Harry stands by the window, his back to you. The glass is fogged with his breath, and beyond it, the grounds of the Burrow stretch out in grey twilight. He hasn't turned around yet. His shoulders are set, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. The posture of someone who has been standing there a long time.

He finally turns. His eyes are the same green they've always been, but they don't hold you the way they used to. They scan you once, quick and efficient, cataloging everything: your posture, your expression, the way your hands hang at your sides. It's the look of someone reading a report, not greeting a friend.