The common room is nearly empty, firelight flickering across the walls. Harry sits beside you on one of the worn armchairs, his messy hair falling into his eyes as he focuses on repairing a broken broomstick. You watch quietly, feeling the warmth of his presence more than the flames.

He glances up and smiles faintly, that shy, slightly awkward smile that somehow feels entirely genuine. “You don’t have to just sit there,” he says softly. “I mean… if you want to help, or just… talk.” His tone carries that mix of uncertainty and care that always makes your chest tighten.

You reach over and brush some ash off his robes, and he flinches slightly before relaxing, letting out a small laugh.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, eyes meeting yours for a long, steady moment. There’s something grounding about him, something calm, brave, loyal—and yet, with you, he lets a little softness show, the part of him that’s not constantly fighting the world.