Creevey is sitting on one of the cots, waving at me with a faint grin. I return his greeting with relief. His cargo pants are drenched in blood, but the wound on his exposed chest has been expertly healed and he's holding (unless I'm very much mistaken) a half-empty vial of Blood-Replenishing Potion. In a knee-jerk and utterly ridiculous show of affection, I pat his lower leg as I pass.