The medic center smelled faintly of herbs and steel.
The sharp scent of alcohol stung Draco's nose the moment he walked in, mingling with the low hum of healers moving from bed to bed.
The wide hall was lined with cots, each occupied by battered first-years. Students groaned, some with broken arms wrapped in glowing bandages, others with charred burns or frostbite marks from when their D-H had backfired under stress.
Crystalline lanterns glowed along the walls, humming softly with embedded runes. Every now and then, the runes pulsed, releasing faint warmth or coolness depending on the patient's condition.
It was a strange balance—half battlefield triage, half mystical sanctuary.
Draco walked through slowly, his boots heavy against the polished floor.
Unlike most of the others, he had gotten off lightly—cuts, bruises, and fatigue, nothing more. His own cot had been assigned, but he hadn't bothered to lie down.
