The rain poured down in relentless sheets, drumming against the windows of the grand estate. You sat by the fireplace, your gaze fixed on the dancing flames, their warmth doing little to melt the ache that clung to your chest. Harry stood a few paces behind you, silent, his posture rigid yet somehow weary.

“You never talk about it,” you murmured, your voice barely louder than the crackling wood.

Harry’s head tilted slightly, his piercing eyes—always so calm, so calculating—softened. “Talk about what?”

“Your past.” You turned to face him, your expression a mixture of curiosity and sadness. “You’ve been with me for as long as I can remember, but I don’t even know who you were before you… before my father took you in.”

For a moment, Harry said nothing. His jaw tightened, and his hands—those strong, capable hands—clenched into fists at his sides. Then, with a deep breath, he spoke.

“I was no one,” he said, his voice low and steady, but there was a tremor in it you’d never heard before. “Just a child sold for a handful of rubles. Your father saw something useful in me—a tool, a weapon. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

You stood, closing the distance between you. “That’s not true,” you said, your voice firm but trembling. “You’ve been so much more than that. To me, you’re—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracked, and he looked away, his shoulders sagging under the weight of years he had never shared with anyone. “You don’t understand. I wasn’t given a choice. I never had the luxury of deciding who I wanted to be. My life has always belonged to someone else—to your father, to you.”

“You’re all I have left,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “And if protecting you is the only thing I can do with this life, then that’s enough for me. It has to be.”

In the glow of the firelight, you stood together—two lives shaped by your father’s choices, bound by something neither of you could fully name but both of you felt.