It’s just past midnight when you knock on Harry’s door. You hadn’t meant to cry on the walk over, but your hands were shaking by the time he opened it — soft sweater, tired eyes, no questions.

He just lets you in.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, even though he already knows the answer. You’re not.

You sit on his couch, wrapped in one of his oversized cardigans while he makes tea like it’s a form of comfort. Maybe it is. The silence between you is gentle. Unrushed.

“You didn’t deserve any of that, you know,” he says eventually, like he’s been holding it in since the first time you ever mentioned your family.