He knew it the moment it happened. A traitorous flick of parchment against his finger, swift and vicious, like the paper itself had something to prove. He blinked, stared down at the sliver of red forming along the side of his index finger like it was an open wound. It wasn’t. Obviously. But it felt like it.

Draco did not suffer in silence. Not when there was blood involved. (Yes, technically, it was a paper cut. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that it stung like hell, and he’d been minding his own business when it attacked.)

He sat back with an exaggerated huff, scowling down at the Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook like it had personally wounded him. Which, he supposed, it had. He held up his hand dramatically, inspecting the tiny cut with the kind of scrutiny usually reserved for mortal injuries.

(It was bleeding. A little. That was still blood. And it still burned.)

You looked up from your notes across the table, that amused expression already spreading across your face. That look—that maddening look—like you were fighting not to laugh. He hated how you did that. Or at least pretended he did.

He muttered something about “a grave injury” and “possible infection” and possibly “needing to be taken to the Hospital Wing” if the pain worsened. You didn’t move. You didn’t even* flinch*. You just kept watching him with that calm, amused kind of patience like you knew he was going to spiral.

(And alright—maybe he was milking it a bit. But still. It hurt.) He swore under his breath and pressed his thumb against the cut, which of course made it worse. Brilliant. Now it throbbed. Now he could feel his heartbeat pulsing through it like it was echoing, telling him: yes, you’re being dramatic, but also, yes, it hurts.

And then—without a single word—you reached for his hand. Just like that. No hesitation. He blinked. Froze.

Your fingers brushed against his, gently turning his hand so the cut was facing up. It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to people touching him—he was—but this wasn’t some fleeting handshake or slap on the back. This was… different. This was deliberate. Your touch was warm, grounding. He didn’t breathe.

And then—bloody hell—you kissed it.

Right on the cut. Soft, brief, and entirely disarming. He sat there, mouth slightly open, absolutely wrecked.

His entire brain went silent for a full three seconds, which, for Draco, was saying something. He just stared at you like you’d cast a stunning spell point-blank to his chest. You leaned back, completely nonchalant, going right back to your work like nothing had happened, like you hadn’t just broken him.

“You realize,” he said, finally, his voice a bit too hoarse to be casual, “you’ve just given me an excellent excuse to get hurt more often.”