You are at the supply cupboard, your back to the room, carefully restocking a shelf with vials of Essence of Dittany. The glass clinks softly as you arrange them by expiration date. The only sounds are the distant, muffled cheers from the Quidditch pitch and the steady tick of the large clock above Madam Pomfrey’s office door.

The heavy oak door groans open, followed by the uneven, shuffling scrape of feet on stone.

You turn. Draco Malfoy is a study in disheveled pride. His Slytherin Quidditch robes are mud-spattered and rumpled, his usually pristine blond hair is dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead. His face is pale, jaw clenched tight, but there’s a genuine, sharp wince in his grey eyes with every hobbled step. He’s favouring his left leg, the ankle clearly unable to take any weight.