It felt as if time itself had stopped the moment that Harry had crumpled to the floor. He was flat on his back in the hall, his legs bent awkwardly, his eyes staring blankly up at the stars above. The wound at his neck had opened like the back of a dress being unzipped, revealing the layers of muscle and fat held beneath his skin. There was a surprising lack of blood though. It wasn’t like the time in the Room when blood had pulsed and poured over Harry’s hands, staining his wrists with red and pooling on the floor below him. It was more of a gentle seep - an ooze that dripped lazily down the back of his neck and trickled onto the stone floor. But Draco couldn’t understand why.  