6 August 2012
Monday at 8am
Sellaphix House
London

It was early on a Monday, a day that Rafe and Zelda kept their apothecary in Knockturn Ally closed. Zelda and her youngest son, fourteen-year-old Frank, were in the kitchen at the rear of the house arguing. Frank stood in the doorway half dressed with a cup of coffee, looking too much like his brother.

"He doesn't live here anymore!" Frank was protesting having to continue to make space for Figaro's things in their shared bedroom even after his brother had moved out.

Zelda had no patience for it. "He's still a part of this family. I'm so sorry if it's a hardship for you not to have the entire closet."

"Can't he be a part of the family and take his stuff with him?" Frank countered, logic airtight.

"He doesn't have room for it."

"Actually, neither do I!" Frank raised his voice now but then clammed up when Zelda looked up from the eggs. "Whatever. I'll be at school in a month. Can I have some money for school books?"

Zelda shook her head. "No, your father will take you."

"Come on, I'm not a first year. Why?"

"No, but I don't need you spending gold when silver would do." They'd been over this before. Frank had costy preferences for school supplies and lately was more into clothes. Mother and son might have continued arguing but there was a tappity tap at the back window.

"That's the post," Zelda said and left the hob to let them in. There were two owls vying for space on the ledge. One had the Daily Prophet, the other a small parcel wrapped in dark grey paper.

Each Monday felt like a good day to shut up shop. The weekend flurry of customers hadn’t been missed, and the regulars knew that bright and early on Tuesday morning, either Rafe or his far more stoic wife would be standing at the counter ready to offer any information and help required. Monday, Rafe had told his far more stoic but beautiful and hardworking wife, was to be a day to spend just them. Or well, with Frank when he was home. Zelda had worked herself ragged during Rafe’s incarceration, and he was trying to get her to take as much of a break as she was willing. He was trying to set them up so work wouldn’t be quite so hard, and this was why Monday was secret parcel day.

“Stay in bed, Zee, let me get us some coffee.” Rafe had tried in vain this morning. Or toast. Toast was always good. Crumbs, she’d pointed out to him. No spell could get rid of every last annoying crumb that came with eating toast in bed. Well that told Rafe. That also led to Rafe awkwardly lingering near the living room doorway to hear the owl’s arrival with the morning post. He could hear Zelda and Frank in the kitchen discussing school supplies. Frank wanted to go and throw their galleons around on pretty new books and uniform items when there were perfectly good, if slightly dog-eared ones upstairs left by Fig.

"That's the post," Zelda informed her son. And indeed, it was the post.

Rafe was quick off the mark, pacing speedily through the hallway and into the kitchen where he snatched up the parcel and tucked it under his arm. “Listen to your mother,” Rafe pointed at his son. “I open my coin purse and moths fly out, not galleons. Have you checked what you’ve already got off the list? Fig left his school books for you, lad. Probably barely read them himself.”

Frank had to take a quick step aside as his father hustled into the small kitchen. It was an unusual pace for his father who usually moved with the steady urgency of a sheepdog confident no wolf dare come near his flock - he didn't run for owls, for example, like Figaro after his Cheese of the Month.

"Of course you side with mum," Frank said rolling his eyes. "I don't want Fig's manky things."

Rafe's swift entrance had not gone unnoticed by Zelda who looked a bit like a ruffled cat.

"What's that?" she demanded of Rafe. "What did you order?"

He'd tried to keep her in bed this morning. 'Have a nice lie in,' her doting husband had said. Now she was on to him.

“They aren’t Fig’s manky things anymore, Frankie, boy.” Rafe grinned at his son, placing a hand on his head and ruffling up his shaggy hair. “They’re your manky things, now.”

Unfortunately for Rafe, Zelda, his beautiful and intelligent wife, was not an easy woman to get anything by. He should have ordered this to the shop then popped out for a stroll or something. ‘Oops, love, I left something in the office. Catch you later,’. Nope, he’d have had to stay in all day, not risking any random wix catching his owl. Then it all really would be over.

“Underpants.” Well that lie came out of nowhere. It wasn’t like he could say it was a birthday present for the wife who was born in January, could he? Underpants, it was.
“I swear you’ve been trying to feed me up, Zee. Practically bulging out of the lot we bought in December.” Frank didn’t need to know that, and with any luck, Zelda would stop asking questions.

“I’ll give you a little fashion show later, wifey. Best go try them on for fit.” Rafe winked, and brazen as ever, turned to leave the kitchen with his package under his arm.

Frank performed being sick and Zelda flicked her wand, casting a spell to snatch away the parcel from under her liar of a spouse. The box flew to Zelda's waiting hand. Frank didn't have to be told to be on his way - there was no hope here for anything other than something deeply awkward occurring. Frank took his coffee and left, having to chalk up the morning as a loss.

Zelda turned the paper-wrapped package over in her hands, making no remark on Frank's leaving. Not everyone understood she and Rafe's relationship. Zelda, to so many, seemed so joyless and always serious, and Rafe, dishonest and never serious. But truly, Zelda found Rafe hilarious and his attention made her bubble up - all on the inside of course. His playing cat-and-mouse with a piece of mail was as amusing as his pants cover story.

The package was wrapped in dark grey paper, the nice textured kind, but a water stain here or there and an out-of-place wrinkle showed the paper to having been reused for another purpose. Nothing was embossed, the only writing was Rafe's name and their address in a white ink. She turned the thing over and over again, feeling the weight of it. She guessed a heavy jar of something.

"So what is it?" she asked, not yet moving to actually open it in front of him. She didn't sound cross now that Frank had gone. "It's not Drammes."

It had always been a joke between them, that they'd give it all to Drammes Apotheke one day and retire.