𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐢. photographs become the echo of a memory.

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

             Muffled, soft tempos echoed between the crack underneath the door, the cotton comforter holds the perfect pressure against his body, taut but comforting as the sun shines homely across his face, and he quickly decides it's his safe haven; he doesn't want to get up, but the smell of cinnamon and bacon that wafts into the room is rousing enough.

Eyes still closed, Harry stretches his arm out and pats the space of the bed beside him, frowning when it comes up empty but still warm. He slowly opens one eye and groans, rubbing the heels of his palm against both eyes, shuffling deeper underneath the comforter. He wonders if he stays in bed longer if Lavinia will come fetch him, possibly crawling back underneath the covers but he knows she won't; once she's in the kitchen she refuses to leave until they've eaten.

He rolls over and grabs his glasses, slipping them on his face with a yawn and a full body stretch — the stretch is just so much more satisfying in the morning, especially with how soft her bed is. Slowly, he clumsily gets out of bed and makes way to his bag, grabbing a change of clothes and his toothbrush. Humming in approval he opens the bedroom door, a soft smile as the music gets louder with each step he takes.

It's different though, from her usual heavy rock. The singing voices are soft, but the melody is pleasantly loud in a way that makes him want to waltz; and Harry sure as hell doesn't know how to waltz, let alone any other type of dance besides what Lavinia taught him. After changing and brushing his teeth he makes his way down the stairs and towards the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as he pauses to admire the scene before him.

Various dirtied dishes are spread across the counter, a large pile of bacon on a plate beside a bowl of sliced fruit, and he thinks it's french toast sitting on the other plate. Lavinia's using the spatula as a microphone in between flipping the contents in the pan, swaying on spot in front of the stove.

Harry widely grins, he's never seen her so serene before. Her semblance is usually that of peace, but Harry knows she's never truly relaxed. Lavinia's a mixture of holy water and hell fire all at once; her existence is a blessing, a flawlessly carved soul by God himself. But deep down he knows she's a catalyst for someone, a cosmic tragedy, and he only hopes her next target isn't him. But in this moment her soul is wholly exposed, ataraxy pouring off her as easily as her cherry blossom perfume.

"Alone with an angel is living in dreams come true." Lavinia sings along, head thrown back as she twirls. "Heaven on earth, I know it ha — holy shit! I think my heart just plummeted down to my toes, Harry."

Harry sheepishly smiles at her, watching as she clutches above her heart with wide, frightened eyes. "Sorry. I didn't want to disrupt you."

"It's quite alright, just gave me a start." Lavinia replied, pushing fallen hair out of her face. "Guess it's payback for when I scared you, eh?"