"Harry Potter."
The name sliced through the quiet like a cold draft under a door.
Green eyes shot open, sharp and alert, as Harry sat up so fast his neck protested. Sweat slicked his forehead, plastering his usually wild hair flat against his skull—an accomplishment only panic seemed capable of achieving.
He scanned the room in jerky, instinctive sweeps. Bed to the right—unused, as always, basically just décor at this point. The rest of the flat was silent, still, and irritatingly normal.
He dragged both hands over his face, elbows on his knees, letting the tiredness seep out through his fingers. It took him a few minutes before he could convince his limbs to obey him. Eventually, he stood, spine cracking, stretching like someone twice his age before releasing a jaw-popping yawn.
His cushion and blanket—his real bed—were scooped up and tossed onto the mattress. He eyed the bed again with a vague sense of resentment. "You're just here for show," he muttered, then padded out of the room.
The bathroom door clicked shut, lock sliding into place. Familiar ritual.
He relieved himself, washed up, then splashed cold water on his face until his skin tingled. Only then did he look up.
The mirror offered up a reflection that looked half-feral.
His hair—white as a fresh snowfall—stuck up in its usual "windstorm victim" fashion. Courtesy of genetics on his father's side, though the color most certainly wasn't. That part he still wasn't completely sure about. It earned him looks sometimes, but he'd hit the point in life where he'd run out of energy to care. There were weirder things in the world than a white-haired twenty-year-old.
His eyes, though—that shifting shade. Once a bright emerald, unmistakably his mother's. But as he watched, the vibrant green dimmed into stormy grey. They did that sometimes. No one had ever given him an explanation. Not one he believed, anyway.
He grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste, taking his time with the mundane chore. Magic could do it faster, sure, but magic didn't give him two and a half peaceful minutes where nothing expected him to save the world. When he finished, he tossed another handful of cold water on his face for good measure.
"The Boy-Who-Lived…"
The whisper ghosted against his ear.
Every muscle in his body locked. He didn't want to turn. He already knew no one was there. No one ever was.
But of course, he turned. Because instincts, habits, trauma—pick one.
The empty bathroom stared back innocently.
Harry exhaled through his nose, grabbed a towel, and left the room without looking back.
He headed to the kitchen, flicking the lights on. His apartment wasn't fancy—barely more than a shoebox with personality—but he liked the cozy vibe. The bedroom was functional, the bathroom tolerable, the kitchen just fine for someone who lived mostly on coffee and questionable toast. The living room was joined to it, dominated by a saggy couch he'd grown unreasonably attached to.
A soft nudge against his shin broke his autopilot.
Harry looked down.
"Morning, Padfoot."
The big black dog wagged his tail once, then twice, then sat expectantly like a fuzzy judgmental grandparent. Harry grabbed his plate and moved to the living room, dog trotting behind like a shadow with opinions.
He plopped down on the couch. Padfoot hopped up next to him and immediately flopped sideways, head landing in Harry's lap with the weight of a bowling ball.
"Let me finish eating, then you get yours," Harry said, poking the dog's side.
Padfoot responded with a small, offended huff.
Harry snorted, shifting so he could pet the dog with one hand while eating with the other. Honestly, multitasking had become a survival skill.
Breakfast finished, he reluctantly stood. Padfoot made a wounded noise as if betrayed by his closest ally.
"I'm getting your food, you dramatic blob."
Eye roll included, he carried his dishes to the sink. Before he could turn the tap on, someone knocked at the door.
Harry frowned, drying his hands quickly on a towel. Hardly anyone visited.
He opened the door.
A blonde girl stood there, smiling shyly and pressing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Hi, Alexis," Harry greeted with a warm-enough smile. She was the landlord's daughter—nineteen, sweet, painfully awkward, and unfortunately very smitten with him.
"H-Hi, Harry," she said, giving a tiny wave before aborting it halfway. "Um… how are you?"
"I'm good. You?"
"I'm fine!" she said—too fast—then cleared her throat. "My mum wanted me to tell you she'll be busy next collection day, so you can pay next month's rent together with this one."
"Oh. Thanks for letting me know." He nodded politely. "Anything else you needed?"
"Um… well…" She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "My friends and I are going to a bar tonight. There's a party. I was wondering if you maybe… wanted to come?"
Her hopeful look hit like a puppy staring at a treat.
Harry instantly regretted being a decent person.
"Sorry," he said gently, wincing a little. "I've got plans today."
He prayed she wouldn't ask what plans. Spoiler: he didn't have any.
Her smile faltered, dimming like a lamp losing power. "Oh… okay. Maybe another time."
"Yeah. Maybe." He offered her a soft smile until she walked away.
Once the door shut, Harry sighed.
Padfoot stared at him from the couch with blatant amusement.
"Don't you start."
Padfoot's eyebrows (he definitely had them) rose in mock innocence.
Harry grabbed the dog food. "You're impossible," he muttered, but his lips twitched.
Padfoot thumped his tail in victory.
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