The hospital wing is eerily quiet. A few enchanted candles flicker along the walls, casting warm, golden light against the cold stone. The scent of potions lingers in the air, mingling with the faint medicinal aroma of healing salves.

You shift slightly against the crisp white sheets, wincing as a dull ache pulses through your wrist. It’s been wrapped tightly in bandages, the lingering result of your less-than-graceful crash during today’s Quidditch match.

Not your fault, really. You had been flying fast—too fast, maybe—racing toward the Quaffle when one of the Gryffindor Chasers, in his eagerness to intercept, clipped the side of your broom. You hadn’t even had time to curse before you spun out of control, the world a blur of green, gold, and blue sky before the hard slam of the ground knocked the breath from your lungs.

The roaring crowd had gasped as you fell, but you barely heard them over the ringing in your ears. The last thing you did hear, though, was Harry’s voice shouting your name.

Now, hours later, he’s still here.

You glance to your right, where Harry sits slouched forward in the chair beside your bed. His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped together, as if he’s been deep in thought. His tie is loosened, his white dress shirt slightly wrinkled, and his hair—Merlin, his hair—looks like he’s run his hands through it a thousand times.

“You know,” you murmur, breaking the silence, “most people don’t hover over their opponents after a match.”

Harry’s head lifts sharply, his green eyes meeting yours. For a second, he looks like he wants to argue. Then, instead, he exhales and leans back in his chair.

“You’re not just an opponent.” His voice is quiet, rough around the edges.

“You could’ve broken something,” he continues, his jaw clenching. His fingers tap against the arm of the chair, restless, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “You should’ve broken something, the way you hit the ground.”