"You are incurably stupid," Snape disagreed, letting go of him for a moment to observe the effects of his makeshift balm. It was working, if not as nicely as he had hoped. He would have to go talk some supplies out of Poppy, or spend his morning brewing them up himself. "You might have bled to death. What exactly did you think you were doing?" He conjured up a cloth, soaked it in his solution, and wrapped it around one of Draco's arms. He wasn't inclined to be particularly gentle.
Reasons for him to be sitting down here by himself on a Saturday morning weren't presenting themselves very quickly. Remedial sessions seemed unlikely. His schemes to kill Dumbledore had been abandoned. Snape wondered, not for the first time, what Dumbledore was putting him up to, these days.