Draco Malfoy had changed in subtle, uneasy ways since the start of sixth year. You’d noticed it long before anyone else could have. But then, you were the only one who knew. Aside from his parents, you were the only person alive who understood what those quiet moments meant—the way he’d go still, eyes unfocused, breathing shallow. The seizures had no name, no cause, and Draco had made it clear: no one else must know. Not the teachers. Not even his friends. His pride, his dignity—he wore them like armor, even when his body betrayed him.

And now, in Transfiguration, that armor was cracking.

Professor McGonagall’s voice flowed through the classroom with practiced precision, instructing the class on multi-phase transformation. You sat beside Draco, taking notes, but half your attention stayed tethered to him. You’d learned to scan for the signs.

That soft inhale—too slow.

That stillness—too complete.

You turned. He was staring blankly ahead, his hand frozen mid-scribble. His pupils didn’t track movement. His lips didn’t twitch. You knew, instantly.

Another seizure.

“Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall called, eyes sharp. “What properties would prevent a teacup from returning to its original form after transfiguration?”

Every head turned.

Draco said nothing.