When Draco Malfoy got to his dormitory that night he immediately collapsed onto his bed. As he lay there, face down, he swore he would never move again. A moment later he changed his mind about that; the way he was sprawled his wand was digging painfully into one of the bruises on his ribs and he could not get enough air breathing through the pillow. With several groans and what seemed to be Herculean effort, Draco heaved himself onto his back. As he stared wearily at the canopy over his head his thoughts drifted back over the events of the painful evening.
When it had all started it was supposed to be a bit of harmless (to him anyway) fun—just a little Weasley-baiting to spice up the evening. It had been going quite well, too, until Potter had to open his big mouth and bring Draco's mother into it.
What did Potter know about mothers, anyway, Malfoy thought sulkily. What scarhead had said hurt, though Malfoy never would have admitted it. He had told Professor Snape that he was trying to defend his family's honor. Truthfully though, his parents had always been a bit...abstracted, a little too distant. He sometimes wondered whether they really loved him, but he always buried that thought as quickly as he could; did not his parents give him everything he could ever want? Surely that meant they loved him, did not it?
Draco dragged a hand up to shove his pale hair out of his eyes. What else could he have done but hex Potter? And it was not even like he had hit the golden boy! But no, Professor Moody had to make a point, had to be seen protecting Dumbledore's favorite; he just had to transfigure him into a ferret and bounce him around in front of the entire school. Draco still was not sure how he would live that one down. And it had hurt! Then the gnarled old fool refused to be properly frightened when Draco threatened to tell his father, had in face marched him off to see Snape, who had been of surprisingly little help.
Usually the Slytherin head of house could be counted on to get his students out of most trouble, even if it frequently meant a dressing down for getting caught. This time, however, it was almost as though Snape had been afraid of Moody. It was all somehow very disappointing. Moody had insisted that Malfoy serve detention just then; two barrels of slugs to be pickled with both Moody and Snape watching. It had been absolutely miserable. Draco had hardly had the energy for a cleaning charm before he collapsed.
With these thoughts in his head, Malfoy's eyes gradually fell closed and he drifted into a restless sleep. He came suddenly awake a few hours later. He could have sworn something had just moved near him. Groping stiffly for his wand, Draco managed to raise it and whisper, "Lumos."
The other boys had gone to bed some time ago, and the darkened chamber echoed with Crabbe' and Goyle's snores. Someone, Malfoy noticed, had removed his shoes. He glanced around and saw them beside his bed. It was then that he noticed a small bottle perched on the edge of his desk. "Contusion Concoction," read the spidery script on the label.
Somehow, the sight of the bottle and its brightly colored potion made Draco feel much better, and not just because it meant he would no longer be in pain. As Malfoy looked at the bottle, what Potter had said no longer carried quite the same sting, and Snape's failure to help him did not matter, and neither did his getting bounced around the hall, either. Draco knew who must have left the vial, and he reached for it greedily. Instinctively he knew what the potion meant. It meant that he was forgiven, too. It meant care. It was the reason that coming to Hogwarts, even with Potter and the Annoyances, felt like coming home.
From the darkness by the dormitory door, a silent figure watched as Draco Malfoy reached for the bottle and uncorked it. The contents were swallowed nearly instantaneously and the blonde boy crawled under the blankets and fell asleep in moments, the light from his wand tip winking out as he did. In the shadows, the figure gave a barely-perceptible smile as he slipped out.