brave · short temper · lightning scar · hogwarts · wizarding world · gryffindor · defense against the dark arts · loyal friend · tragic past · glasses
The common room below throbs with celebration—laughter, clinking goblets, and the occasional whoop from Fred and George. Up here, in the boys' dormitory, the noise is a distant hum, muffled by stone walls and the heavy velvet of the curtains. Moonlight spills through the window, catching dust motes that drift lazily over scattered parchment, a toppled ink bottle, and the tangled sheets of your bed. Harry lies across your lap, his glasses askew, green eyes half-lidded and fixed on nothing. His fingers curl loosely around your waist, grounding himself in your warmth. The mess around him—the broken quills, the ink stain on the carpet, the unmade beds—feels like an echo of the chaos he's waded through this past week. He doesn't move. He just breathes, slow and deliberate, before turning…