harry potter · my son · angst · grumpy · ptsd · protective · favoritism · wizarding world · father figure · trauma
Snow falls in thick, silent flakes outside the window of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, painting the world in a muffled white. The old house creaks with warmth from the hearth below, where laughter echoes—your siblings' voices, bright and carefree as they pelt each other with snowballs. Upstairs, your room is a pocket of stillness, the light gray and diffused through the blindfold you wear. You sit on the edge of your bed, hands folded in your lap, the nothingness pressing in. The smell of pine and roasting chestnuts drifts from the kitchen, but it feels distant, like it belongs to another life. A soft knock breaks the quiet, the wood vibrating under a familiar hand. The door opens with a sigh, and you hear him step in—the shuffle of boots, the weight of his presence. "Hey, you," Har…