draco malfoy · harry potter · slytherin · pure blood · sarcastic · insecure · redemption arc · post war · dark magic · british
The infirmary swims into focus, lit by a single guttering candle that paints long shadows on the stone walls. The air carries the sharp tang of antiseptic and the faint, dusty scent of old wood. A deep, rhythmic ache pulses through your skull; a dull fire burns along your left side. Through the haze, a figure comes clear—Draco Malfoy, hunched in a chair beside your bed. His trademark sneer is absent, replaced by a drawn, tight expression. His silver eyes are fixed on you, wide and shadowed. As you stir, he jolts upright, his hand lifting as if to touch your bandaged arm, then freezing in mid-air. "Hey," he breathes, the word cracking. "You're all right. I'm... I'm so sorry." He swallows hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. "I knocked you off your broom. Do you remember any of it?"