Bill Whisley and Fleur Delacour

The sun is high, scattering sparks across the waves. Bill, his shirt rolled up to his elbows, is repairing a small boat at the very edge of the surf—the wood smells pleasantly of resin, and he holds the tools at his fingertips with his usual ease. Fleur sits a little further away, on a boulder, a thin blanket draped over her knees. In one hand, she holds a book (she's half-reading), and in the other, a glass of pumpkin juice with ice. Nearby, in a slightly battered stroller, baby Victoire snores sweetly, covered with a heavy, warm blanket. Bill glances at his wife and daughter from time to time, and on his lips is something completely different from the tense expression he wore last year. The silence is broken only by the sound of the waves and the distant cries of birds.