November

Bridie turned the key in the cellar door and let the stone hinge sigh shut behind her. The faint smell of boiled cabbage and the faint echo of a distant snarl were the only reminders that the world beyond the pantry walls was still in a state of war. She slipped the worn leather satchel from her shoulder, feeling the familiar weight of the ledger tucked beneath the folded napkins, and moved toward the narrow stair that led to the third floor corridor.

The corridor was dim, the torches sputtering in a draft that carried a faint chill from the lake. She could see the scarlet banners of Gryffindor and the blue of Ravenclaw fluttering faintly in the draft, but the Slytherin green was conspicuously absent, a small sign of the current balance of power. A muffled thud made her pause, and she glanced at the door of the infirmary, its brass handle polished to a dull shine. The sound came again, a wet, panicked gasp that seemed to come from a student crouched against the wall near the portrait of the Fat Lady.

She pushed the portrait aside, the heavy canvas groaning, and slipped inside. The infirmary was a room of tidy glass jars, shelves of dried herbs, and a single bed that looked too small for anyone who might be lying on it. The window was boarded up, the only light a thin sliver that filtered through the crack in the stone ceiling. There, on the cold floor, lay a boy with a shock of black hair tangled around his face, his eyes wide and unfocused, a dark stain spreading across his robes.

Bridie's first instinct was to assess the situation, not the tragedy. She knelt, careful not to disturb the boy's position, and felt for a pulse at his wrist. It was faint, a weak thrum that suggested he was still alive, but the blood loss was evident. A jagged piece of broken wood—most likely a splintered broom handle—stuck out from his side, the edge glinting in the dim light. The boy's breathing was shallow, each inhalation a shallow rasp.

She remembered the rudimentary lessons from Madam Pomfrey's class: apply pressure, keep the wound clean, and, if possible, close the wound with a binding. Bridie's mind raced through the supplies in the cupboard: clean cloths, a roll of bandages, a few bottles of salve she had saved from the pantry for emergencies. She lifted the boy's arm with a gentle firmness that surprised even her, and pressed a clean rag to the wound, the fabric soaking up dark crimson.

“Hold still,” she said, her voice steady as if she were speaking to a cat that needed coaxing onto a lap. The boy's eyes flicked toward her, a flicker of panic gone as quickly as it had arrived.

She fetched the salve, a thin, amber liquid that could staunch bleeding. She dabbed it onto the rag, feeling the heat of the liquid spread through the cloth. The boy's skin turned a paler shade, the color of boiled potatoes. She wrapped the rag tighter, binding it with a strip of canvas she had kept for the kitchen's occasional spills. The knot was firm but not cruel, enough to hold pressure without cutting into flesh.

“Who are you?” she asked, not because she needed his name—she had a ledger where she kept track of every student who entered the cellar, the kitchen, the infirmary—but because she needed to gauge his state of mind. Fear could be as dangerous as any curse.

He managed a hoarse whisper. “M-...Mal…Malfoy—”

The name hung in the air like a cloud of soot. She knew the boy’s father, a man who had once been a prefect and who now served the Dark Lord with a fervor that made even the most seasoned staff uneasy. Bridie’s thoughts flickered to the hidden pantry where she had stashed extra portions, to the way the other students had looked at her with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. She had always kept her distance from the Malfoys; their reputation made it unwise to be seen as an ally. Yet here he lay, bleeding, helpless.

She glanced at the door, half expecting a Death Eater to burst in, or a group of Prefects to question why a Slytherin was receiving aid. The corridor outside remained silent, the only sound a faint creak as the stone floor settled. Bridie made a quick decision. She would treat him, but she would also keep the incident as invisible as the breath of a mouse.

She fetched a small vial of potion from the cupboard—a mixture of peppermint and valerian she had learned to brew for nausea, something she kept for the first-years who dreaded the moving staircases. She poured a few drops onto the rag, hoping the cool sensation would mask the pain. The boy’s shoulders loosened just enough for her to hear a sigh that was almost gratitude.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the ticking of the old clock on the wall. He tried to sit up, his hand clutching the rag with a grip that sent a sting of pain through Bridie's fingers.

“It’s not a problem,” she replied, the dry humour in her tone a thin veil. “I’m only here to keep the food moving. Accidentally found a student in need of a bandage.”

He blinked, the confusion clear. “You… you’re a prefect?”

She nodded, feeling the weight of the title settle on her shoulders like a cloak made of damp wool. “Hufflepuff. It’s a long story. For now, you need to stay still. I’ll fetch Madam Pomfrey’s supplies.”

She rose, the boy’s gaze following her like a moth to a flame, and moved toward the infirmary door. The hallway beyond was a narrow passage, the stone walls lined with portraits that seemed to watch her every step. She could hear the low murmur of students in the Great Hall, the clatter of plates, the occasional squeak of a broom. She passed the kitchens, where the house elves were busy washing pots, their faces impassive but their eyes flicking toward her with a mixture of respect and curiosity.

She slipped into the kitchen, the heat of the stove washing over her like a blanket. The elves paused, their heads cocked, and then continued their work. Bridie lifted the pot of simmering broth and placed it on a low fire, the steam rising in thin ribbons. She opened a cupboard and took out a small tin of copper wire, a few sprigs of sage, and a bottle of cold water.

She returned to the infirmary, careful to keep the door shut behind her. The boy’s breathing was now steadier, the wound still bleeding but the pressure holding. She wrapped the rag a second time, tighter this time, and then used the copper wire to fashion a makeshift clamp. The wire bit into the flesh, but it stopped the flow. She pressed a sprig of sage onto the wound, the herb’s scent sharp and clean, hoping it would stave off infection.

She sat on the edge of the narrow bed, her hands steady despite the tremor that ran through her shoulders. She had never been trained to do this; the only training she had received was in balancing ledgers, in counting spoons, in ensuring that the hidden portions reached the right hands without attracting attention. Yet here she was, performing a surgery that no prefect was expected to conduct.

The boy’s eyes fluttered shut, his breath a soft rhythm. Bridie glanced at the clock. The minute hand ticked past the hour, the hands moving in a world that had ceased to be ordinary. She knew that staying longer meant risk. If a staff member entered and saw a wounded Slytherin being tended to by a Hufflepuff, it would raise questions. Questions that could lead to accusations of collusion, of sabotage, of—worst of all—favoring the resistance.

She stood, her legs aching from the cold stone, and slipped the boy’s arm into a sling she had fashioned from a spare piece of canvas. She whispered a quick prayer, a silent acknowledgement that she was out of her depth, then lifted him gently and carried him toward the back entrance of the infirmary, the one that led to the hidden stair that connected to the kitchens.

The stair was narrow, the stone walls slick with condensation. She set the boy down on a bench, his head leaning against the cold. She handed him a small bottle of water, which he drank in small sips, his throat dry as parchment. She placed the sack of provisions she had brought for the night at his feet, a silent promise that no one would starve while she was distracted.

She went back to the pantry, her mind already cataloguing the cost of the evening. The extra portions she had set aside would be reduced by one serving; the ledger would show a discrepancy that she could not easily explain. She would have to subtract a few pounds from the next month's order, perhaps shift the deficit to a less visible account. The risk of being caught for a missing portion was one thing; the risk of being seen with a wounded Malfoy was another. She would have to be more careful with her movements, perhaps take a longer route to the cellar, perhaps avoid the kitchen after dark.

She returned to the infirmary with a fresh bundle of linens, a small bottle of potion she had rescued from the pantry’s hidden shelf. She applied the potion to the wound, watching as the boy’s skin took on a faint, silver sheen. The pain seemed to ebb, his breathing steadier. She covered the wound with a clean bandage, tied it with the same disciplined knot she used for the pantry’s inventory lists.

“Tell Madam Pomfrey you’re okay,” she said, her voice a flat line that concealed the fluttering in her chest. “She’ll finish what I started.”

He nodded, his eyes still clouded, but a small spark of resolve there. “Thank… you,” he whispered again.

She turned, and as she did, a faint rustle behind her caught her attention. A figure stepped out of the shadows—a second-year with a tangled mess of hair, a hand still stained with flour from the kitchen. He stared at the boy, then at Bridie, his expression a mixture of fear and curiosity.

“Who… who are you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Just a prefect,” Bridie replied, the dry humour returning. “I’m the kind who makes sure there’s enough food for everyone. Not much more to it.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “You… you helped Malfoy?”

She held his gaze, the weight of the situation pressing down like the damp wool of her jumper. “I helped a student,” she said, the words crisp as a snapped twig. “The war doesn’t stop at the kitchen doors, does it?”

He swallowed, his cheeks flushing. “What if someone sees? What if they think…”

She smiled, a thin, almost imperceptible curl of the lips. “Then we’ll adjust the ledgers again. That’s what we do. We keep the numbers tidy, the food moving, and the people alive. It’s a lot of work, but someone has to do it.”

He nodded, the resolve in his eyes hardening. “I’ll… I’ll keep it quiet.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, a simple gesture that felt heavier than any curse. “Good. The more we keep to ourselves, the less likely they’ll notice anything missing. And the more we keep moving, the less they’ll have time to notice the holes.”

She left the infirmary, the boy’s breathing now a steady rhythm that matched the ticking of the old clock. She descended the hidden stair, the stone underfoot cold but familiar. As she entered the cellar, the candles flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the jars of preserved vegetables and the sacks of grain. The smell of fresh bread was faint, a reminder that despite the war, the hearth still burned.

She returned to her ledger, her pen poised over the neat rows of numbers. She added a line, a small subtraction, a notation that would go unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know the exact weight of a sack of flour. She wrote a comment in the margin, a tiny reminder to herself: “One less portion for Malfoy. Adjust next week’s order. Remember the boy’s name—Malfoy, not the father.”

The candle guttered, its flame wavering like a heartbeat. Bridie closed the ledger, the leather cover thudding softly. She slipped the satchel back over her shoulder, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle against her spine.

She walked back to the kitchens, the night air outside sharp as a whip, the wind whispering through the stone arches. The war was still out there, its shadows lengthening over the castle, but within these walls, the work continued. The cost of being sensible was a quiet sacrifice—a ledger altered, a night’s sleep lost, a smile forced to mask the ache of seeing a boy wounded. Yet, as she passed the pantry doors and the hidden groups that shared the stolen broth, she felt a steady resolve settle over her, as unassuming as a blanket of wool: she would keep the numbers right, the food moving, and the students alive, one small act at a time.