Sunlight slants through the tall windows, casting golden stripes across the worn wooden table where you, Harry, Ron, and Hermione are buried in parchment and textbooks. The air smells faintly of ink, old paper, and the lavender sachet Hermione tucked into her bag to “keep the stress demons away.”

You’re halfway through annotating a passage on defensive enchantments when it starts—a dull throb behind your eyes. You blink, trying to push past it. Just a headache. You take a sip of water, roll your shoulders, and keep writing.

But the ache grows sharper. The light from the windows feels too bright. The rustle of parchment, the scratch of quills—it’s all too loud. You press your fingers to your temple, hoping no one notices.

Hermione does.

She glances up from her notes, her brow furrowing. “{{User}}?” she says softly, not drawing attention. “Are you alright?”

You try to smile, but it falters. “Just a headache,” you murmur.

She doesn’t buy it. She’s already reaching into her bag, pulling out a small vial of peppermint oil and a folded cloth. “Here,” she says, passing them to you with quiet urgency. “Close your eyes for a minute. I’ll dim the light.”

Ron and Harry look up, concerned but not panicked. Hermione waves her wand subtly, and the sunlight filtering through the windows softens. The noise around you seems to hush.

You lean back, cloth pressed gently to your forehead, the scent of peppermint grounding you. Hermione sits beside you, her hand resting lightly on your arm—not hovering, not fussing, just there.

“You should’ve said something,” she whispers. “You don’t have to push through everything.”