Sarah has a permanent flat rented out for her at the Leaky Cauldron, but it might as well be a vacant room. The maid doesn’t bother cleaning it anymore – after all, Sarah is the one of the only members of the Holyhead Harpies who doesn’t stay at the Leaky Cauldron suite reserved for them. It’s not because she doesn’t like her suite. It’s not because she doesn’t love her team members. She does. She just isn’t comfortable in her hotel room. She doesn’t want to live out of a suitcase. She
wants something that is stable in her life.
Instead of going back to the Leaky Cauldron, Sarah pulls up the covers to Basil Bristow’s bed and then climbs in, no explanation needed. She still gets a kick out of the little groan of awakening, but it’s always followed by a soft little sigh, an arm slung around her hips.
When she wakes up in the morning, they get breakfast in a diner a few blocks away. Every morning, they do this – except Sundays, when they are forced to starve until the next meal, complaining loudly about the complexities that are Sundays. Basil always gets up to fix breakfast on Sundays because Sarah claims she can’t cook. She can’t cook for shite – she’s a
Holyhead Harpy, for Merlin’s sake. The broads on her team were tougher than any bloke she knew, and Sarah was definitely included in that. She couldn’t be bothered with things like cooking or sewing or being domestic.
Not that Basil was a housewife – never once had he claimed to be. In fact, Basil usually teased Sarah and told her that she should cook and clean and be a good wife. They weren’t even
married, but he reminded her that one day, she would have to face the facts and bear his children to carry on the family name.
Needless to say, Sarah would elbow him in the side and tell him to shut it.
Sarah wakes up with her head nestled comfortably into his chest, naked and exhausted from a successful match. (A successful
night.)
The floor is cold and creaky under her feet as she tiptoes across the bedroom to pull on one of his shirts. She hears church bells in the distance, the hint of morning spreading across the whole of London. Her stomach growls persistently, and Sarah knows that she can’t eat. It’s
Sunday. Nothing is open except for ice cream shops, and ice cream is not a viable option for breakfast. (At least, not this morning.)
Basil looks calm, and Sarah doesn’t have the heart to wake him to make breakfast, even though she knows that she won’t be able to by herself. She doesn’t know how. She’s never been taught. Sarah’s mother taught her to have things done for her – not to cook or clean or be a maid. After all, Sarah was a House Elf-raised baby.
Sarah stands awkwardly in the kitchen, staring at the pots and pans with a confused look on her face. The icebox in front of her looks daunting. Unforgiving. She has no
idea what to do with all of these things.
She gets out a pan and then a few eggs. She thinks she remembers what’s in an omelet as she cracks a couple of eggs into a bowl and stirs briskly. She even manages to chop up a few vegetables, while she’s at it – though she uses magic for that because she quite honestly doesn’t trust herself with a knife.
Pouring egg into a pan, Sarah watches as it starts to cook, staring at it awkwardly when it starts to set and stirs it around with mild confusion. Is this what people do? Is this how people live? Sarah never had to do this before – she always had Hogwarts or a House Elf or a diner to do everything for her. And now? She was doing it all by herself.
Suddenly, Sarah went sprinting into the bedroom and jumping on the bed, trying to wake Basil up. “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!” she squeals, and Basil watches her grumpily as he is waken up.
“I
cooked!” she exclaims, and Basil grumbles that she better have, as she WOKE HIM UP on a perfectly good Sunday morning that he could have wasted away by sleeping. He’s a good sport, though, and follows her into the kitchen, where the world’s messiest omelet greets him on a plate. He looks at her and then back at the plate.
He looks at her again, and a grin appears on his face.
“You’re such a good pureblood wife, Darling,” he teases.
They share the plate of eggs, since Sarah couldn’t be bothered to make another plate, and Basil quickly decides that he could spend every Sunday eating a pile of unattractive eggs with Sarah Mullet.
