Chapter Text
—øØø—
He could still remember it: the last time his mother kissed his forehead. She had been sitting at his bedside, smiling gently at him, her red hair visible through the darkness, taking the shape of a glowing halo. She was beautiful—soft, life-giving, and overflowing with kindness. In the mind of a child, she had been immortal, changeless.
Warm fingers brushed through his messy hair, a futile attempt at controlling something they both knew was uncontrollable. “Much like you,” she had whispered. He had stared up at the ceiling, lost in trying to imagine how a fragrance would be experienced. It had, and still was, a mystery to him.
“Mom, when am I old enough to begin to smell things?” he had asked in wonder.
She had smiled warmly at him, at his ignorance, he later discovered. “Harry, lovely,” came a soft, warm breath on his skin. He still wondered what scent it must have had. “The ability to experience the fragrances of our world doesn’t come at a certain age. It’s not connected to you. It’s an ability, a small piece of a puzzle, that can only be discovered by meeting a special person.”
“When?”
“Right now, your world may be like a moon orchid: beautiful but without fragrance. However, soon it’ll transform into a field of flowers. Just have patience.” His beloved mother had whispered and bowed down to kiss him on the forehead. For the last time.
—øØø—
The orchid’s white petals stood out like a ghost in the dark room, illuminating the counter at the end of the shop together with a dozen other orchids. It made for a bizarre sight for customers shopping at Scrib & Ulus Writing Implements. After all, they had not entered the shop in search of flowers, no matter how beautiful they were, but for writing implements of all varieties. The orchid also posed an unbearable reminder for some: “Come over here, smell me, if you can.” It taunted their inability to smell, because few knew that a moon orchid was, in fact, a scentless flower.
Harry breathed out in satisfaction, his forest green eyes carefully studying the masterpieces in front of him. They were blooming wonderfully, so well that he began to consider if it was time to add another to his personal flower collection. He glanced around the room and nodded thoughtfully. There was certainly enough space to add a few more, and the owner didn’t mind as long as he kept them nurtured, pleasant to the eye, and away from the writing equipment.
“Excuse me.” A hoarse, masculine voice broke the silence, and Harry glanced up in surprise. Stepping back, he lifted his arm from the counter and straightened his back to greet the customer with a pleasant smile. “Yes, how can I help you?”
As his eyes roamed over the figure in front of him, he momentarily forgot his white obsession at the counter. Harry had expected an elderly man, because the voice that had greeted him had the familiar sound of old age, with small cracks between every word and an underlying indication of deep knowledge. However, now that he studied the man further, he could see no sign of aging. No, he could be no older than his late twenties, maybe mid thirties.
A slim body and pale skin gave Harry the impression that the man was the studious type. He could neither be considered tall nor short, but his lean figure did give him the advantage of seeming taller than he actually was. Yes, he had to agree with himself that the man was more than pleasing to the eye—dark brown hair carefully swept back and mahogany eyes. Lips formed incomprehensible words.
“Wait. I’m sorry, could you please repeat that, Mr...?” Harry dug his nails into his palm, feeling his ears heat up in embarrassment.
The man glanced down at him, unimpressed, before sighing with apparent disdain. “Riddle,” he replied, placing a quill—which he had probably been holding for the last few minutes—on the counter. “I am wondering whether you still have this model.”
Harry picked it up, expecting one of the recent designs. After several minutes of close studying, he exhaled in confusion and looked back at Riddle. “When did you buy this?”
“I bought it... about twenty years ago, I believe.”
The answer prompted another careful analysis of the man’s age; he couldn’t be more than thirty years old. Harry glanced down at the quill, concluding that he must have bought it as a child. However, this model was specifically designed for an adult hand. His eyebrows furrowed in indecision, and he pursed his lips. “I’ll be right back.”
When he returned from the storage room with a variety of boxes, Riddle sighed, a hint of impatience creeping into his tone. “I would have loved to get the same model, but if it’s out of production, then I’ll settle for something similar. Just don't show me any quills with everlasting ink; they’re utterly pointless. They malfunction far too often.”
Harry shook his head as he placed the boxes down on the counter. “Actually, most of the problems connected with everlasting ink quills have been solved, so you no longer have to worry about it suddenly spilling ink all over your paper. Would you still not consider it?”
“No,” Riddle said dismissively, his eyes drifting away as if he were already bored with the conversation. “I’m rather old-fashioned at heart. Even without its flaws, I have no interest in it. Simple as that.” As he spoke, his gaze wandered across the room until it landed on the orchids occupying the sides of the counter. “Orchids are very aesthetic, I suppose... but I find them lacking. Their beauty is wasted on someone who cannot appreciate their fragrance.” His voice was cold, laced with contempt, and Harry felt momentarily stunned by the man’s indifference toward the beautiful flowers.
Swallowing, he murmured, “They don’t have a scent...”
Riddle leaned closer to the flowers, studying them with an almost clinical detachment. “Oh, really?”
“Or so I’ve been told,” Harry added silently, feeling his own self-pity and loathing surface.
Their eyes met, and for a single infinite moment, they were nothing more than two human beings sharing a common suffering, a collective misery.
“My mother said that the world around us, for those who cannot smell, is like a moon orchid. It is a world without fragrance, just like these orchids. However, when we meet that particular person, it transforms into a field of flowers.” It had been unintentional to dig into such a problematic topic, but now that he had begun, Harry was incapable of controlling his foolish mouth. “Yes, the wonderful and various aromas of our world all bloom when we meet our soulmate.” He stumbled, using the romanticised and slightly frowned-upon term given to everyone’s special someone. Swallowing, Harry hurriedly picked up one of the boxes and opened it slowly while whispering, “I apologize; that was unnecessary.”
Riddle shook his head, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “Ignorance is bliss, boy.” He glanced down at his watch, his expression hardening as he pursed his lips in displeasure. “It seems time is running away from me. Please, which model would you recommend?”
“Well,” he glanced at the boxes, “Most of the models I have found share some qualities with your old quill, but I wouldn’t recommend them outright. They may be based on the older designs, but they can be unreliable, and a few of them even have a tendency to change the ink color unexpectedly. Since you mentioned you don’t want an everlasting ink quill, I think this one might suit you—it’s one of our best design and has proven to be quite reliable over the years. If it doesn’t meet your expectations, you can return it within two days, as long as it’s not excessively used.”
“I will try it out,” Riddle replied flatly. He placed the payment on the counter without a second glance at Harry, turning to stroll out the door, gone before Harry managed to utter another word.
Harry stood still, staring at the closed door. The coins lay cold on the counter, untouched. Harry picked them up one by one and noted the slight warmness of them. Yes, this was probably how a scent would be experienced—like heat and cold. Every time slightly different and extraordinary.
Now that he considered it, a moon orchid must have some kind of fragrance. Non-fragrance must be a fragrance too. There must be a scent experienced as the absence of scent. Or maybe not; it was impossible for him to say.
He gripped the coins in his palm, feeling the hard metal bite into his skin. His heart broke in longing, and suddenly he felt cheated, like a possibility had slipped through his fingers. “You never know who, not until your hearts touch and heated skin meets skin. An atomic explosion and the world collapses...” his mother had whispered years earlier, long before her death.
—øØø—
To be continued