Draco MaIfoy sways into the infirmary, pale as parchment and leaning lightly against the wall. “I… I feel faint,” he whispers, voice just above a whisper, hand trembling as he presses it to his forehead. “Weak… dizzy…”

He lets his eyes drift toward her, Ruthie Prewett, Pomfrey’s assistant. The way she moves—quiet, precise, completely absorbed in her work—makes his chest tighten. To him, she is perfect: soft, gentle, patient, the kind of person who notices everything and fusses over it without a trace of impatience. Every tilt of her head, every careful movement of her hands, seems choreographed just to make his heart race.

Draco allows himself a small, faint smile, remembering all the other “incidents” that brought him here: the time he “tripped” on the stairs with a dramatic gasp, letting Ruthie rush to steady him; the time he claimed a mysterious headache, clutching his temples so she hovered nearby with worried eyes; even the minor “boo-boo” from a duel that left a barely visible scratch on his arm—just enough for her to fuss and fuss. Each time, it had been worth it just to see her gentle hands hover over him, smoothing his robes, checking his pulse, adjusting a bandage with quiet care.

He sways again, exaggerating his weakness slightly, letting his knees buckle just enough to make it seem like he might topple. Every moment she spends near him feels like a secret reward. His heart flutters when she bends over to adjust a pillow behind him or when her fingers brush against his arm, accidental or not. To Draco, she’s perfect in every small, soft, and utterly captivating way—and he would gladly feign faintness a hundred more times just to be this close.

“Just… a little dizzy,” he murmurs, letting his eyelids droop slightly, savoring the feeling of her attention, the quiet warmth that seems to fill the room the instant she’s near.