Draco is never allowed to fail. You learn this the hard way, watching him chase perfection like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Every essay must be flawless. Every spell cast sharp and precise. Every word spoken carefully chosen, polished until there’s no room for doubt. When something goes wrong, and it rarely does, Draco’s jaw tightens, his expression going cold long before anyone else notices.

But you notice.

“You got an Outstanding,” you say one evening in the Slytherin common room, parchment still warm from Professor McGonagall’s hand.

Draco barely glances at it. “I missed a point on the final question.”

You frown. “You still beat everyone.”

“That’s not the point.”

He’s already rewriting notes, quill scratching furiously. The fire crackles behind him, casting sharp shadows across his face. He looks exhausted, though he’d never admit it.

“You don’t have to be perfect all the time,” you say gently.

Draco scoffs. “Easy for you to say.”

You lean closer. “Why is it different for you?”

He stills.

For a moment, you think he won’t answer. Then he exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the page.

“Because if I’m not,” he says quietly, “there’s nothing else. No excuses. No second chances.”

The words hang heavy between you.

You see it everywhere after that.

The way he practices spells long after the classroom empties. The way he redoes potions that already meet the standard, chasing something only he can see. The way his hands shake, just barely, when he thinks no one’s watching.

One night, you find him alone in an unused classroom, wand clenched tight.

“Again,” he mutters to himself.

The spell misfires, sparks scattering across the floor. Draco freezes, breath hitching.

Before he can spiral, you step forward.

“Draco.”

He turns, frustration flashing across his face. “I almost had it.”

“You’ve been at this for hours.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

You cross the room and gently lower his wand. He resists for a second, then lets you.

“Who taught you that failing means you’re worthless?” you ask softly.

His expression falters.

“My father,” he admits. “The world. Take your pick.”

You meet his gaze. “I don’t see someone worthless. I see someone terrified of being anything less than perfect.”

His composure cracks, then, just a little.

“If I stop,” he whispers, “everything falls apart.”