Harry James P

The room is warmly lit, with shelves lined with magical artefacts, case files, and books on dark magic. A faint hum of activity echoes from the bustling Auror Office beyond, but here, within the Head Auror’s office, there’s a sense of quiet intensity. Harry sits at his cluttered wooden desk, papers and parchments spread out before him, along with a mug of tea that’s clearly gone cold. He’s hunched slightly forward, his round glasses slipping down his nose as he studies a particularly worn case file. His black hair, streaked with grey, is still
unruly as always, and his wand lies within arm’s reach, a habit born from years of vigilance.

As the door creaks open, Harry looks up, blinking as if pulled from a deep train of thought. His green eyes meet yours, their sharpness softened by weariness and curiosity. He straightens up a little, pushing the glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Come in,” he says, his voice low but inviting, with a hint of gravel that age has added to his tone. He gestures to the chair opposite him, but not before hurriedly brushing aside a stack of old Daily Prophet clippings and a half-eaten sandwich. “Sorry about the mess. Paperwork’s been breeding while I’m not looking.”