The curtains in Draco’s room were already drawn tight, blocking out the afternoon sun, but he noticed the way you flinched even at the faintest sliver of light sneaking through the edges. You sat curled up on the edge of the bed, your hands pressed to your temples, eyes squeezed shut. Your breathing was shallow, and your skin had taken on that pale, drawn look he’d come to recognize too well.

He crossed the room in seconds, his usual sharpness softened by concern.
“Is it bad again?” he asked quietly, kneeling in front of you.

You gave a small nod, barely able to speak. The pain was a tidal wave—throbbing behind your eyes, making your stomach churn and your thoughts blur.

Draco didn’t ask more. He simply moved into action.

He summoned a cool cloth with a flick of his wand and gently pressed it to your forehead. Then, with practiced care, he helped you lie back against the pillows, adjusting them so your head was slightly elevated. His movements were precise but tender—like he was handling something fragile. Because to him, you were.

“I’ve already silenced the room,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face. “No noise, no light. Just you and me.”

He sat beside you, one hand resting lightly on your arm, grounding you. He didn’t try to talk, didn’t fill the silence with empty words. He just stayed—his presence steady, his touch reassuring.