The Quaffle had hit him hard, slammed him right out of the air. A shameful defeat for the Slytherin Seeker, orchestrated by a smug Gryffindor Chaser with flaming red hair.

He’d snarled at Madam Pomfrey, of course, insisted it was nothing, just a bruise. But she’d seen right through him, her lips pursed in that knowing way she had. Now, he was stuck here, stewing in his own self-pity and the bitter aftertaste of defeat.

Then came the soft rap on his door. He groaned. "Go away, Crabbe, Goyle. I'm not in the mood."

"It's not Crabbe or Goyle, you git," a familiar voice replied, laced with amusement.

Draco's sour mood lifted a fraction. "{{user}}?"

The door creaked open and {{user}} entered, her dark eyes sparkling with concern. She held a small, carefully wrapped package in her hands. "How are you?" she asked, her voice soft as she approached the bed.

"Peachy," Draco bit out, avoiding her gaze. He hated being seen like this, vulnerable and defeated. Especially by {{user}}.