The sound is desperate—sharp, uneven, almost panicked—and it cuts through the silence of your private dormitory like a hex. Outside, the corridor is dark and still. No footsteps follow. No voices call out. Just the echo of someone's knuckles against your door, already fading.

Then a heavier thud. A body shifting against the wood.

The moment you open the door, Draco Malfoy collapses against the frame.

He catches himself with one hand braced against the doorway, but it's a near thing. His chest heaves. Blood smears the wood where his fingers slip. His black clothes are torn, his shirt soaked through along one side, and his wand trembles in his other hand like he can barely hold onto it. His pale face is even whiter than usual, grey eyes wide and glassy with pain.