Once, when he was a child, Draco Malfoy’s mother had bandaged a scrape on his knee with the careful precision of a mother ill-prepared to deal with the ruckus of a rowdy pure-blood heir, but as the sole claim to the Malfoy name, she’d bent to his every whim. He cocks his head, comparing the deep crimson stains spider webbing outward to the remembered-red of the ruined handkerchief she’d used to wipe away the evidence of his torn trousers. She’d sealed the torn knee with a mending charm.