as he leaned over and poured the milk into a sparkling silver dish next to the other milk bottles. The cat meowed in thanks and the milkman smiled despite himself before replacing the empty bottle back in the basket.
“You’re a good lass, aren’t you?” he told her, crouching to rub his fingers through her fur. Then, as he always did, he beat his fist against the buttercup yellow front door, making the glass in it shake a little bit. He stood up, leaving Willa to drink, and he waited patiently as ever until the door was wrenched open and the owner appeared, fluffy hair askew and a blanket still half over her, her mismatched pyjamas finishing off an appearance that warmed the milkman’s heart.
“Morning Vicky,” he chuckled, reaching to pull the blanket onto her shoulder properly to make sure it didn’t fall. “You still wanted me to get you up today didn’t you?” He asked, his lips folding down, hoping he wasn’t going to suffer her ire if he’d woken her needlessly. Much to his relief she nodded, stifling her yawn with her hand, and looked down when Willa meowed and jumped inside – though not before wiping her feet on the outside doormat.
“Morning Tim,” she smiled drowsily at him, leaning against her door. “Do you have any eggs?” She asked after a pleasant look passed between the two. His face lit up and he nodded, setting down his basket before jogging back to his van. He returned a few moments later and he opened the lid to check that none of the eggs were broken before handing them to her, his lips lifting when she hugged them to her chest and extended her arm to take a few sickles from her side table to give to him.
“Cheers, love,” he murmured, pocketing the coins. “Do you have a busy day today?” He asked, leaning down to take up his basket once more.
“Busy week,” she complained, standing up straight before drawing her fingers through her hair. “I still need to figure out what to get my co-worker for his wedding and my date isn’t helpful.”
“Bet you’ve probably not let him get a word in edgeways, lass.” Tim teased, chuckling when she pouted at him. “Well, I’ll let you hop to it, eh? I’ve got the rest of my round to do. Will you be wanting some orange juice tomorrow?”
“Please,” she nodded and Tim waved before retreating back down the path, doing up her gate before depositing the basket in his van and getting in, leaving Victoire to shut her door behind herself – and from there, her day began.
The living room was still a mess from the night before. Two empty bottles of rosé were on the floor next to her glass which still had the dibble in it. Fanned out from where she had been sat were all of her arts and crafts things and, finally, the plywood box she’d managed to knock together and was painstakingly trying to make beautiful for the wedding that she had inexplicably found herself invited to. She avoided the living room that morning and instead plodded towards the kitchen to make pancakes.
It was quite a good thing that Victoire didn’t mind being solitary because for someone who thrived on being around people, she did spend an awful long time by herself. Though, she was never without numbers. When she went home or to her grandparents’ the houses were swollen to bursting and at Hogwarts it was a rush of students and then walking home during the evenings when the weather was fair there were couples, dog-walkers and children playing football in the street. There were people everywhere in her life but none of them belonged to her in any meaningful way. She might have never been alone per say but sometimes it did get lonely.
This morning was a prime example because when she entered the kitchen and took her frying pan from the dish washer, her excitement about making pancakes deflated when she realised it was only for herself. She lowered her arms, her frying pan lolloping uselessly by her side, and she took off her blanket, frustration pulling her lips together. She shoved the pan onto the counter and worried her fingers through her hair again before crossing the room to turn on the radio. Familiar voices drifted into the house, breaking up the silence, and as music began to play, Victoire made some effort to clear up the living room.
She would’ve argued that it was still a mess. It wasn’t spotless as her crafty things were still out but they had been put in a pile so it looked tidy. Cushions were turned to their places, her blanket folded up and put away, the wine bottles and glass were removed and the DVD things were put away in their proper homes. After putting the bottles out and washing up her glass, she sourced herself a hangover potion just as the first twinges of headache began to set in. Once she’d drunk that, there was nothing else to do but make breakfast.
But she was still alone – regardless of the cat who was smarming around her bare legs for food or the radio presenters talking to each other.
Consulting her planner for the day – a large book laid out on the counter by the breadbin – Victoire considered what she had to do in the hours ahead in order to put off making breakfast just that little bit longer. When her eyes fell to the line she’d devoted in her neat, flowing script to noting that she needed to see Declan at some point to ask his opinion of what she’d constructed so far for Bendric’s wedding gift, the proverbial lightbulb jumped into life above her head as an idea struck and she dived for her phone, only remembering when it was in her hands that she had no idea what Declan’s number was.
Victoire abandoned the phone, slamming it unceremoniously back on the hook, and hurried into her little library-cum-study to scribble a note to him onto some parchment. Well, it wasn’t really scribbling. Victoire carefully wet the end of her quill in some fresh ink she had bought the day before and her writing flowed across the page in its gentle calligraphy, twirling its way through his name before moving onto the letter itself and, in particular, the request that he come to see her to discuss the present. Then, to sweeten it, she offered breakfast – though, really, the above request was a neat cover for a witch who just wanted someone to talk to that morning who wasn’t Mrs Higgins next door or Willa who had already slunk off, disappointed by Victoire’s reluctance to feed her, to bed. A human being was much preferred, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember the last time there was one in her house that wasn’t family – though she supposed in a weird way Declan sort of counted, but not enough for it to not be meaningful.
Victoire added an exuberant please on the end of her letter and lifted her quill before dotting a smiley onto the page next to it. Then, Victoire put her quill down and rolled up the letter before moving across the room to wake up Pharaoh who opened an eye and lifted his wing from his head before glaring at her. She smiled shyly at the owl and handed him the letter which he took with one foot before nipping at her fingers in both admonishment and acquiescence. He then fluttered his wings and took off out through the bay window which she’d left ajar the night before.
A whine broke Victoire from her thoughts and she realised with a start she’d just remained standing by Pharaoh’s perch. She looked down at Willa who had apparently even grown tired of sleeping, now too hungry to be patient, and she crouched to scoop the cat into her arms, cuddling her tight before plodding back to the kitchen to get Willa some breakfast and, finally, to start on the pancakes.
by 
