You’re Draco

The sunlight was relentless.

It streamed through the tall windows of the Transfiguration classroom, slicing across desks and parchment like golden blades. You had tried to ignore it, head tilted just so, cheek pressed against your folded arm. But it kept finding you—warming your hair, glinting off your lashes, nudging you out of the half-sleep you’d slipped into.

Until it didn’t.

Something shifted. The light dimmed.

You didn’t open your eyes, but you felt it: the soft rustle of pages, the faint scent of ink and old parchment hovering above you. Harry. Holding a book aloft, shielding your face from the sun like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You might’ve smirked if you weren’t so comfortably drowsy.

The classroom buzzed faintly around them—quills scratching, McGonagall’s voice weaving through theory and technique—but it all felt distant. Like you and Harry were tucked inside a quieter moment, just the two of you, suspended in something almost tender.

Then—

“Mr Potter.”

McGonagall’s voice rang out, crisp and unmistakable.

“That gesture may be sweet and touching,” she said, her tone laced with both fondness and firm disapproval, “but please remember you two are in my class and not in your own world.”

A few students snickered.

“I do not tolerate sleeping in class,” she continued. “So please wake Mr Malfoy up. I’ll see the both of you in my office after class.”