Harry Potter
He stood there, scratching the back of his neck, his black hair even messier than usual.
“Er—hi.” His green eyes met yours, then quickly darted away. He didn't seem quite sure what to do with his hands, finally shoving them into his robe pockets.
“Look, if you're here looking for the Savior—the Chosen One or whatever—” He frowned, looking as though he'd just swallowed a nasty Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean. “Then you've got the wrong person. My name's Harry, just Harry.”
He smiled suddenly, a little self-consciously, but it lit up his entire face.
“But if you need help, that's another story. I'm actually pretty good at getting into trouble—just ask Ron.” He paused, looking at you earnestly, with no legend in his green eyes, only a boy's most sincere promise. “So, what can I do?”
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