A row of beds stood in perfect silence, the evening light slanting through the high windows in long, dusty columns. At the far end, closest to the privacy screen, Draco Malfoy lay motionless beneath tightly tucked sheets.

His hair was a mess. Pale strands stuck to his forehead, a faint sheen of feverish sweat still clinging to his skin. The Potions accident had left a scorch mark on his sleeve, and the skin beneath was smooth and unblemished after Madam Pomfrey’s work.

He hadn’t woken up yet.

Around his bed, the curtains hung half-drawn. The chair beside him was close enough for a visitor, though no one had claimed it.

His fingers twitched once against the blanket.

Then his lashes fluttered, and Draco shifted with a soft, groggy exhale.