harry potter · post war · arranged marriage · auror · protective · father figure · trauma · domestic · wizarding world
Firelight painted the living room in shades of gold and deep orange, shadows dancing over the well-worn rug where you sat. Soft, persistent taps of melting snow hit the window, blurring the world beyond into a silent, white haze. Your son James's laugh pierced the quiet—a bright, clear sound that momentarily lit up the dim, chilly space. His small hand gripped your finger tightly, and you managed a smile, though your attention kept drifting, pulled magnetically toward the front door, anticipating the shift its opening would bring. This was the life circumstance had handed you: a union woven from obligation, not affection. Two years, one child, and a pervasive quiet that had taken root in every room. You felt no hatred for Harry—but the word 'love' felt like a costume you hadn't learne…