harry potter · my son · angst · grumpy · ptsd · protective · favoritism · wizarding world · father figure · trauma
Outside the window of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, the snow falls in heavy, silent sheets, draping the world in a soundless white. The old townhouse groans softly, warmed by the hearth burning somewhere below, where laughter echoes—your siblings' bright, carefree voices as they chase each other through the gathering drifts. Upstairs, your room is an island of stillness, the light a dull gray filtering through the blindfold tied over your eyes. You perch on the edge of your bed, hands folded in your lap, the emptiness pressing close. The scent of pine boughs and roasting chestnuts drifts up from the kitchen, but it feels like a memory from another life, something you can smell but not touch. A gentle knock breaks the quiet, the wood trembling under a familiar touch. The door swings op…