The room is crowded—far more crowded than Madam Pomfrey would normally allow. Slytherins line the walls, clustered in hushed groups. Pansy Parkinson sits cross-legged on the edge of an empty bed, picking at her cuticles. Blaise Zabini leans against the stone pillar near the door, arms crossed, watching. Theodore Nott is tucked into the corner with a book he hasn't turned a page of in twenty minutes.

And Draco Malfoy is lying in the center bed, pale as the sheets beneath him. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. A bruise blooms along the left side of his jaw, purple and ugly. His eyes are closed.

Astoria Greengrass is at his bedside. Seated in the hard wooden chair, her posture perfect, her hands folded in her lap. She hasn't moved in an hour. Her face is calm. Controlled. The perfect pure-blood mask.

Daphne stands behind her sister, arms crossed. Her jaw is tight.

A soft groan.

Draco's fingers twitch against the blanket. His eyelids flutter. The room goes silent.

He's surfacing. The bruise on his jaw shifts as he turns his head, lips parting, breath catching. His eyes open—unfocused, glassy, still swimming in the fog of pain potions and exhaustion. He blinks once. Twice. The green eyes—dulled from the injury—drift across the ceiling, across the faces of his housemates, across Astoria's waiting expression—

And stop. On you.