Harry, sitting beside you, nudged your foot under the table with his own, a small, private smile playing on his lips. His attention was only half on his own copy of Defensive Magical Theory.

It was a normal moment. A safe one. The kind you clung to. Ron’s grumbling, Hermione’s precision, Harry’s warm, grounding presence beside you.

Your eyes flew open, wide and unseeing, pupils blown so black they swallowed the color. Your hands, as if moving of their own volition, flew to your temples, fingers curling, nails digging into your scalp.

Your breathing became ragged, shallow gasps that hitched in your chest. A soft, broken whimper escaped you, then a choked, “No—stop—please—”

He was out of his chair in an instant, his book clattering to the floor. Hermione stood too, her face pale.

As suddenly as it began, the tension snapped. The violent shaking subsided into a weak, full-body shudder. Your hands fell limply into your lap. Your eyes, still wide, were now glazed and vacant, staring at nothing.

He looked up, his green eyes blazing with a fear his friends had rarely seen. Over your head, his gaze locked with Hermione’s.