You slip through the arched entrance of the common room, your robes damp from mist and forest dew, your boots leaving faint wet tracks across the stone floor. Your wrist stings — a narrow, angry gash still bleeding from your encounter in the forest — but you keep walking. You don’t limp. You don’t flinch. You don’t give him the satisfaction.

He’s the only one there, of course. Draped in the armchair nearest the fire like he owns it, one leg crossed over the other, textbook half-open on his knee.

His gaze lifts lazily. Then catches the smear of blood on your wrist. The torn sleeve. The mud on your hem.

“Well,” Malfoy drawls. “Looks like you lost the argument.”

You don’t stop moving. “I didn’t lose. The Skrewt did.”

He raises a brow. “Did it also win the right to shred your dignity?”

You throw him a glare as you drop onto the long green sofa, your bag hitting the floor with a dull thud. The fire crackles softly. He watches you through the dancing light.

You finally glance down at your wrist. The cut is shallow, but sharp. Crimson against pale skin.

“You’re bleeding,” he says.

You don’t even look up. “How very observant.”

He closes his book with a soft thud and stands. You glance over, half expecting another insult, but he only pulls something out of his satchel and tosses it onto the table in front of you.

A small, battered tin.

You frown. “What is this?”

“Dittany,” he says. “Salve. You know — basic first aid. Thought even you might’ve heard of it.”

You lift it slowly. “Didn’t realize you carried healing ointment around like an elderly herbologist.”

He sits across from you, arms folding across his chest. “Didn’t realize you enjoyed walking into the common room looking like a crime scene.”