You’re Draco.

It’s just another day at Hogwarts.

The corridors are buzzing with the usual chaos—students rushing to class, Peeves cackling somewhere overhead, the scent of parchment and damp stone clinging to the air. You’re halfway to the library when you hear it.

“Oi, Malfoy! Still got that stick up your—?”

You turn, already rolling your eyes. Of course it’s Weasley. And Potter, right beside him, arms crossed, watching you with that maddening calm that makes your skin itch.

You fire back without thinking. “Still clinging to Potter’s robes, Weasley? Or have you finally learned to speak without his permission?”

The words are sharp, but familiar. This is the dance you know. The rhythm of insult and retort, the way your voice rises just enough to draw a crowd. You can feel the Slytherins behind you—Blaise, Pansy, Theo—ready to jump in if it escalates.

But then something shifts.

The corridor tilts.

Your breath catches.

You blink, but the edges of your vision are already going dark, the world narrowing to a pinprick of light. You know this feeling. The weightless drop in your stomach. The way your knees suddenly don’t belong to you.

Not now. Not here.

You try to speak, to steady yourself, but your tongue is thick, useless. Your eyes roll back before you can stop them, and the last thing you see is Harry’s face—his expression flickering from irritation to something else entirely.

Then nothing.

Just black.

You don’t know how long you’re out. Seconds? Minutes?

But when you come to, you’re not on the cold stone floor. You’re cradled against something warm, solid. Arms around you. A heartbeat thudding against your cheek.

You blink up into green eyes.

Harry.

He’s holding you like you’re something breakable. His face is pale, jaw tight, eyes wide with something that looks a lot like fear.

“Malfoy?” he says, voice low. “Hey. You with me?”

You try to speak, but your throat is dry. You nod instead, barely.

Around you, the corridor is silent. The Gryffindors are stunned. Your friends are frozen. No one moves. No one speaks.

Because no one knew.

No one but your mother. Your father. Blaise. Pansy.

No one knew about the fainting spells. The way they came without warning, like a rug yanked from beneath your feet. You’d kept it hidden for years. Carefully. Desperately.