Hagrid tried to persuade Harry and his two friends not to get tangled up in the massive whirlpool stirred by the Malfoy family, but Harry had no intention of backing down.
"Hagrid, maybe the Malfoy family's power is beyond anything we can imagine. Maybe I, alone, can't stand up to them single-handedly. But when did I ever say I was going to take on the entire Malfoy family by myself?" Harry winked at Hagrid. "Hagrid, don't forget we've got two super reinforcements on our side."
"What? Reinforcements? Do we even have those?" Ron's face was a giant question mark, while Harry reached over and patted him on the shoulder.
"Ron, how many people did you say your family has, last time you mentioned it?"
"Not counting distant relatives or Muggle kin, about forty-five, I reckon. Why?"
"And how many does the Malfoy family have?" Harry pressed on. At that moment, Hermione—who had just caught on—grabbed Harry's arm in excitement. Hagrid might actually be saved!
"Three, I think," Ron said after a moment's thought.
"So, forty or fifty against three—what do you think'll happen?" Harry continued.
Ron's eyes lit up, but then dimmed again. "But the Malfoys are filthy rich… Sure, some Weasleys are doing alright, but even combined, we can't match them…"
"That's where our other super reinforcement comes in," Harry said with a grin. "Just so happens, a little while back, Sirius told me he's taken quite an interest in Lucius Malfoy's position as a school governor~."
It wasn't until Thursday morning that Malfoy reappeared in class, halfway through a double Potions lesson shared by Slytherin and Gryffindor.
He staggered into the castle's main hall, his head and chest wrapped in an absurdly thick layer of bandages. He strutted past everyone smugly, as if pretending he were some hero who'd survived a horrific battle.
"How's it going, Draco?" Pansy Parkinson shot a glance toward the Gryffindor side before asking loudly, "Does it hurt?"
"Of course it hurts," Malfoy said, playing up his apparent disability.
"Sit down, Malfoy, sit down," Professor Snape drawled lazily.
Today, they were tasked with brewing a new potion: Shrinking Solution.
Whether by accident or design, Malfoy plopped his cauldron right between Harry, Hermione, and Ron.
"Sir," Malfoy suddenly clutched his head and whined, "Sir, I need someone to help me cut these daisy roots because my head—"
"Weasley, cut Malfoy's roots for him," Snape said without even looking up.
Ron's face turned as red as a brick.
"There's nothing wrong with your head," he snapped at Malfoy.
Malfoy flashed a fake smile from across the table.
"Weasley, you heard Professor Snape. Cut these roots."
Ron grabbed a knife, yanked Malfoy's roots toward himself, and started hacking away haphazardly, naturally making a complete mess of them.
"Professor," Malfoy drawled deliberately, "Weasley's cut my roots into all sorts of shapes."
Snape approached their table, his cold, emotionless eyes peering down from his hooked nose. He surveyed the mess, then gave Ron an unpleasant smile.
"Swap roots with Malfoy, Weasley."
"But, sir—"
Ron stared at the perfectly uniform roots he'd spent a full fifteen minutes slicing, his face twisted in frustration.
"Now," Snape said slowly, his voice dripping with menace.
Under Snape's intimidating glare, Ron grudgingly shoved the daisy roots he'd spent twenty minutes cutting across the table to Malfoy. Then he picked up the knife again, trying to salvage the uneven, mismatched pile Malfoy had hacked together in five seconds.
"And, sir, I need someone to peel my figs for me," Malfoy said, his voice brimming with malicious glee.
"Potter, you can peel Malfoy's figs," Snape said, casting Harry a disdainful glance—the kind he always reserved just for him.
Harry took Malfoy's figs and peeled them as quickly as he could, tossing them back across the table without a word. Malfoy's grin grew even more spiteful.
"Seen your pal Hagrid lately?" Malfoy asked, feigning concern.
"None of your business," Ron muttered sharply, still focused on salvaging his daisy roots, not even looking up.
"I'm afraid he won't be a teacher much longer," Malfoy said with mock sorrow. "My father's not too pleased about my injury."
"Keep talking, Malfoy, and I'll give you something real to cry about," Ron growled under his breath.
"—He's already complained to the school authorities. And to the Ministry of Magic. My dad's an influential man, you know. And with a lasting wound like this—" Malfoy let out an exaggerated sigh, "—who knows what'll happen if my cheek and chest never fully heal?"
Harry didn't say a word.
But judging by the way he sliced the head off an already-dead caterpillar, he clearly wasn't as calm as he appeared.
"Wouldn't it be something if Hagrid got… well…" Malfoy leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper laced with malice, "partly because of that, Potter. But there are other perks too. Weasley, cut my caterpillars."
A few seats away, Neville seemed to be in trouble again.
Potions class always left Neville on the verge of a breakdown; it was his worst subject. And with his overwhelming fear of Snape, things were ten times worse.
His potion, which should've been a bright, acidic green, had turned—
"Orange, Longbottom," Snape said, scooping up a spoonful and letting it splash back into the cauldron for everyone to see. "Orange. Tell me, boy, has anything managed to pierce that thick skull of yours? Didn't you hear me say, quite clearly, that it only takes one drop of rat bile? Didn't I state plainly that a dash of leech juice is enough? What do I have to do to make you understand, Longbottom?"
Neville's face flushed pink, and he trembled all over, looking like he might burst into tears.
"Sir," Hermione piped up, "Sir, if you'd let me, I could help him fix it—"
"I didn't ask you to show off, Miss Granger," Snape said coolly, and Hermione's face turned as red as Neville's.
After class, Harry was packing up his desk as usual when Snape glided over, his expression blank.
"Potter, tonight, Dumbledore has instructed me to tell you to come to my office. Don't ask me why."
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