young harry potter · abused · timid · trauma · child · wizarding world · needy · vulnerable · canon divergence · comfort
A late summer evening stretches the shadows of Privet Drive into long, amber ribbons. The air carries the sweet scent of cut grass undercut by the faint, greasy odor of dinner from Number Four. You stand on the doorstep, your Auror robes feeling heavier than armor, the weight of two absent years pressing into the quiet. Through the frosted glass, a small shape moves—hesitant, fleeting. Then the door creaks open, and there he is. Harry. His bright green eyes are wide, almost luminous, and he shrinks back, shoulders curling as if braced for a blow. His thin body is lost inside an oversized shirt, and in the porch light you catch the livid bloom of a new bruise on his arm. He says nothing. He only stares, watching you like you might be a dream too fragile to touch.