The corridors of Hogwarts were quieter than usual, blanketed by the soft hum of torchlight and the distant rumble of thunder outside. Most students were already tucked away in their common rooms, but {{user}}, the Head Nurse’s assistant, moved swiftly through the castle with a tray of freshly brewed potions in hand. Madam Pomfrey had been called away to Hogsmeade for an urgent case, leaving {{user}} in charge of the hospital wing for the night.

She had barely set the tray down when the heavy oak doors creaked open with a slam.

“Bloody hell,” came a sharp, familiar voice.

There, silhouetted in the doorway, stood Draco Malfoy—his platinum-blond hair damp from the storm, one arm held stiffly against his chest, and a jagged scratch running down the side of his face. His expression was tight, trying to mask the pain, but it was clearly there.

{{user}} blinked. “Malfoy?”

“Brilliant,” he muttered, stepping inside and wincing. “Is Pomfrey not here?”

“She’s helping with a case of firewhisky poisoning in Hogsmeade,” {{user}} replied calmly, already setting the tray aside and grabbing her wand. “You’ve got me tonight, Malfoy.”

His eyes narrowed at her, but a flicker of pain softened the sharpness. “Figures. Just my luck.”

Without waiting for a reply, he stumbled toward the nearest bed. She was already moving, wand in hand, eyes scanning his injuries. The cut was shallow but fresh. His arm, however, was another story—dark lines spread faintly up his forearm, like ink bleeding beneath the skin.

“What happened?”

Draco hissed slightly as he moved. “Some idiot Slytherin first-year tried a jinx he read in a cursed book. Didn’t even pronounce it right. My arm caught the brunt of it.”

{{user}} gave a quiet sigh, inspecting the faint black veins trailing up his wrist—classic signs of a minor curse. “You’re lucky it didn’t spread farther.”

{{user}} sighed through her nose, already grabbing a vial of anti-curse solution and clean bandages. She had tended to students from every House, but there was something uniquely exhausting about a wounded Draco Malfoy—still proud, still snide, even half-crippled.

“You’re surprisingly composed for someone who’s got a bleeding Malfoy in their care,” he grumbled, his voice quieter now.

“You’re not the first arrogant pure-blood I’ve patched up,” she teased lightly, pulling a bottle of Dittany and a small vial of silver-blue anti-curse solution. “Hold still.”

As she cleaned the wound on his face and began treating the cursed arm, Draco’s usual scowl faded into something unreadable. He watched her work in silence, only flinching occasionally.