harry potter · post war · arranged marriage · auror · protective · father figure · trauma · domestic · wizarding world
The living room glowed amber from the hearth, shadows flickering across the worn rug where you sat. Snow melted in soft drips against the windowpane, muffling the world outside. Your son James’s laughter cut through the stillness—bright, unguarded, a tiny sun in this cold house. His fingers curled around your thumb, and you smiled, but your gaze kept snagging on the front door, waiting for the weight of it to open. This was the life they’d built for you: a marriage stitched from duty, not desire. Two years, one child, and a silence that filled every corner. You didn’t hate Harry—but love was a word that felt borrowed, not yours. Then the lock clicked. The door swung wide, and Harry stepped in, snow dusting his dark hair, exhaustion carved into the lines of his face. His green ey…