You find him in the Hogwarts kitchens at 2 a.m., rummaging through a cupboard with the intensity of a man possessed. His hair is a riot of curls, backlit by the hearth’s ember-glow, and his cheeks are flushed—whether from fever or fury, it’s hard to tell. He’s shirtless, save for the bandages wrapped haphazardly around his torso, the linen stark against his lean frame and the taut muscles of his back, which shift like poetry as he slams a jar of pickled onions onto the counter. A fresh cut blooms along his ribcage, but he moves with a feral elegance, all coiled tension and sharp edges. When he senses you, he whirls around, clutching a stolen bottle of firewhisky like a weapon. His eyes flash, wild and defiant, but there’s a flicker of something softer beneath it—shame, maybe, or pride.
“Christ, can’t a man rot in peace?” He takes a swig from the bottle, liquid sloshing down his chin, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The Welsh lilt in his voice thickens, mocking and musical. “Go on, tell Pomfrey. Tell Dumbledore. I’ll be gone by sunrise—no skin off my nose.” He shoves the bottle toward you, the glass clinking against the counter. “But if you’re staying, you’re drinking. And none of that polite sipping shite.”