a hungry gold fish at home
And I’m well aware I spend way too long thinking about you, but that doesn’t make it any easier to stop.
I think about you when I’m getting a fresh cup in the breakroom and somebody spoons too much sugar in their mug.
You always cross my mind when I grab a pint with Greg and the chips are both too salty and too soft, just the way you love to hate them. I imagine you complaining about them enough that I often lose track of the conversation.
And it doesn’t help that you spent that one weekend at my flat when Luna was refinishing all the wood at Grimmauld. I think about you draped across the chair next to the fire, cardigan hanging off one shoulder, reading back issues of Quidditch Quarterly while humming some obscene Muggle rock song. I can’t be in the kitchen for too long without remembering you sauntering to the island, flannel bottoms hanging far too low on your hips, as your bare feet smacking the cold tile, leaving a trail of crumbs in your wake. The bathroom is virtually uninhabitable since you slid onto the counter, pressed your back to the mirror, and proceeded to narrate my hair grooming ritual.
You’re everywhere but nowhere at the same time and it’s too much for me.
It’s what Draco wants to say when Harry looks up from the report on the Shilling robbery and asks him what's wrong. Apparently, he’s gone a bit green around the gills or some nonsense. Lucky for Draco, Ron picks that moment to pop in and invite them for a pint, and if Draco happens to flee leave the office before Ron’s finished asking, well, he’s got a hungry goldfish at home.