Thursday morning. Potions class—the one period Gryffindor and Slytherin shared.
Malfoy swept into the dungeon with a large bandage strapped to her arm.
A few students stared at it as though it were a battle decoration, but to Malfoy, the bandage was nothing but an inconvenience and an eyesore.
To think she couldn't use her right arm for a time—all because of a wound from some wretched beast.
Malfoy sat down in a state of considerable fury. Barnette Crabbe and Gray Goyle both sensed her mood and wisely said nothing.
"Carina. How's your arm? Does it hurt much?"
Pansy Parkinson asked with that vapid smile of hers. Malfoy answered in a word.
"Not particularly."
"Oh, you poor thing! Are you all right? That stupid Hippogriff—how dare it leave a scar on Carina's arm!"
Parkinson chattered on, oblivious to the way Malfoy's expression was growing colder by the second.
"Carina, if I were a professor at Hogwarts, I'd have had its head off on the spot!"
"Parkinson."
Malfoy's voice dropped to a flat, measured tone.
"Madam Pomfrey prescribed a special treatment. The arm will heal without a single scar, so I'd rather you not mention it again."
"Oh—right."
"Furthermore, this is a topic that has been repeated since this morning. I'm growing tired of it, Parkinson. Let this be the last time I explain."
"S-sorry."
Malfoy fixed Parkinson with one withering look, then dropped her bag onto the desk and sat down.
The Gryffindors across the room began to murmur, and one of them broke away from the group and made his way toward her. Malfoy glanced up to see who it was, then exhaled slowly.
"And what does he want now?"
"Malfoy. Call off Buckbeak's execution!"
Hermione Granger stood before her, bristling. Malfoy tapped her foot with an air of supreme boredom.
"That arrogant creature deserves appropriate punishment, Granger."
"It happened because of your mistake! Hagrid gave plenty of warning!"
"My mistake? I don't make mistakes, Granger. Tell me precisely what I did wrong."
If there was any creature in the world with the right to be arrogant, it was a witch or wizard.
And Carina Malfoy stood at the very top of that hierarchy.
A true aristocrat of the wizarding world—one who possessed every right and entitlement to her pride.
To demand that Carina Malfoy bow and scrape before a beast was, from the outset, an absurdity.
"A creature that expects deference and tries to kill you the moment it doesn't get it—and you think that's not the problem? From something that has no right to expect anything at all?"
It was, in its way, a perfectly logical argument. Malfoy delivered the verdict in a cool, clipped tone, then wound a strand of platinum hair around one finger and dismissed her.
"I have nothing more to say to you, Granger. If you're so desperate, why not ask Harry Potter—the Chosen One? He has connections to Dumbledore. I'm sure he could find a way."
"No! Potter—Potter said—! I can't believe it, even so—!"
Hermione's hands were shaking as she raised her voice.
"Potter said that if Buckbeak was sentenced to death, there was nothing to be done about it! Over a scratch on your arm—how could he possibly say something like—!"
It was remarkable.
The bandage that had restricted her all day, the dull ache still lingering in her right arm—every last irritation that had been grinding at her simply vanished from her mind.
She felt as though she had just woken from a refreshing sleep.
Something tugged at the corner of her mouth, threatening to become a smile—but smiling openly in someone's face was far beneath her dignity.
Malfoy let out a small, satisfied breath through her nose.
"It seems he has some sense after all."
"That doesn't make sentencing it to death acceptable!"
"The line isn't drawn by beasts, Granger. It's drawn by wizards."
Malfoy smiled faintly and tapped her foot against the floor.
Well. The Hippogriff had been insufferably presumptuous and thoroughly unpleasant.
But perhaps letting it keep its life wasn't entirely out of the question.
As long as she never had to look at it again.
"Morning, everyone! It's a delightful Thursday with Snape!"
Harry Potter burst into the classroom without warning, as was his custom. The atmosphere shifted the moment he walked in.
He had a natural gift for pulling any room toward him—effortlessly, instinctively. Harry made full use of it now, filling the silence with his own noise as he strolled, alone and entirely unbothered, toward the spot where Malfoy and Granger stood facing each other.
"Oh—Hermione. What's going on?"
Hermione Granger shot him a look that could have curdled milk, then turned on her heel and marched back to her seat. Malfoy felt her mood lift another notch.
Harry scratched the back of his head with a sheepish expression.
"Still sulking. Ron, what happened?"
"You know perfectly well what happened. It's exactly what you're imagining."
Ron Weasley answered flatly. Harry just grinned.
Ron looked back and forth between Harry and Hermione, then thumped his own chest in frustration.
"Harry, I do think Hermione goes too far defending that animal—especially after it nearly ate Scabbers. But this time, you should have stood with Hagrid and Buckbeak."
"I am on Hagrid's side, Ron."
"I know. It's just—"
Ron started to say something more, glanced between Harry and Malfoy, then gave a small nod.
"Right. Do it your way. I'll go sit with her."
"Cheers."
Ron followed Hermione, and Harry, now entirely alone, spoke with the air of a tragic hero.
"Well. That leaves me without a seat. I should sit down before Snape comes in, or he'll have something to say about it."
"How perceptive of you, Potter."
Snape's voice, low and ominous, cut through the room. Harry turned around and grimaced.
"Ugh—Snape."
"Since you were not seated before I entered, I trust you're prepared for the consequences. Five points from Gryffindor, Potter. And I am not 'Snape'—I am Professor Snape."
"Ugh—not Snape, Professor Snape."
"...An additional five points. And if you are not in your seat before I finish speaking, you will find yourself fifty points lighter."
Harry dropped into the nearest chair at speed. Ten points gone in the blink of an eye—but between Harry and Snape, losing ten points was roughly equivalent to exchanging pleasantries. Neither Slytherin nor Gryffindor reacted.
The only mildly notable thing was where Harry had ended up sitting.
"Oops. Didn't realize until I was already down. Be nice to me."
It was the seat to Malfoy's right. Malfoy gave him the briefest sideways glance but said nothing.
Today's potion was a Shrinking Solution. With her right arm still out of commission, Malfoy set her cauldron down and paused to consider the problem.
The task required dicing daisy roots and peeling shrivelfig. Both were impossible to manage one-handed.
Malfoy looked up.
"Professor. My right arm is injured. I won't be able to brew the potion."
Had any Gryffindor said the same, Snape would have responded with immediate mockery and a point deduction.
But Snape favored Slytherin—and among them, Malfoy occupied a position of near-special privilege. Whatever she did or didn't do, she was never reprimanded or docked points.
Not that Malfoy made a habit of disrupting class or ruining potions—but she took quiet pride in that privilege all the same.
To her, privilege was proof of worth.
As natural as breathing.
Snape turned toward Ron.
"In that case, Weasley, you will prepare Malfoy's roots—"
"Professor Snape?"
A casual voice cut across him. Harry Potter raised a hand and waved it back and forth.
"I'm sitting right next to her. Why go all the way to Ron? I'll do it."
And without waiting for any response from Snape, he began slicing daisy roots with brisk, efficient strokes—preparing ingredients for two as though it were nothing at all.
Snape watched him for a moment, then looked sharply away.
Harry Potter performed adequately in every subject, but he showed a particular aptitude for Potions. Like every other Gryffindor, he had been subjected to Snape's contempt and humiliation from his very first year. Unlike every other Gryffindor, however, Harry had chosen to fight back—not with resentment, but with sheer stubbornness. When Snape baited him, he lifted his chin and answered back. When Snape peppered him with questions, Harry came in having already studied the answers.
After roughly six months, the effort paid off. From that point on, Harry Potter became one of only two Gryffindors Snape never bothered to criticize.
Harry trimmed his own ingredients and, in between, passed Malfoy's prepared materials across to her. A plate of cleanly peeled shrivelfig slid to a stop in front of her.
Malfoy said, curtly:
"...I could have done that myself."
"Meaning I did it as well as you would have? Thank you."
Malfoy added the ingredients to her cauldron with her unaccustomed left hand.
Harry had already laid out the rat spleen and leech juice beside her. The measured ingredients were arranged in the exact order they needed to be added.
She checked the book—briefly, just to be sure—and found that Harry's arrangement was correct. Malfoy clicked her tongue, dropped in a piece of rat spleen, and picked up the leech juice.
She was squeezing it when Harry suddenly closed his hand over her gloved one. Malfoy startled and pulled away.
Harry tapped a line in the textbook.
"Just a little of the leech juice."
"I—I know that! My left hand doesn't have the control, that's all!"
Malfoy quickly shook the excess from her glove and moved on to the next step.
The brewing itself was done. All that remained was to leave it simmering over a low flame. She was trying to work out how to remove her glove one-handed when Harry was already there, fingers lightly catching the edge of it.
It was the kind of attentiveness that fit her so precisely it was almost unsettling—she had a fleeting thought that a personal attendant like this might not be entirely unwelcome.
She pulled her hand free, and the glove came off smoothly. Harry wiped it down with a handkerchief, folded it neatly, and handed it back.
Malfoy took it.
"...Don't think this means I'll call it off easily."
"Call what off?"
"The execution. When the committee comes, that creature will be sentenced to death, and the executioners will follow eventually. No amount of struggling will change that."
Harry Potter's sudden proximity. The conspicuous helpfulness.
It was almost certainly for the sake of the Hippogriff called Buckbeak.
Malfoy had read the intention clearly.
"The service is adequate, but it won't change my mind. A beast that attacks a human is sentenced to death. Are we clear?"
If Harry Potter were willing to bend just a little further, perhaps her mind might shift—but she left that unspoken, watching to see whether he would show his hand.
Harry Potter, for his part, scratched his jaw with an expression of genuine bewilderment.
"I'd be grateful—Hagrid too—if you called it off. But that's separate from the question of whether the sentence is fair. Honestly, I don't have much of a problem with it."
"What?"
"It did something worth dying for."
It landed differently than when she'd heard it from Hermione Granger.
Where that had felt bracing and clean, this felt closer and warmer—not unpleasant, but harder to place.
Still. Her mood was good.
Malfoy gave a small, composed cough.
"Then what exactly is all this attending to me about?"
"Hmm. Hobby?"
The answer was so absurd that Malfoy had no response to it whatsoever.
Harry glanced around the classroom, picked up a daffodil stem, and—while Snape's back was turned—dropped it into Neville's cauldron. Then he caught Malfoy's eye and winked.
Even from where Malfoy sat, Harry Potter appeared to be operating without a single coherent thought in his head.
And that was precisely what she couldn't understand.
If this was how he was—then why?
Why had he been so frightening, so furious, over that diary?
It was not long after that Malfoy worked out Harry Potter's plan.
"Malfoy! Let me carry your bag!"
"You can't exactly tear meat with your left hand, can you? Here, I'll debone it for you. What? Your hands? Come on—a young lady of Malfoy's standing can't be picking at food with her fingers. None of that, open up."
"You know the 3-3-3 rule? You're supposed to brush your teeth within three minutes of eating, for three minutes. But you can't manage that with your right arm, can you? Go get your toothbrush and toothpaste. Hmm? You'll use your left? Don't underestimate dental hygiene! You think you can fight tooth decay with your off hand? I'll do it—open wide, Malfoy."
"—Fine! I'll take the bandage off! I'm taking it off, so stop!"
Harry Potter had been appearing at Malfoy's side at every hour, in every location, volunteering his services without invitation.
Whether he was enjoying himself or simply tormenting her was impossible to say—but when he kept it up even in the Great Hall, in front of everyone, Malfoy found she could no longer endure it.
She unwound the bandage in full view of the entire hall, revealing an arm that was smooth and unmarked.
In truth, the healing potion had only dealt with the scarring—the arm still needed time—but it was better than having Harry Potter attached to her side indefinitely.
"Pity. I really did want to try the teeth."
Whether Harry Potter meant that sincerely as he walked away, no one could say.
As it happened, the matter of Hagrid brought Lucius Malfoy to the school at the head of the Board of Governors. His first order of business was to find his daughter.
"Carina! Your arm—is your arm all right?"
"Nearly healed. I used the scar-removal treatment as well."
"Fully healed? Good. Don't worry—I'll personally see to it that the wretched creature that dared to injure you is put down."
"Don't bother! There's no need for an execution. Drop it. I don't want to spend another moment thinking about whether some beast is alive or dead."
"What? Carina?"
"I said drop it! Just make sure it stays out of my sight!"
Lucius Malfoy retreated, murmuring something that sounded like, "Is this... adolescence?"
At the victim's own request, Buckbeak's sentence was commuted from execution to permanent isolation. He would no longer be used in lessons, and no one would be permitted to ride him. That was the ruling.
It was a considerably milder punishment than death, but Malfoy found it quite satisfactory.