Chapter 207
"Madam Pomfrey, are you there?" Draco Malfoy knocked on the infirmary door. The wood gave a dull, hollow sound.
"Come in," a gentle voice replied from inside.
After receiving permission, Malfoy pushed the door open.
"Come in, Pansy," he said, stepping inside and glancing back at Pansy Parkinson, who was still sitting outside.
"Oh…" Pansy responded weakly. She reluctantly stood up and limped in. The moment the familiar smell of disinfectant reached her, nausea rose in her throat. She had already endured enough of it at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. She hadn't expected to face it again so soon.
She had already changed back into her Slytherin uniform. Under Draco's insistence, she had first returned to the dormitory to change out of her earlier outfit and stash away the sweets she bought before coming here.
The infirmary was pristine—freshly renovated to welcome students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. The ceiling gleamed, the walls were newly painted, and the stone floor shone spotless. Even without strong lighting, the room seemed bright.
Rain tapped steadily against the windows. It had started pouring outside.
A few benches lined the room, along with several beds covered in clean linen and polished mahogany tables.
"Sigh… I hope it's not influenza," Madam Poppy Pomfrey muttered.
She stood at a table filled with bottles, intently shaking a transparent vial. Inside, a green potion swirled and bubbled, yet not a drop spilled.
"Please close the window. Some patients can't handle the draft," she added without looking up.
"Of course." Malfoy flicked his wand. With a sharp snap, the window shut.
"There we go… poor child," Pomfrey sighed, setting the potion down. "It's been too damp lately. I don't know if she can adapt."
Only then did she turn to them.
"Oh! The Triwizard Tournament is about to begin. It won't do for Hogwarts' Champions to fall ill. Where does it hurt, Mr. Malfoy?" she asked, hurrying over with concern.
She had watched the Champion selection in the Great Hall herself and recognized him immediately. She also remembered treating him before—when his arm had nearly been bitten through by venomous fangs.
"It's not me. It's her," Malfoy said, handing over the medical report. "This is from St. Mungo's. I'd like you to examine her again. She might have done something… unwise just now. I'm concerned it may have worsened."
He shot Pansy a sharp look.
She lowered her head guiltily.
"You're exaggerating…" she muttered, though a faint sweetness stirred in her chest. Will he always care about me like this? she wondered.
Someday, she would abandon that thought. When that time came, she might even wish she had never been injured at all.
Pomfrey relaxed slightly upon hearing it wasn't Malfoy—but as she read the report, her expression grew serious again.
"Your leg injury?" she asked, examining it carefully.
Then she turned to Malfoy. "I'll need to perform a more thorough examination. Could you wait outside?"
"Of course."
It was only proper.
"Behave and don't cause trouble," Malfoy told Pansy before stepping out. He sat on a bench, pulled a book from his pocket, and began reading while he waited.
Time passed.
When he had read halfway through, the door opened.
Pomfrey stepped out, her expression lighter.
"It's nothing serious. The healers at St. Mungo's did an excellent job—even I couldn't improve upon it. But you still need plenty of rest and minimal movement," she said with a smile.
"Thank you," Malfoy replied with a slight bow.
"See? Nothing at all. Making a fuss over nothing," Pansy said, peeking out from behind Pomfrey and making a playful face at him.
"Yes, yes. I was overthinking," Malfoy said dryly. Then he added, "Madam Pomfrey, there's something else I'd like to ask."
He stepped back inside, beginning a quiet conversation with her.
"How is my sister? Is she better?"
A clear, bell-like voice rang from outside—tinged with urgency.
The door swung open.
Fleur Delacour hurried in, her usual elegance gone. Strands of silver hair clung damply to her face, droplets of rain still visible. Mud stained the hem of her pale dress—she had clearly rushed here without a thought for appearances.
"Miss Delacour, don't worry. Your sister is safe," Madam Pomfrey said calmly. "She's taken her potion. The fever should subside soon—she just needs rest."
"Thank goodness…" Fleur pressed a hand to her chest, letting out a long breath.
Then her gaze shifted—
—and met the other two in the room.
The moment Pansy saw Fleur clearly, her expression stiffened, caught awkwardly between a smile and something else entirely.