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It starts off as a joke at the Hufflepuff table—something Ernie says about how of course Blaise Zabini is hanging around Megan Jones again since "the boy needs an emotional support badger just to survive double Potions," and everyone laughs. You roll your eyes, but once the words stick in your head, you start seeing the pattern.
A Slytherin in a green and silver scarf melted against a laughing Hufflepuff in the courtyard.
Another Slytherin sitting on the floor outside the kitchens, head tipped back against the wall while a Hufflepuff talks with their hands.
A tall, anxious looking Slytherin in the library, only relaxing when a Hufflepuff boy drops into the seat across from him and slides a Chocolate Frog his way.
It's not official. There's no sign-up sheet or assignment chart. It's just... a thing.
You joke that you'd make a terrible emotional support Hufflepuff. You're not loud or particularly funny. You're just someone who does things in passing—holding open doors, picking up dropped quills, adding sugar to a second teacup just in case someone sits down.
"Please," Hannah snorts. "You're literally built to be someone's emotional support." She pauses, her eyes flicking sideways. "Maybe Malfoy? Merlin knows that boy needs an emotional something."
You flick a crumb at her and don't think much of it. If there's one thing you're sure of, it's that Draco Malfoy will never, ever be part of that pattern.
You share a few classes with him. Everyone does, it feels like. He's always been noticeable. Pale hair, curled lip, his voice dipped in superiority and hardened into armor. But this year—your sixth—he's noticeable for a different reason.
He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.
The change is subtle at first. A faint following under his eyes. A tightness in his shoulders that wasn't there before. He still sneers, still tosses his hair, still walks like all of Hogwarts belongs to him and he's just waiting for the deed to be delivered.
But some days, you catch him staring at nothing at all. His jaw is clenched, hands fisted in his robes like he's bracing for something only he can see.
You're not the only one who sees it.
"Something's wrong with him," Harry mutters one evening as you leave Slughorn's class, watching Draco's back recede down the corridor. His voice is low but threaded with the suspicion he saves for mysteries and impending disasters. "I'm telling you, he's up to something."
