Mornings are quiet. There are no birds here, and if there were, they would not dare upset the ethereality of peace. Wings would not flit shadows through sunbeams; song would not disquiet sleep. At this hour, there is only him, and the soft exhale of breath. The sigh of coffee as it swirls motes of illuminated dust, stars dissipating into dawn.
Draco blinks awake. With all the graceful frumpiness of a kitten, he paws his way out his veritable cave system of blankets, and scarcely a glance is wasted on Harry before he drifts aimlessly towards the bathroom. Harry stifles a grin behind his mug. Rare is the hour Draco commits the crime of such impropriety, such domesticity. By the time the coffee dwindles low, that fleeting hour is gone, swept away into sleek hair and eyes like flint.
He moves about the kitchen, setting atop the counter bowls and ingredients. They do not require sustenance here, but any time the whim to create food seizes Draco, supplies and equipment appear as needed. Last night, he declared that the following day, he would bake zucchini bread. And in the morning, as Harry rummaged about the cabinets to acquire caffeine, he had discovered flour, baking powder, and all manner of ingredients with which he had never before bothered to acquaint himself. They had even been provided a recipe card.
Draco shoves a grater and zucchini into Harry’s hands. Make yourself useful, he orders. Harry rolls his eyes, but complies. After Harry had once set toast on fire, he had been banned from using its facilities on his own; this was Draco’s realm, and all who dared enter were at the mercy of his demands.
Once the batter is in the oven, they settle down at the dining table they use for anything but dining. Recently they have found entertainment in playing a few matches of chess. Of course, they are both abysmal; Harry has never been one for strategic analysis, and Draco would much rather cheat his way to victory than genuinely improve. Every day is a competition to be somewhat not as awful as the other. In the beginning, they had obsessively kept score of each victory and loss. Perhaps Draco still does, but Harry has long since lost interest in such a menial task. The hesitant conversation, the way Draco attempts to shift about pieces on the board when he believes Harry is distracted, the utter lack of finesse: these are the clumsy, simple moments Harry prefers to record.
The day unfurls. Eventually the bread is ready, and they eat it with tea, which Draco takes with an obscene quantity of sugar. Harry prefers his strong and bitter. The bread is excellent, and when Harry conveys the sentiment, Draco scoffs. Don’t be insulting. Of course it is, he replies, stirring another spoon of sugar into his tea.
There are no clocks here, and if there were, neither would pay them much attention. Time does not slip through fingers. Even as the evening announces its somber toll, submerging their small world in sunset shadows, no yawns strike the air. Sleep is not a necessity, but it is a comfort all the same.
In the early days, laying down had not been so simple. In a place like this, it is necessary to negotiate a balance between what came before and what came after. But now Harry has the privilege of this small marvel, the minute thrill that runs through Harry when Draco sets aside his nighttime reading to turn off the lights and climb into bed.
Life is easy in the after.