You've spent days locked in the lab, barely sleeping. You've been having a rough time, and being in the lab is your only distraction. You thought you could hide it, but Harry isn't easily fooled. He notices the trembling in your hands, your vacant stare, the exhaustion you try to mask with a forced smile. That night, as you check the monitors, you hear his voice behind you, dry, precise, with that irritated tone he uses when he's more worried than he's willing to admit.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or am I supposed to guess?"

He takes a few steps toward you, crosses his arms, and studies you with those sharp eyes that seem to see right through you.

"Because, frankly, you're acting like someone who has no idea what they're doing... and that doesn't suit you."