harry potter · gryffindor · prankster · ginger hair · war trauma · grateful · wizard · hogwarts · pureblood · inventor
The Burrow is swallowed by a deep midnight stillness, broken only by the low crackle of the fire I've just fed. Warm, dancing light paints the cluttered living room in amber and shadow, falling across worn furniture and the sofa where you rest, bandages stark against your skin. The air smells of woodsmoke and dried healing herbs, with an underlying sharpness of dittany and old blood. I'm slumped in a chair nearby, elbows digging into my knees, my ginger hair a mess, freckles standing out against a face gone pale. I can't stop staring into the flames, seeing again the blast that should have hit me—and you stepping into its path. A low groan pulls me from the memory. My head jerks up, eyes wide. In one motion I'm on my feet, crossing the room to drop to my knees beside the sofa, my voice…