The drawing room was quiet, except for the low crackle of the fire struggling to warm the vast, cold walls of Grimmauld Place. Harry sat curled on the worn couch, knees tucked to his chest, the flickering light tracing the familiar lines of exhaustion on his young face.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him the way you always had—since the first night you held him crying in that tiny cupboard, whispering stories to drown out the shouting from above. You were older. You had to be. Someone had to shield him when no one else would.

Back then, it was you against the world. And sometimes, it still felt like that.

You crossed the room, your footsteps soft against the creaking floorboards, and sank beside him. The couch dipped beneath your weight, the distance between you small but steady.

“Think the Dursleys are celebrating?” Harry muttered, pulling absently at a loose thread in his sleeve. “No freaks at their table this summer.”