With the ease of long familiarity, Harry settled into his Saturday morning. It was chilly for early May, and Harry pulled on his favourite Weasley jumper and warm pair of wool socks while Draco finished up with whatever complicated rituals he performed each morning to get his hair so sleek and shiny. He went into the kitchen and began gathering up ingredients for their breakfast.
“One of these days, Potter, I really am going to get rid of that stupid jumper,” Draco said from behind him.
“Tell you what,” Harry said without looking up from his search for the orange marmalade amidst the other jars of jam. “I’ll get rid of it the very same day you get rid of that stupid mug.” He found the marmalade way in the back. Had it really been that long since they’d had an orange marmalade morning?
“My mug?” Draco repeated, his voice edging toward the shrill tones of exaggerated moral outrage, and Harry rolled his eyes. “But this mug is my favourite!” Draco stroked a fingertip along Mug-Harry’s cheek, and Mug-Harry winked at him, the smarmy bastard. “Besides, he’s much cuter than you are. You’re so grumpy sometimes.” He brandished the mug at Harry, and Mug-Harry gave him a wink too. “He’s flirty all the time.”
And even though Harry knew that Draco was just winding him up, he couldn’t help responding, “He’s a stupid git. And he’s not flirty, he’s shameless.”
Draco grinned. “I’m a man in love. I can’t help myself.” He gave Mug-Harry a great big smacking kiss, and Mug-Harry closed his eyes and puckered up his lips.
Harry rolled his eyes again. “Going to leave me for a mug, are you? That’s a shame. I’m in the mood for a fry-up this morning.”
Draco perked up at that. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Good luck getting your flirty mug to cook for you, seeing as how he hasn’t got any hands.”
Laughing, Draco threw his mug to the floor and it smashed across the tiles, chunks of porcelain skittering away under the stove and clattering against the skirtingboards. He flung his arms around Harry’s neck and kissed him soundly. “You know you’re the only man for me, Potter. Can you make extra bacon?”
“Yeah, yeah. Get off me, now,” Harry said, pushing Draco away. “Why don’t you get the mail and sit in here with me?”
Draco snickered and pinched his bum, and darted away before Harry could retaliate. Smiling to himself, Harry crouched down and took out his wand and cast a Reparo on Draco’s mug. It reformed and he turned it over in his hands, checking for any lumps or chips before he set it back on the counter. Mug-Harry scowled at him and turned away, and Harry snorted. Mug-Harry always sulked for a while after he’d been broken.
Harry turned away and went to the other cabinet to get out his frying pan. These lazy Saturday mornings with Draco were his favourite time of week. In a minute, Draco would come back with the Prophet under his arm and the day’s mail in his hands. He’d perch up on the counter to go through the mail, and then read off the Quidditch scores in between critiquing Harry’s cooking methods, even though Draco couldn’t even boil water unless he had two pages of instructions and ten pages of theory to back it up. He’d never quite grasped the concept that cooking and potions weren’t even remotely the same thing. Harry found it all greatly amusing, and every time he made soup he always found an excuse to get Draco to help, just for the fun of watching him give the pot precise clockwise stirs.
Draco returned just then, paper tucked under his arm and a pile of letters in his hand. As Harry had predicted, he hopped up on the counter to finish sorting through the mail.
“Hey, you got a letter,” William calls from the living room.
Harry half-turns, and his elbow catches William’s coffee mug and knocks it off the edge of the kitchen counter. It’s entirely an accident, just as it is every time this has happened before, despite what William seems to think. If he’s quick he might be able to save it, but Harry’s never been overly fond of that mug so he doesn’t even try. It shatters on impact, shards of porcelain skittering away across the tile floor, hiding under the oven and refrigerator.
“Again, Harry, really?” William calls out, and a moment later he’s in the kitchen too. He crouches on the floor and casts a slow and careful Reparo, and the mug reforms itself perfectly, not one blue stripe out of place. Harry sighs and looks away. One of these days, the Repairs are bound to quit holding. “I don’t understand why you hate my mug so much.”
“I don’t hate it,” Harry says, as he says every time. It’s really not on purpose. It just keeps happening. And he really doesn’t want to have another argument about that stupid fucking mug. “What’s my letter say?”
“I don’t read your mail,” William says, holding it out. “Here.”
Harry takes it and knows who it’s from before he even cracks the seal. There’s only one person left who can get the blob of sealing wax to form a circle that perfect. He cracks it and unfolds the crisp parchment. He scans the precise rows of neat handwriting and frowns.
“What’s it say?” William asks after stowing his mug safely in the cabinet.
“It’s Hermione. She wants me to come home.”
YOU ARE READING
Stop All the Clocks (This Is the Last Time I'm Leaving Without You)
Fanfictiondoing god's work and uploading it onto wattpad x originally by: firethesound on ao3 summary: Living with Draco was difficult; living without him is unbearable. But if there's one thing Harry learned from the war, it's that even when one life ends...
