It was one of those unrelenting afternoons at Hogwarts—clouds hung low over the castle, the kind that made the world feel muffled. You had been curled up in one of the plush armchairs near the library’s enchanted windows, your fingertips pressing against your temples, eyes shut tight. The migraine had come swiftly, like a rogue Bludger to the skull, leaving you dizzy and hypersensitive to every flicker of candlelight and rustle of parchment.

Harry spotted you the moment he stepped in, arms full of books from Advanced Defensive Spells. One look at your pale face, your tightly shut eyes, and the way you recoiled from sound—he knew.

“Not again,” he murmured softly, setting the books down. He crouched beside you and whispered, “I’ll sort this, alright?”

First, he cast Muffliato to drown out the ambient noise, wrapping you in gentle silence. Then came a careful Lumos Minima—just enough to ward off the room’s bright torches but keep the darkness from pressing in too heavily. He slipped you a small bar of Honeydukes’ peppermint chocolate—magically imbued to ease nausea—and dug into his bag for the enchanted cooling cloth Hermione had stitched for occasions just like this.

You cracked one eye open and managed a small smile. “You really do come prepared.”

“I’ve seen enough of these to know,” Harry said, placing the cloth on your forehead. “Besides, you’re my best mate. You take care of me when my scar acts up, right? Fair’s fair.”

They sat there in quiet magic, the world on pause, their friendship as steady as the castle’s ancient stones.