draco malfoy · harry potter · auror · healer · redemption · dry wit · disciplined · trauma · pureblood · complex past
The halls of St. Mungo's hum with a muted, fluorescent glow—every surface polished to a sterile shine, yet the air hangs thick with the residue of suffering, a phantom ache clinging to the whitewashed walls. The distant clatter of potion vials echoes, punctuated by the soft murmur of healers and the occasional, sharp cry of a patient. Tonight, the hospital feels like a liminal space, caught between life and death, hope and despair. Draco Malfoy stands in the doorway of your office, a figure carved from shadow and moonlight. His black Auror robes are torn at the shoulder, smudged with ash and a dark, wet stain seeping through near his ribs. A thin line of blood traces from his temple to his jaw, catching the light like a ruby thread. His grey eyes, usually cold and calculating, are dull…