The heavy oak door of the Malfoy manor closed with a soft, definitive click, sealing away the brewing storm outside. Inside, the silence was profound, broken only by the whisper of Draco’s footsteps on the polished floor and the faint crackle from the enormous fireplace. He carried his bewildering burden through the cavernous entrance hall, past portraits of sneering ancestors who stirred, their painted eyes wide with curiosity and disapproval. He ignored them. His mind was a whirlwind, a chaotic blend of training, instinct, and a strange, pulling empathy he couldn't explain. He didn't take her to the dungeons. That was his first conscious decision that broke from a lifetime of pure-blood doctrine. Instead, he turned towards the family's private wing, to a disused guest room far from his parents' old chambers. He laid her gently on the opulent, four-poster bed. The contrast was absurd: the small, cloaked figure with her wild black hair and stained hand against the pristine silver and green silk duvet. She looked like a fallen star, dark and mysterious, deposited on a too-orderly shore. Working with a efficiency born of habit, he summoned a house-elf. “Tippy,” he said, his voice low and tense. The elf appeared with a pop, her large eyes blinking. “Master Draco calls?” Her gaze fell on the unconscious girl on the bed and she let out a terrified squeak, clutching her ears. “Silence,” Draco commanded, though his tone lacked its usual bite. “She is… a guest. She is injured. Bring warm water, cloths, and the blue essence of dittany from the top shelf of the laboratory. Tell no one. No one, Tippy. Is that understood?” Tippy nodded frantically, her whole body trembling, before vanishing with another soft pop. Alone again, Draco approached the bed. His heart was still racing. This was insanity. He reached out, his fingers hesitating for a moment before he carefully pushed the hood the rest of the way back from her face. Her hair was a tangled mess of black silk. Up close, she was even more striking. His eyes were drawn to her right hand, resting palm-up on the duvet. The black stain was indeed like ink spilled under the skin, creeping from the terrifyingly long, sharp nails up her wrist. It was undeniably monstrous. He found himself not recoiling in horror, but staring with a macabre fascination. Tippy returned with the supplies, setting them down with a clatter and fleeing immediately. Draco wet a cloth in the warm, rose-scented water. He hesitated again, then began to gently wipe the grime from her face. She didn’t stir. Her skin was pale and cold. He just lookt her for a moment, thinking... before cursing and leaving.