Breath-Drarry COMPLETE

Chapter 32

Guys, this is a Really long one. Enjoy!

—Teddy POV—

"Ughhh..."

I laid down on the old, yet well-kept couch in Gran Andromeda's living room. Without fail, a grassy smell permeated the air, infused with the smell of freshly baked bread, which, my grandmother explained, the Muggles had perfected the making of. She gushed about how much she had grown to love the process, so it wasn't a surprise that she was always baking.

"Gran," I yawned, as I sat up and faced the kitchen behind the living room, "is this loaf done? Is it sourdough again?"

Gran huffed, bent forward, and hastily shoved a rack back into the old oven. "No, Edward. Don't be rushing me now. I just put this one in the oven."

"But didn't you... Just pull one out? It smelt and everything."

"Of course, here it is. Have at that one; I trust you know how to cut wheat loaf. Not too thick, not too thin of a piece. Your uncle Harry conjured in me several bouts of heartburn, he did! Cut his loaf piece as thin as parchment, that boy." 

Gran rambled on about uncle Harry's dastardly eating habits, according to her. I couldn't help but let out a giggle at some of the jabs she made at him. I grabbed some butter from the refrigerator, a butter knife, and a glass of orange juice. Just as I sat down, Gran ruffled my hair, and rushed upstairs, but not before stopping to flick her wand, which she seemingly pulled out of nowhere, to tidy up the blanket I had laid on top of on her couch.

I wolfed down the slice of the wheat bread I had gotten like it was nothing at all. For how often she practices, I noted to myself, Gran is not bad at baking bread. If only she would bake something else, for a change. But she'd kill me if I suggested that.

Soon after I'd finished, I found myself with absolutely nothing to do. Winter vacations always slow down to a crawl at one point; you've got nothing to go on about, then it becomes such a slog that you must do something productive or one is prone to wholly losing their mind. I decided to do something productive... At least, I thought it was productive. Mentally. Physically, all I was doing was sitting on the couch, ruffling up Gran's blanket some more. And so, I walked over to the desk in front of the parlor window, with all the slowness that I'd eaten my bread with. I slid a piece of blank parchment out of its place and grabbed a worn quill and a bottle of ink.

Dear Luca,

     Hello! How are you? I hope everything's going well for you and your family.

     Nothing much is going on in this side of England. As you know, I'm staying with family in Nottingham. It's very, very windy here, and I only saw a couple of snowflakes fall the few times I've been outside. Needless to say, it's better than cold rain pelting you every time you try to leave your house, isn't it? I remember... It only rained for a moment while we were waiting for the Hogwarts Express at the start of this year, but I think I still feel the sting of those raindrops on my face. The thin scarf I had on that day didn't offer much protection either. But you still braved through it, even stuck your tongue out to catch the drops and everything.

     Why am I talking about the weather? As if we need small talk. Anyways, how are you on your instrument? The saxophone, was it? Are you practicing? I hope so, for your sake, so he doesn't stare at you as if he were to give you a thousand detentions at once. I've seen him give that look to many; thankfully, none of those people have been me. Not yet, anyway. I'll slip up, and he'll give me that look, which I'm deathly afraid of. I'm glad I'm only good at Herbology–if Flitwick had greater expectations for me in Charms, I don't know what I would do.