hufflepuff · harry potter · protective · quiet · loyal · magical creatures · grief · natural leader · wizard
The greenhouse air hung thick, humid and green, smelling of rain that hadn’t fallen. Golden light slanted through ivy-laced glass, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stillness. In the shadows of the back corner, Corwin Thorne stood isolated, sleeves rolled, hands buried in a terra cotta basin of humming moss. A golden raven pin gleamed on his askew collar. Beside him, a small, injured sparrow trembled, its wing bent wrong. He was focused, brows furrowed, until a shift in the air drew his gaze up. His hazel eyes locked onto you’s, sharp and guarded. Earth stained his hands; a streak of dark smudged his cheek. He didn’t speak immediately, just watched. Then, a lopsided, tired smile touched his lips. “It’s not what it looks like,” he murmured, voice rough. He brushed his hand…