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I see myself every time he tilts his head in thought. The way he pinches his brow when puzzled, or the precise way he organizes his books by subject, then author, then spine condition. It’s all me. A mirror made flesh, with dark hair like ink and eyes like storm glass. And yet, he is not me.
His name is Elias.
He is ten years old, and he wears his heart on the outside of his chest like a badge, vulnerable and defiant all at once. That was Harrie’s doing. She poured herself into him—her warmth, her stubborn light—and somehow, what emerged was a child made of both of us: my features, her soul.
And it terrifies me.
Harrie would say that I’m being overdramatic, that I should allow myself to feel the pride I so clearly try to mask with long-suffering sighs and arched brows. But she doesn’t understand. Not really. She doesn’t remember the nights I spent curled up beneath my bed, hoping my father wouldn’t find me, my mother silent and still behind a locked door. Harrie had pain, yes, scars etched into her past—but she never had him.
I did.
And every day, I fight not to become him.
When Elias was born, I did not cry. Harrie did—joyful, gasping sobs as she clutched his tiny body to her chest—but I only watched, silent, stunned. He was so small. So impossibly new. I was afraid to touch him.
It took me a week to hold him without flinching.
But he was patient with me, even as a baby. He watched me with those grey-blue eyes, always wide, always curious. When he was fussy, I would hum low, wordless songs. I didn’t know I remembered lullabies. But they came back, rising from the depths like reluctant ghosts, and he would settle, his tiny hand grasping my sleeve with surprising strength.
He always preferred quiet.
Even now, he shies away from crowds, from noise, from conflict. He reads more than most adults I know—though I caught him reading Hogwarts: A History upside down once while daydreaming, which made Harrie laugh for a full minute.
He is unlike his sister in every way.
Rowena is six. And she is a storm.
Loud. Fierce. Brilliant in a way that demands attention. She climbs trees, breaks vases, throws pillows with a warrior’s cry. She is Harrie through and through—brave, reckless, loving in every fierce hug and tug on your sleeve.
She adores her brother, which means she teases him mercilessly.
It happened on a Tuesday.
I was in the study, grading essays, when the wail came. Not Rowena’s—not her usual theatrical “he took my broom” shrieks. This was different. Raw. Wounded.
I arrived to find Elias curled on the couch, face buried in his arms. Rowena stood nearby, her eyes wide with guilt.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered before running to Harrie’s arms, hiding.
Harrie looked at me. “It was his nose.”
Of course.
His nose—my nose. Hooked. Prominent. A relic from a face that had always drawn mockery. It was the first thing my father insulted when I was eight. The first thing the other boys laughed at. “Beaky bat,” they called me.
I sat beside him and touched his shoulder gently.
He flinched, then peeked out, his cheeks wet. “She said I look weird.”
“She was teasing,” I said carefully. “But I know it hurt.”
He nodded.
“Elias,” I continued, lowering my voice, “you look like me. And I used to hate that. I thought my face made me ugly. But then… your mum told me I was wrong.”
He looked up, curious despite his misery.
“She told me my face was the one she trusted most in the world. She said it showed strength and truth. That it was the face of someone who fought to be better.”
He blinked, unsure.
“And now,” I said, brushing his hair back, “it’s your face. Which means it’s the face of someone kind, and brave, and clever. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
He launched himself into my arms.
I held him, shaking, and in that moment, I was no longer the boy cowering in shadows. I was a father. A better father. Not a perfect one, but one who stayed. One who listened. One who tried.
Rowena came in later, sullen and tearful, clutching a crayon drawing with “SORRY ELIAS” scrawled across the top in wobbly block letters. It featured a cartoon version of Elias with a crown and sparkles. He forgave her instantly.
Because that’s who he is.
Now, he stands at the foot of the stairs in his Hogwarts robes, trunk packed and owl cage clutched tightly.
He looks ready.
I, however, am not.
Harrie is fussing with his collar, wiping at invisible dust. Her eyes shine, though she hides it behind a grin.
“You’ll write?” she asks.
“Every week,” he promises. “Twice if I have time.”
“Try not to duel anyone in your first month,” she teases. “That’s a third-month activity, minimum.”
He laughs.
And then he turns to me.
We stare at each other, and for a moment, I see everything at once—the baby in my arms, the boy hiding behind books, the little voice asking why people can be cruel. And now, this young man with my face and Harrie’s heart.
“I’m proud of you,” I say. My voice catches. “No matter what house you’re sorted into.”
He nods slowly. “But if it’s Slytherin…”
I raise a brow. “Then I will bribe the Sorting Hat for family favoritism.”
He grins. And then he steps forward and hugs me tightly.
“I love you, Dad.”
There it is. The thing I never heard, never said aloud in that house I grew up in. The thing I fought to give him the courage to say.
“I love you too, Elias.”
He boards the train, finds a window, waves.
We stand in silence as the train pulls away.
I feel Harrie slip her hand into mine.
“He’ll be alright,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I say.
But still, I ache. Not because I fear for him. But because I will miss the sound of his voice in the morning, the way he tells me far too many facts about magical fungi, the quiet grace of his presence.
Because he is mine.
And because I did not know I could love so fiercely, so protectively, without breaking into pieces.
But here I am.
Whole.
Watching my son—my better reflection—begin a life I once only dreamed of.