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Madam Pomfrey's Pepperup Potion was remarkably effective. By the next morning, Draco's fever had broken completely, leaving not even a trace of discomfort. He felt thoroughly refreshed.
However, when Madam Pomfrey came to check on him and announced that he could be discharged, Draco leaned lazily against his pillow and gave a small, deliberately weak cough.
"Ah..." Draco put on an exaggerated expression, his voice softer and more drawn out than usual. "I think... my head still feels a bit dizzy, and my throat is uncomfortable too."
Madam Pomfrey studied him with a scrutinising look, then glanced at the barely touched, beautifully prepared breakfast on his bedside table that a house-elf had delivered specially.
Considering that he had indeed just been through a high fever and a troll scare, and also considering that his grades in Potions and Astronomy had always been impeccable, with an occasional absence not affecting much, and that the name "Malfoy" still carried certain invisible conveniences at times, Madam Pomfrey finally just sighed.
"Very well. It seems you still need a few more days of rest, Mr Malfoy. But please stay in bed and don't go wandering off."
Draco's reason for lingering in the hospital wing was simple. The troll incident had already bound Harry, Ron, and Hermione together, and the gears of fate seemed to be back on track. He felt that as the "man behind the curtain," he could now step back and enjoy a moment of peace, avoiding any further unnecessary complications.
Later that morning, Harry, Ron, and Hermione came to visit.
"...Feeling better?" Hermione spoke first, her voice clear and full of genuine gratitude. "Last night... thank you so much."
Draco gave a slight nod, accepting the thanks without much warmth.
Ron stood behind Harry, looking awkward, the tips of his ears red. He shot Draco a quick glance and mumbled a vague "Thanks," his voice so low it was almost to himself.
He seemed to be making an effort to appear friendly, but years of ingrained prejudice stuck in his throat like a fishbone, making it difficult for him to speak naturally to Draco.
Just then, another voice, sharper and more nasal, broke the strained harmony.
"Oh, look who it is. The Gryffindor... do-gooders? Come to thank Draco for saving your lives? I suppose without him, you'd all be nothing but a smear under a troll's club by now."
Pansy Parkinson swept in like a proud green peacock, followed by several Slytherin students. They pointedly ignored Ron and Hermione beside Harry, their eyes landing directly on Draco.
"Draco, are you feeling better?" Pansy's voice was sickly sweet, but when she looked at Hermione and Ron, her eyes turned to poisoned knives. "We brought you some sweets, in case some... uninvited visitors put you off your appetite."
Ron went off like a firecracker, straightening up abruptly.
"Who are you calling uninvited visitors?" Ron glared at Pansy furiously.
"Whoever answers, obviously. Poor Weasley." One of the girls beside Pansy sneered. "Take your 'Mudblood' friend and stay away from our Slytherins."
Crabbe and Goyle let out wheezing, walrus-like laughter behind her.
Ron's face went redder than his hair in an instant. He lifted his head sharply, his chest heaving as he panted, like a provoked bull. He instinctively reached for his robe pocket, as if to pull out his wand.
"Ron, calm down!" Harry stepped forward at once, pressing down on Ron's arm, his green eyes carrying a warning. "This is the hospital wing. The professors will punish us."
"You!" Ron looked ready to explode. He panted heavily, glaring at Pansy, then shot a resentful, unwilling glance at Draco, who lay in bed looking calm and almost indifferent. Finally, he turned sharply to Harry. "See, Harry! I told you! They're always like this! Let's go!"
With that, Ron stormed out of the hospital wing without looking back.
Hermione took a deep breath, trying to keep her composure. She said quickly to Draco, "I hope you recover soon, Malfoy," then cast a worried glance at Harry before following Ron out.
Pansy looked as though she had won a battle, lifting her chin smugly like a queen defending her territory. She turned to Harry, who had remained standing there in silence, and said with undisguised contempt, "Potter, I really don't understand why you keep hanging around with them. It's just... so beneath you."
Harry looked toward the door where Ron and Hermione had left, his fists clenching slightly. At Pansy's words, he raised his head sharply, his green eyes flashing with anger.
"Thank you for your concern, Parkinson." Harry's voice was clear and cold, with a firmness beyond his years. "But I think I can tell who my real friends are."
The words landed like a silent slap, freezing the smugness on Pansy's face.
Draco, lying in bed, found himself rather enjoying the show. The whole thing was hard not to find deeply ironic, considering it was practically the beginning of his miserable entanglement with the scarhead.
Harry seemed not quite finished. He looked at Pansy and the girls behind her and added sharply, "And in my opinion, casually insulting someone's background is what's truly beneath a person."
"You!" Pansy went white with rage.
"This is a place for patients to rest, not a club for your squabbling! The patient needs quiet!"
Their argument soon drew Madam Pomfrey. The queen of the hospital wing shooed Pansy's group and Harry out with an uncompromising tone, and sternly warned Draco that if his friends caused such a ruckus in the hospital wing again, she would send him right back to his dormitory.
Over the next few days, the hospital wing became something of an invisible dividing line. When Pansy and her group came, Harry always "just happened" to miss them. And when Harry came alone or occasionally with Hermione (Ron never appeared again), Pansy's group was never there either. The two groups seemed to have reached some strange, unspoken understanding.
That afternoon, sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting warm patches on the polished floor of the hospital wing. Draco sat propped against his pillows, absent-mindedly flipping through a copy of An Inquiry into Rare Magical Blood Disorders.
Although the Saviour problem had been temporarily resolved, the research on Astoria's blood curse still left him utterly lost.
His memories of Astoria seemed shrouded in a thin mist, some of them already blurred.
Why had he married her? Not simply because of the customary unions between pure-blood families.
After the war, the Malfoy family, though drained by Voldemort for several years, still had substantial wealth. But Lucius's imprisonment had left the family name in disgrace, and many families avoided them.
And Astoria... she had been different from the rest.
She was beautiful, yes, with pale golden hair and blue eyes. She lacked Pansy's aggressive sharpness, and she did not fawn over Malfoy wealth and status the way other pure-blood girls did. She was quiet, with a melancholic air. She understood his past and stayed quietly by his side.
Their marriage had been more like two people carefully warming each other in the ruins of the post-war world.
Scorpius's arrival had been the brightest light in those grey years. But Astoria's health had always been a sword hanging over their heads. The family blood curse had slowly eaten away at her vitality, until finally...
Draco's fingers unconsciously traced the words on the page, a heavy weight on his chest. He had to find a way. He had to change this ending.
"Are you listening to me, Draco?"
Harry's voice pulled him back from his tangled thoughts. Draco looked up and saw Harry standing by the bed, holding a long, slender parcel wrapped in oiled paper.
"Your family's owl just delivered this," Harry said, handing over the parcel. The silver and green wrapping paper bore the ornate Malfoy crest. "I brought it over for you."
"Oh, that's for you." Draco said it offhandedly. "My father has sponsored new brooms for everyone on the Slytherin Quidditch team. Since you're the Seeker, there's one for you too." He paused, then added, to make it seem less deliberate, "Consider it... support for the house."
Draco said this lightly, as if it were nothing at all. But inside, he could not help recalling how, in his previous life, Harry had taunted him after receiving a broom from Professor McGonagall.
Harry looked at Draco, who clearly had no intention of explaining further, then looked down at the elegant parcel in his arms. His face was quickly overtaken by disbelief and delight.
"For... me?" Harry murmured, his fingers carefully stroking the smooth wrapping paper. His voice carried a pure, undisguised joy, like sunlight breaking through the heavy air of the hospital wing.
"Thank you. I'll use it well." Harry looked up, his face full of anticipation and determination, as if making a solemn promise. "I'll win for the both of us! Just you wait!"
"Sounds promising." Draco replied lazily.
Children are so easy to please.
In truth, Draco's enthusiasm for Quidditch had long since faded with his previous life's experiences and his forty-year-old mindset.
He had begged his father to get them onto the team more to satisfy his father's expectation that he deepen his connection with the "Saviour," and as an excuse to get Harry on the team, than out of any real desire to play.
"Draco," Harry said, looking up with anticipation shining in his green eyes, "will you come watch the first match against Gryffindor this afternoon?"
Draco finally lifted his eyes from the book and looked at Harry. The pure anticipation in those bright green eyes struck him like a sudden flash of light, catching him off guard.
For some reason, it reminded him of Scorpius, who would look at him with that same dependent, hopeful gaze every time he left home to attend to family business.
The refusal that had been on his lips took a turn.
"Maybe." He heard himself say it, with a note of compromise he had not expected.
The moment the word was out, he regretted it a little. He did not want to give Harry too much unnecessary hope, nor involve himself in more trouble.
Just then, the door of the hospital wing opened again, and Hermione Granger poked her head in.
"Harry, there you are." She walked in, apparently no longer surprised by Harry's frequent visits to the hospital wing.
She nodded at Draco in greeting, then tugged at Harry's sleeve. "The team's gathering in the changing room. Let's go."
She turned to Draco, her tone more natural than before. "Malfoy, Madam Pomfrey says you can leave this afternoon. Also, the school notice is out. The winter uniform robes will be switched starting next week. There'll be scarves, sweaters, and gloves. They say this year's robes are made of thicker material. It'll be cold in the stands this afternoon, so make sure you dress warmly."
Draco watched them leave, knowing he had indeed stayed in the hospital wing long enough. If he stayed any longer, his father might truly send a "concerned" letter, or worse, come to "visit" in person.
The Quidditch pitch sat on open ground not far from the castle, and the stands were built high. The wind was indeed biting, just as Hermione had said.
Draco wrapped himself tightly in his new, thick scarf with silver and green stripes, grateful that Goyle and Crabbe stood in front of him like two stocky little mountains, blocking most of the freezing wind.
He had thought he had long since lost interest in this sport of his youth. But standing on the familiar stands in an eleven-year-old body, surrounded by the deafening cheers and the howling wind, a long-forgotten adolescent thrill stirred faintly in his chest.
Unfortunately, he had already asked the team captain for leave, citing his still-recovering health, and a reserve player was taking his place. He could only watch from the stands as a spectator.
The students in the stands showed tremendous enthusiasm for the first Quidditch match of the term. Wave after wave of cheers rose and fell, with silver and green flags clashing fiercely against gold and red across the stands.
Draco found his interest piqued despite himself, curious to see whether Harry, now in Slytherin, could still bring home the championship trophy for his rival house, as he had in his previous life.
With that thought, his gaze unconsciously swept over the Gryffindor stands opposite.
Sure enough, amid the sea of bright red and gold, he easily found the two figures who looked distinctly out of place: Hermione and Ron.
They sat there with conflicted expressions, hands on their knees, seeming not to know whether to cheer for their friend on the opposing team or for their own house. Their restless, awkward demeanour was rather comical.
Draco could not help letting out a soft laugh. The sound drew a calm glance from Theodore Nott beside him.
"Someone's in a good mood," Theodore said lightly, his eyes returning to the pitch, his tone unreadable.
Draco's smile faded, and he did not reply.
The match began.
Draco's initially casual gaze was soon drawn to the green figure in the sky.
Harry was flying the Nimbus 2000, moving as fast as a flash of lightning.
But as he watched, Draco's brow furrowed. Harry was making erratic, almost dangerous dives and twists in the air.
It did not look like he was searching for the Golden Snitch. It looked more like... he was being interfered with.
In his previous life, Draco might have thought it was Harry's poor skill, or that Professor McGonagall had misjudged him, and his catching of the Remembrall had been pure luck, with his nerves showing in an official match. But with his current experience and trained eye, he immediately saw the problem.
Someone was jinxing Harry! Someone was trying to knock him off his broom!
A chill crept up Draco's spine, colder than the wind in the stands.
There were hundreds of people in this stadium. Who wanted Harry dead?
His gaze instinctively turned again to the Gryffindor stands. Clearly, Hermione and Ron had noticed something was wrong too. They were pointing at Harry's broom and talking urgently. Then Hermione disappeared into the crowd of the stands.
What he had done before had not been in vain.
Draco felt a little more at ease, hoping that Hermione would, as in her previous life, discover who was behind it and resolve the crisis. He reassured himself that even if Hermione failed, the professors would not just sit by and watch a student be murdered during a match.
...The matter was resolved faster than he had expected. Not long after Hermione disappeared, Harry, who had been jerking around in the sky like a headless fly, suddenly steadied. He spun his broom around and dived sharply in one direction!
The entire crowd held its breath.
But just as Harry was about to touch that flash of gold, his broom seemed to malfunction from the violent shaking earlier, or perhaps he was simply exhausted. His body tilted, and he fell straight off the Nimbus 2000!
"Ah!" The stands erupted in gasps.
Fortunately, he was not far from the ground, and the grass below was relatively soft. He hit the ground with a thud, rolled twice, and ended up face down, motionless.
The cheers caught in the Slytherin throats, while from the Gryffindor side came a few stifled cries and uncertain murmurs.
Just as Madam Hooch was blowing her whistle and flying over on her broom, and everyone thought the match would be paused in the most embarrassing way possible, with the Seeker knocked out cold, Harry Potter stirred.
He pushed himself up with difficulty, shook his even messier black hair, and began coughing violently, as if choking on something.
"He's going to be sick!" someone shouted gleefully.
"Cough! Hack! Ptooey!"
In front of the entire crowd, a small golden ball with wings, its wings still fluttering weakly, was coughed up into Harry's hand.
For a moment, the entire Quidditch pitch fell into deathly silence.
Even Lee Jordan, the commentator, seemed to have been hit with a Silencing Charm.
Then Madam Hooch raised her hand, her voice filled with disbelief and excitement. "Harry has caught the Golden Snitch! Slytherin wins!"
The silence shattered. The Slytherin stands exploded with deafening, almost hysterical cheers and laughter. The victory had come with such dramatic flair!
Harry clearly did not care how undignified his winning method had been. After being helped up by his teammates, with a few scrapes on his face and dirt on his robes, he was still grinning like an idiot, his green eyes bright.
He broke away from the crowd and ran first to Hermione and Ron, who had rushed onto the pitch.
The three of them hugged each other tightly, not in celebration of the Quidditch victory, but out of relief that Harry was safe.
Hermione's hand lifted, as if she wanted to take off the bright red Gryffindor scarf around her neck and wrap it around Harry. But her movement hesitated, and in the end, she did not remove it.
Harry clearly did not notice this detail. His face was lit with a brilliant smile as he slapped his friends on the back.
Then, as if remembering something, Harry grabbed his broom and ran up into the Slytherin stands with a bright smile. Before Draco could fully react, Harry threw his arms around him in a solid, sweaty, wind-chilled hug.
"We won! Draco!" Harry's voice sounded right by his ear, full of unrestrained excitement.
Draco stiffened at the sudden embrace. Several Slytherin students nearby cast surprised or scrutinising looks their way.
But a stronger emotion overwhelmed that tiny bit of embarrassment.
Not disgust, but rather... an indescribable, deeply satisfying sense of vindication.
Watching this "Saviour," who had so often got the better of him and stood against him in his previous life, now winning a match on a broom sponsored by his father, wearing his house's team robes, bringing victory to his house, and hugging him so excitedly, almost dependently...
It felt as though all the frustration of being constantly outdone on the Quidditch pitch and in every other way in his previous life was being avenged in this single moment.
Even deeper, a more secret, almost imperceptible sense of control was quietly taking root.
This boy, who could determine the fate of the wizarding world, was at this moment experiencing joy that, to some degree, was connected to Draco Malfoy's intervention.
He was, in a way, guiding the Saviour's path.
Watching the bright red of Gryffindor dim in the stands while silver and green cheered around him, and especially this Saviour, who had "beaten" them, now clinging to him like a child showing off a report card to a parent...
"We won!" Harry panted, sweat, grass, and a bit of dirt making him look rather comical, but the light in his eyes was dazzling.
Draco knew what Hermione had wanted to do: wrap the Gryffindor-coloured scarf around Harry's neck.
But now, Harry belonged to Slytherin.
Watching the victory banners that had always belonged to Gryffindor in his previous life now fly over a sea of silver and green, Draco found himself looking at Harry with considerably more approval.
"Well done, Potter."
As he spoke, Draco reached up and unwound the new, thick scarf with its Slytherin silver and green stripes from his own neck, then wrapped it around Harry's sweat damp neck.
The gesture, more than protection from the wind, was a silent declaration. That silver and green wrapped around Harry's neck, binding the victorious Seeker even more closely to the colours of his house.