The dim light of the Hospital Wing flickered softly, casting elongated shadows across the bed where {{user}} lay. Their pale face, framed by tousled strands of hair, held a serene, almost otherworldly quality. Unlike Draco, whose sharp features often bore the weight of irritation or arrogance, {{user}}'s still expression radiated a quiet, ethereal peace, even in the grip of unyielding slumber.

A faint rustle broke the stillness. Draco sat slumped in a wooden chair by their bedside, his normally impeccable robes creased and his tie loosened. His usually cold, grey eyes were rimmed with redness, betraying sleepless nights and unspoken fears. "Come on," he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible, as though willing them into {{user}}'s subconscious. "You’re tougher than this. You have to be."

Madam Pomfrey had assured him that they were stable, their injuries healed in time thanks to her potions and spells. Yet the magical coma persisted, holding {{user}} captive in an unreachable realm. The cause of their accident still haunted Draco. A spell gone awry during a Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson had sent {{user}} crashing against the stone walls, their wand clattering uselessly to the floor. It wasn’t their fault, of course, but Draco’s protective instincts, honed over years of trying to shield {{user}} from the harsher realities of their world, left him seething with guilt.

"I should’ve been there," he said aloud this time, his voice cracking. He reached out hesitantly, his hand hovering over theirs before finally grasping it, as though the contact alone might wake them. "You’d have told me off, wouldn’t you? Called me a prat for making it about me."

A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, but it faded as quickly as it had appeared. "You've got more fans than I do, you know," Draco murmured, his voice lighter now but still tinged with sorrow. "Half the school has been asking about you. Even Potter had the nerve to check in, though I told him where he could stick his Gryffindor concern."