𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐱𝐢𝐯. these mornings i miss the most.

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

                  Saturday in the Dursley household consisted of one thing for Harry, and that was to wake up early, cook a variety of dishes for his families breakfast, and then move on to his chores. Most days he made bacon and eggs, other days was porridge and sausages, and when Uncle Vernon was in a particulary vindictive mood, perfectly cooked french toast. After Harry did the cooking he then retreated to do his chores ( if one could even call them chores, that was ) in an attempt to remain unseen and unheard, as if he ceased to exist.

At Hogwarts, Saturdays were for sleeping in ( not that be did much of that either. his body was like a ticking time bomb, and the constant urge to look over his shoulder and hear his uncle yelling was the trigger ) laying around in his dorm to decide what he should do to occupy his day, and for finishing his homework while Hermione ragged on about their essays. He had no chores, no obligations, nothing he was necessarily supposed to do, but good god he always felt like there was, and that left him in a constant state of restlessness.

Saturdays as of late, however, had thrown his entire routine into shambles. Harry usually awoke around six ( as he always did, thanks to Uncle Vernon, the manipulative bastard! ) hurriedly dressed and tiptoed his way down the stairs into the kitchen, sneaking out the patio door and strolled over to Lavinia's house. She kept the hidden key underneath the doormat in the front of the house, but Harry was certain she never truly locked the door, as he'd never had to actually use the key. The door was always, without a doubt, unlocked when he arrived. He quite liked this new Saturday routine, and he half expected to wake up in Lavinia's bed majority of the time if he were honest.

From there he usually found her dancing in the kitchen with a new vinyl he hadn't heard yet playing on repeat, preparing a fresh pan of wentelteefjes ( 'You keep calling it french toast and I'll stop making it, Harry! This is my recipe for wentelteefjes!' ) and fresh mint hot tea already in mugs atop the granite counters. There were few times, though, where he'd found her seated on her stool in front of a canvas instead. On these mornings her hair was wildly thrown in a haphazard bun at best, golden curls framing the dark shadows beneath her bloodshot eyes, and her shirt absolutely wrinkled to the gods that was a clear indicator she hadn't slept a wink that night. But even like this, Harry still thought that she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

'Oh, goedemorgen, mooie jongen. What time is it?' she'd start on these particular mornings, and when she turned he never failed to notice the splotches of dry paint strewn across her cheeks from where she tapped the tips of her fingers when deep in thought. It was a true testament to how far she seemed to drift away when she was painting, like she was in a whole world of her own that consisted of her and only her in it. Nonchalantly, because he secretly enjoyed watching her when she was so captivated in something that evinced her soul so bare at his feet, he only ever shrugged, 'About quarter after six, but I'm not certain. You keep painting, I'll read,' and from there he did just that — sprawled himself against the headboard with her play in his lap, stole glances whenever she was deep in thought, watched as she sat the handle of the brush between her teeth and hummed in approval with whatever it was she was painting. When she was especially pleased by what she'd created she would bring the canvas over to the bed, nestle herself beside him, and indulge him in the memory behind the painting. Every time she did it, he found he thoroughly enjoyed himself. It was like an inside look into her mind. Her brilliant, extraordinarily beautiful mind.