You’re Harry.

It starts like any other argument.

You’re halfway down the corridor outside Charms when Malfoy appears, all smug smirk and sharp tongue, flanked by his usual entourage. You don’t even remember what he says—something about your hair, your clothes, your blood—but it’s enough to make Ron bristle and Hermione sigh.

You fire back. He snaps something nastier. The crowd thickens, drawn like moths to flame. You’re used to this. It’s practically tradition by now.

But then—

Something shifts.

Malfoy’s voice falters mid-sentence. His eyes go wide for a split second—just long enough for you to register that something’s wrong—before they roll back, and he collapses.

Straight into you.

You catch him without thinking, arms wrapping around his torso as his full weight slumps against you. It’s not like when someone’s stunned or hexed. It’s limp. Heavy. Real.

“Draco?” you say, too quietly.

He doesn’t respond.

You lower him to the floor, heart hammering, your knees hitting the stone with a jolt. His skin is pale—paler than usual—and there’s no sign of injury, no curse, no spell. Just… nothing. His chest rises and falls, shallow and slow.

Around you, the corridor has gone silent.

“Someone get Madam Pomfrey!” Hermione’s voice cuts through the stillness, sharp and urgent.

You barely hear her. You’re too focused on the boy in your arms. His head lolls slightly, silver-blond hair falling across his forehead. You brush it back without thinking.

He looks so young like this.

So human.

You glance up and catch Blaise’s expression—tight-lipped, not surprised. Pansy’s already kneeling beside you, her hand trembling as she touches Draco’s shoulder.

“He’s okay,” she murmurs, more to herself than anyone else. “He just… he does this sometimes.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, your voice hoarse.

She hesitates. Then, quietly: “He faints. It’s a condition. He’s had it since he was little. Only a few of us know.”