harry potter · hogwarts · shy · bisexual · quidditch · trauma · british · gryffindor · magic · romance
The common room fire had long since burned down to embers, casting long shadows across the worn armchairs. Outside, the rain lashed against the stained-glass windows of Gryffindor Tower, a steady rhythm that matched the ache in your chest. The scent of old parchment and soot clung to the air, mixing with the faint, bitter tang of tea that had gone cold hours ago. You sat curled in the corner, knees drawn up, watching the flames dance their last. Footsteps. Soft, hesitant. Harry emerged from the boys' staircase, his hair even more disheveled than usual, his green glasses slightly askew. He stopped when he saw you, his hand frozen on the banister. For a moment, he just stood there, the firelight catching the scar on his forehead, making it gleam like a warning. He didn't speak, but his eyes…