The air is thick with the sharp scent of crushed valerian root and simmering wormwood. Students hunch over cauldrons, parchment curling at the edges from the steam. Professor Snape paces slowly between the rows, robes whispering against the stone floor.

Draco Malfoy sits unusually still at his station. His quill rests untouched beside his notes. His fingers twitch once, then again. A subtle tremor begins in his jaw. He knows this feeling—tightness behind his eyes, a strange static in his limbs. It’s coming.

He glances toward you, just briefly. You know the look. You’ve seen it before, in quieter moments, when he trusted you enough to let the mask slip. Now, panic flickers behind his eyes.

He raises his hand. “Professor,” he says, voice taut, “may I be excused?”

Snape doesn’t even glance up. “No, Mr. Malfoy. You may not. You’ve wasted enough time already.”

Draco’s breath catches. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles white. The room seems to tilt slightly—too loud, too bright. He tries to stand, but his legs buckle.

Then it happens.

A sharp gasp escapes him as he collapses, limbs jerking uncontrollably. The crash of his body against the stone floor silences the room. Parchment flutters. A vial shatters.

You’re already moving.

Students recoil in shock, some frozen, others whispering. Snape’s expression shifts from irritation to alarm as he strides forward—but you’re faster. You kneel beside Draco, already pulling the small vial from his satchel, the one he showed you weeks ago. You know what to do.

“Give us space!” you snap, voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “He needs air.”

Snape hesitates, then barks at the class to clear the area. You cradle Draco’s head gently, shielding him from the cold stone. His eyes flutter, unfocused. You speak softly, grounding him with your voice, your presence.

You’re the only one who knows. And right now, you’re the only one who can help.