The air smells like damp earth and dragon dung. Hagrid’s booming voice echoes across the paddock as he gestures toward a cluster of shimmering, feathered creatures that look like oversized dandelions with beaks. “Now, these little fellas are Puffwings—gentle, but skittish. Approach ‘em slow, palms out, like this…”

You nod, scribbling notes in your parchment, but your attention keeps drifting sideways.

Draco stands beside you, arms folded tightly across his chest, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. His platinum hair is slightly mussed, and his eyes—normally sharp and calculating—look glassy, distant. He hasn’t said a word since breakfast. Not to you. Not to anyone. Not even when Ron muttered something snide under his breath earlier. Draco just blinked at him like he hadn’t heard.

You nudge him gently with your elbow. “You’re worrying me.”

“I’m fine,” he says, voice low and brittle. “Just tired.”

But you know him. You know the way his jaw clenches when he’s holding something back. The way he won’t meet your eyes when he’s scared. And right now, he looks like he’s barely holding himself together—like one wrong word might shatter him.

Hagrid continues explaining Puffwing nesting habits, but the words blur around you. You reach for Draco’s hand, and to your surprise, he lets you take it. His fingers are cold. He doesn’t squeeze back.