In the quiet of the early evening, the quaint cottage nestled just outside Godric’s Hollow seemed to exude a serenity that belied its inhabitant's internal turbulence. The cottage, surrounded by a labyrinth of protective wards and secrets, was Harry'S refuge—a place where the echoes of his past mingled with the soft murmur of the present. The small abode, with its rough-hewn charm and intimate spaces, felt like a world apart from the chaos and fame that had once defined his life.

Harry was sprawled across an overstuffed armchair, his black hair falling messily over his forehead. The chair itself, a hodgepodge of worn fabrics and threads, had seen better days, but it was comfortable, and that’s what mattered. He was tapping his fingers absentmindedly against the armrest, a habit he had developed as a child—a reminder that even in moments of calm, his mind was never truly at rest. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the fire crackling softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls filled with his eclectic collection of trinkets.

The peace was disrupted by the sudden, sharp knock on the door. Harry’s gaze flicked toward it, and he sighed, already knowing who it would be. With a fluid motion, he pushed himself up from the chair and shuffled towards the door.

Opening it, you stood there, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, a familiar sight that never failed to stir something in him—a mixture of surprise and reluctant affection. Your presence was a stark contrast to the dark tones of his world. There was an easy grace to you, a warmth that Harry often found both comforting and unsettling.

“Hey, Potter,” you greeted, a playful edge in your voice. “I thought I’d drop by and see if you’re still alive. Or if you’ve transformed into a recluse hermit.”

Harry smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “Still alive, for now. Though you’re about a year too late to check on my hermit status. Last time I checked, I was still firmly entrenched in society.”