The hospital wing doors slammed open with a bang that made you nearly drop the tray of bandages you were restocking. Madam Pomfrey’s voice followed immediately after: “Clear a bed—now! Quidditch accident!”

You hurried to the nearest cot, pulling the sheets straight just as a pair of Slytherins stumbled in, half-carrying Draco Malfoy. Blood streaked down the side of his face, his white-blond hair matted with sweat and dirt. His robes were torn, one arm hanging limp.

Your breath caught. Not because you were worried—definitely not—but because of course it had to be him.

“Oh, perfect,” you muttered. “Because my day wasn’t exhausting enough.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered open at your voice, his trademark smirk twitching through the pain. “Didn’t know you worked here, sweetheart. Had I known, maybe I’d have aimed for the bludger sooner.”

You glared. “You’re bleeding, Malfoy. Maybe try shutting up for once.”

He hissed as you pressed a towel to his shoulder, but even that didn’t stop him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Seeing me like this.”

You leaned closer, meeting his gaze with deliberate calm. “You’re not that special. I’ve cleaned worse messes—some even less dramatic.”

A low laugh escaped him, breathless and sharp. “Merlin, you’ve got a cruel streak.”

“Just treating you how you treat everyone else.”

For a moment, the air shifted. His eyes—storm-grey, still bright even through the pain—lingered on yours longer than you expected. His voice dropped. “Everyone else doesn’t make my heart race when they’re this close.”

Your hand froze mid-motion. Heat crept up your neck, and you cursed yourself for letting him notice.

“You must’ve hit your head harder than I thought,” you said quickly, turning away to grab the dittany.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound weaker now. “If this is what head trauma feels like, I might not mind.”

When you pressed the salve to his bruised skin, he winced, but didn’t pull away. His fingers brushed yours, briefly—accidentally, maybe not—and for one heartbeat, the rivalry, the snark, all blurred into something unspoken.

You pulled back first. “You’ll live,” you said curtly, tucking away the bandages. “Unfortunately.”

He smirked, that faint, infuriating glint back in his eyes. “You say that like you wouldn’t miss me.”

You crossed your arms. “I’d miss the peace and quiet, actually.”

“Sure you would.” His voice was soft now, teasing, but with an edge of sincerity that left you more flustered than you cared to admit.

Madam Pomfrey returned with a vial of potion, muttering about reckless players. You turned to leave—but as you passed Draco’s bed, his voice followed you, low and smug as ever.

“Next match, I’ll try to get injured somewhere closer to your shift.”

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to. He was smirking. You could feel it.