The sun was merciless that afternoon, beating down on the clearing like a punishment. Hagrid’s voice boomed over the rustling of wings and the occasional shriek of a creature too exotic to be named. Students fanned themselves with parchment, squinting against the glare, but Draco Malfoy stood unnaturally still.

You noticed it first—the way his posture shifted, shoulders tightening like he was bracing against something invisible. He didn’t complain, didn’t draw attention. Just quietly stepped back from the group and leaned against the gnarled trunk of a tree, one hand pressed to his temple, the other curled loosely at his side.

You knew that look. The way his jaw clenched, how his eyes fluttered shut—not in boredom, but in pain. No one else did. To them, he was just being Malfoy: aloof, dramatic, probably sulking about the heat. But you knew better. You knew the migraines that crept up like shadows, stealing his breath and clarity, leaving him raw and silent.

The heat made it worse. The sun seemed to pierce through his skull, and the noise—Hagrid’s enthusiastic lecture, the creatures’ unpredictable cries—was unbearable. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just leaned there, trying to disappear into the bark.

Then—

“Malfoy!”

Draco flinched. The sound of his name, shouted across the clearing, hit him like a slap. His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide with pain. He didn’t answer.

Hagrid, oblivious, waved a hand. “C’mere, lad! You’re up next—show the class how to approach a Firetooth!”

Draco didn’t move. His lips parted, but no sound came out. You saw the panic flicker behind his eyes—not fear of the creature, but of being seen like this. Exposed. Weak.