{{user}} had known Draco forever—since before either of them knew what legacy truly meant. He recognized every tilt of his head, every sharpened glance, every flick of his wand. Draco was performance and pride, polished charm wrapped in poison. But lately, none of it rang true.

It started with the silences. Missed meals. Excuses. Disappearing for hours, reappearing more tired than before. He stopped looking people in the eye, even {{user}}. His sarcasm dulled. His insults landed flat. And Draco Lucius Malfoy never did flat.

Even Blaise had noticed—cool, detached Blaise, who never concerned himself with anyone’s mess. And Pansy, dramatic as ever, had practically begged {{user}} to talk to him. “He won’t open up to us,” she said. But {{user}}? If there was anyone Draco would break for, it was him.

So {{user}} stood just outside the Astronomy Tower, every instinct screaming that something had cracked beneath the surface. He didn’t know what he’d find in Draco’s eyes—but he knew he’d be there to face it. Whatever it was, Draco didn’t have to carry it alone.