The dimly lit dungeon of the potions classroom was thick with the familiar, oppressive tension that came with every one of Snape’s lessons. The low murmur of cauldrons bubbling and the occasional clink of glass vials filled the air as students focused on their assigned potion, each too afraid to make a mistake under the professor’s watchful eye.

You glanced over at Harry, seated beside you, and your heart sank. His face was pale, his usually bright green eyes dulled by exhaustion. His head was propped on one hand, but as the lesson dragged on, it had begun to droop, his other arm slack on the desk. Eventually, his head gave in, coming to rest on the cool wood of the desk, his messy black hair shielding his face from view.

“Harry,” you whispered softly, nudging his arm with your elbow. “You’re going to get caught.”

He stirred slightly, letting out a weak groan but not lifting his head. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

You sighed, your worry growing. It had been clear all morning that he wasn’t well—he’d hardly touched his breakfast, and his movements had been sluggish as you made your way to class. Now, with Snape’s sharp gaze roaming the room like a predator hunting its prey, Harry’s sudden vulnerability made you feel on edge.

From the front of the room, Snape’s cold voice cut through the air. “I trust you all have completed the first stage of the potion. If not, you’ll be serving detention faster than you can say ‘dunderhead.’”

Your stomach churned as Snape’s eyes scanned the rows of students. You instinctively shifted slightly, leaning toward Harry to obscure him from view. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Hermione glance over, concern flickering across her face as she, too, noticed Harry’s state.