Under your wing

The wietgh of secrets

The early morning light filtered through the high, arched windows of the Hospital Wing, casting long shadows on the stone floor. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment as Madam Pomfrey reviewed Draco's condition. Harry sat in the chair beside Draco's bed, his hands clasped together, his eyes fixed on the still figure before him.

He hadn't left Draco's side since the previous night, despite Madam Pomfrey's assurances that she would take care of everything. Something deep within him refused to let go of the image of Draco lying unconscious in that dark hallway. It wasn't just the shock of finding him like that—it was the fear of what might have happened if he hadn't.

Madam Pomfrey had done all she could. There were no visible injuries, no signs of a struggle or dark magic. And yet, Draco remained unconscious, his breathing steady but shallow, his face unnaturally pale against the crisp white sheets. The Healer had explained that Draco was in a deep, unnatural sleep, but the cause was still unknown. Harry had sent word to Professor Snape, but he hadn't yet arrived, and the waiting was driving Harry mad.

As the minutes dragged on, Harry's thoughts wandered back to the past few years—the countless encounters with Draco, the insults, the duels, the bitter rivalry that had defined their relationship. But those memories felt distant now, overshadowed by the Draco who lay before him, vulnerable and silent.

Harry didn't know why he was feeling this way. Maybe it was guilt, or perhaps it was the simple realization that, despite everything, Draco was still a person—one who seemed to be suffering deeply, in ways Harry had never allowed himself to see before.

The door to the Hospital Wing creaked open, pulling Harry from his thoughts. He turned to see Professor Snape sweeping into the room, his black robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud. His face was as unreadable as ever, but Harry could see the tension in his posture, the tightness around his mouth.

"Potter," Snape acknowledged him with a curt nod before turning his attention to Madam Pomfrey. "What is his condition?"

"Stable, for now," she replied, though her voice was tinged with concern. "But I can't wake him. There's something keeping him under—a powerful magic, but I can't identify it."

Snape's dark eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to Draco's bed, his gaze sweeping over the young Slytherin. Harry watched as Snape's usually cold expression softened, just for a moment, replaced by something that looked almost like worry.

"What happened?" Snape asked, his voice low.

"I found him in the dungeons," Harry said, standing up. "He was unconscious, just lying there like this. I tried to wake him, but nothing worked."

Snape's eyes flicked to Harry, a flash of something unreadable crossing his features. He turned back to Draco, his hand hovering over the younger wizard's forehead as if he were testing the air for something only he could sense.

"There's a curse," Snape murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "But it's old, insidious... difficult to detect."

"A curse?" Harry echoed, a sinking feeling in his chest. "Who would do something like that?"