Humbling hippogriffs and a bitchass snake
Fortunately, things are back to normal by the next morning, and Draco’s reading another book over his– no, gold bracelet, her – scrambled eggs at what used to be the Gryffindor table. She typically shows up obscenely early and pisses about over breakfast long enough for the rest of her crew to trickle in. She doesn’t acknowledge them as they sit down around her apart from a brief side glance at Merlin, who bends to see what she’s reading. It’s a book about spiders, and it seems to be in french.
‘--And they were all in Gryffindor, and– morning, Dray– and they were really close, so I do have a godfather–’
Draco’s eyebrows raise at the nickname, his cheeks flaring the slightest pink. There’s no reaction otherwise. She coughs and pretends to keep reading, but her eyes don’t move across the page.
‘That’s awesome, Harry,’ Arthur hums, reaching for the sausages. ‘But take a breath, aye? You had something to tell us before we got on the train, didn’t you? It sounded important.’
‘Oh. Yeah,’ Harry acknowledges. For a moment, he looks overwhelmed. He crumples into Hermione a little, looking right through the pancakes Merlin’s heaping onto his plate. ‘I have so much to tell you.’
‘And all the time in the world to tell us,’ Merlin assures him.
Conversation turns as the teachers circle the room, handing out schedules. It’s probably for the best. Merlin’s happy for Harry, he really is, but a lot is happening at once for the poor kid and he could do with a moment’s distraction.
‘Ooh, good, we’re starting some new subjects today,’ Hermione says happily. Ron leans over her shoulder to look, shaking like a dog to battle her wild mane of hair out of his way.
‘They’ve messed up your timetable,’ he says. ‘Look – they’ve got you down for about ten subjects a day. There isn’t enough time.’
‘I’ll manage. I’ve fixed it all with Professor McGonagall.’
‘But look,’ Ron points. ‘see this morning? Nine o’clock, Divination. And underneath, nine o’clock, Muggle Studies. And –’ Ron leaned closer to the timetable, disbelieving, ‘look – underneath that, Arithmancy, nine o’clock. I mean, I know you’re good, Hermione, but no one’s that good. How’re you supposed to be in three classes at once?’
‘There are ways around it, if you have leave to use them,’ Draco hums, turning a page. Hermione turns to stare at him so quickly she sends Ron spluttering, spitting out brown curls.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Hermione barks, a little too high to be believable. Draco doesn’t react. Merlin hides a snort. ‘Of course I won’t be in three classes at once.’
‘Well, then –’
‘Pass the marmalade,’ Arthur points.
‘But –’
‘Ron, if Mione says she’s got it handled, then she probably has. It’s no trouble,’ Merlin assures him lightly, handing his husband the marmalade. ‘Come on now, you woke up late, and you’re not going to finish your pancakes in time if you don’t get a start on them.’
That gets Ron moving. Say what you will about Ron, but he’s dependable– particularly when it comes to food.
Ron, Harry, Hermione, and Merlin have Divination first. It’s a long trek, made longer by Ron trying to lead them the wrong way about six times, but eventually they make it up to Sir Cadogan’s painting. Merlin’s so busy laughing at Ron huffing and puffing (being physically fit was sort of the bare minimum requirement for survival back in Merlin’s day) that he doesn’t realise his mistake until it catches up to him.
A gasp sounds, and they all turn to observe a fat little knight that doesn’t fit in his comically proportioned armour trip over himself and upset his fat little pony.
‘You! You, you! The king’s famed manservant! In the flesh! But then, he must be near! Oh, yes, never a step behind one another, so the tongues wag, so the poets say! What great power must you possess to so accompany the legend as a mere serving boy– of mind, of body, or perhaps of heart? Make it plain, sir, and I will carry the tale beyond the borders of this fine kingdom, back to my own and beyond!’
‘What?’ Ron grunts stupidly. Bless him.
‘Erm, do you know where the North tower is?’ Harry tries.
‘A quest! ‘A quest!’ The knight clanks himself upright, leaping where he stands, seemingly having forgotten Merlin. ‘Come follow me, dear friends, and we shall find our goal, or else shall perish bravely in the charge!’
There is a great fumble in which Sir Cadogan tries and fails to draw his terribly overbalanced sword, and does not manage to mount his fat little pony. It goes on for entirely too long, and they’re all just stood in the silence as he grunts and sweats with the effort, legs flailing and pony unamused. None of them look away, though. It’s like watching a car crash with cartoon sound effects peppered through it. Eventually he gives it up as a bad job.
‘On foot then, good sirs and gentle lady! On! On!’
To his credit, he does lead them straight. His commentary could do with some work, but Merlin kind of finds him funny. He’s so happy to be of help that he forgets entirely about grilling Merlin about his lordship and disappears with a jaunty promise that he’ll always be around to bravely protect them.
‘Well, he was a character!’ Merlin chuckles.
He should have saved that comment. To get to the divination classroom, they have to go through an observing balcony, up a trap door, and through a room that Merlin couldn’t have written more stereotypically if he tried. The velvet and silk drapes covering every surface, the glittering tassels, the candles and cards and crystal balls– it’s right out of a bad grift. What’s more, the place is stifling. The fire and the candles do make it a cosy space, but Goddess, at what cost? And what the hell does Trelawney think she’s accomplishing by burning lavender, myrtle, mugwort, sage and sweetgrass all at once, aside from compromising her student’s cognitive faculties? Honestly, if she’s huffing this day in and day out, it’s no wonder she’s a nut.
It only gets wilder from there. Professor Trelawney, a thin stick of a thing with all the bangles and rings and glittering gauzy shawls Merlin expected her to have, says at least four insane things per minute, effectively rattling the more impressionable kids in the room. By the time they’ve gotten around to actual work, Merlin’s confirmed his suspicion that she’s almost entirely full of shit. She’s obviously got the bare bones of a lot of different branches of divination and just made it up from there with no small amount of flourish. She’s like a Lockhart that believes in her own myth, except there was clearly an attempt, at some point, to genuinely learn her art. Like she studied it all in theory, and then made it up in practice– or maybe the other way around. Every now and then, between dramatic pronouncements and portends of doom, she says something genuinely true to the field that startles Merlin so badly he completely loses focus.
The first thing they do is tea leaf readings. Merlin has no idea if there’s any merit to them. Not being much of a seer himself, he can hardly cast judgement. He highly doubts the class is going to really glean anything from the exercise, though. If you don’t have the Sight, there’s no point in most of the things they’re supposed to cover in this class. And if you do have the Sight… well, you probably won’t tap into it listening to Sybil Trelawney.
They spend the first bit of class grunting to each other stupidly and trying to think through the soupy air of perfumed smoke. It’s kind of hard to read the textbook in the lowlight, too. It wouldn’t be an introductory class with Harry without some kind of grand disaster, though.
Ron’s muttering into Harry’s cup about seeing a sheep or something when Trelawney whips around and snatches it from him with a concerned warble. She looks into it like she’s seeing into the mouth of hell, her fingers turning it counter-clockwise as though of their own accord, unable to stop themselves.
‘The falcon…’ she whispers breathily. ‘My dear, you have a deadly enemy.’
‘But everyone knows that,’ Hermione huffs, not bothering to keep her voice down. They all turn to stare at her. ‘Well, they do. Everybody knows about Harry and You-Know-Who.’
Yeah, that’s not why they’re staring at her, but okay. It’s just kind of wild to hear Hermione openly critique a teacher. Obviously Trelawney lost her when she said books wouldn’t help with her subject.
‘The club... an attack,’ the old bat continues, still turning the cup. Dear, dear, this is not a happy cup...’
‘I thought that was a bowler hat,’ Ron mutters sheepishly. Merlin bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh.
‘The skull... danger in your path, my dear...’
The whole class is staring now, transfixed. Merlin’s just wondering how many damn tea leaves are in the one cup when Trelawney actually gasps and screams, short and shrill. Merlin’s up on his feet at once, more out of habit than real concern. He doesn’t turn at the tinkle of breaking china as Neville smashes his second teacup.
Trelawney sinks into a vacant armchair, her glittering hand at her heart and her eyes closed, brow furrowed in distress as if battling some great ordeal.
‘My dear boy,’ she begins shakily, speaking more to the floor than Harry. ‘My poor dear boy – no – it is kinder not to say – no – don’t ask me ...’
Merlin sort of wants to kick her, but he settles for rolling his eyes.
‘What is it, Professor?’ Dean asks, wide-eyed. The students give up on their fight to stay put and start to crowd around Harry and Ron’s table, pressing in close like lemmings to get a good look at Harry’s cup.
‘My dear,’ Professor Trelawney’s huge eyes opened dramatically and land on Harry like a death sentence, freezing him solid. ‘You have the Grim.’
‘The what?’ Harry asks under the horrified gasps of his classmates. Merlin rubs the bridge of his nose with a soundless groan. Who hired this woman?
‘The Grim, my dear, the Grim! The giant, spectral dog that haunts churchyards! My dear boy, it is an omen – the worst omen – of death!’
More gasps. Then Hermione circles the table and has a look.
‘I don’t think it looks like a Grim,’ she announces. Trelawney starts to argue, and to more than a few people’s shock, Hermione argues back. Merlin takes the opportunity to cover Harry’s hand with his own and lean in to whisper some reassurance.
‘Harry, the black dog can mean a number of things, and frankly, death would not manifest itself in your tea. It kind of looks like a donkey from where I’m sitting, actually– in some cultures that represents prosperity, which I would give about as much credence as this whole Grim business. I really wouldn’t worry.’
Harry gives a little chuckle. Seems he wasn’t particularly worried anyway. Poor boy’s probably used to being told he’s in grave danger. Then again, nothing’s been able to break his stride since he met Lupin. Well, that’s a good problem to have.
Just in case, Merlin swaps his cup with Harry’s, hoping it’ll take some of the heat off the kid. Unfortunately, in doing so, he gives Trelawney a glance at his leaves. For an old bint half-drowned in jewellery, she sure can move. She’s snatched up his teacup before Merlin can blink. She stands there, swaying in place, staring into it. Her eyes steadily grow more and more horrified, bugging out of her head. One of her shawls drifts down to the ground and crumples, unnoticed. Merlin hears her breath stop.
‘What is it?’ Hermione demands, brow creasing in reluctant concern the longer the silence stretches. ‘Professor?’
‘Class dismissed,’ she says, uncharacteristically firm. The hard edge in her tone startles the whole class, who blink back in shock. She says nothing more, retreating to the back of the class without looking up, nearly tripping on one of the steps. Eventually the kids start packing up, shooting glances at her and Harry, and occasionally Merlin.
Well, that was a shitshow, but at least it’s not just Harry in the spotlight now. People stare and whisper all the way to Transfiguration, even while Hermione goes on about all the reasons why that was complete rubbish. Any doubts that linger are quickly snuffed out by Professor McGonagall, who, in true McGonagall fashion, is hearing absolutely none of this nonsense and assures them all that Trelawney is as prone to omens of death as moths are to candles.
‘It makes sense why she picked me, though, doesn’t it?’ Harry muses on their way to lunch. ‘Easy pickings.’
‘Whaddya mean?’ Ron asks.
‘Well, Sirius Black is out and, to everyone’s knowledge, gunning for my head. Hence the dementors. If you’re gonna pick anyone to kick the bucket, I’m a pretty safe bet.’
Ron’s eyes bug out of his head and he stops dead in the hallway, yanking Harry back by the arm with a horrified expression.
‘The hell do you mean, he’s— after you? What the hell are you talking about?!’
‘Oh, right. I meant to tell you.’
‘You meant to tell us–!’
‘Yeah, but Lupin said–’
‘Alright, this is not the place for this conversation,’ Merlin cuts in, setting a calm hand on both boys’ shoulders. ‘Ron, I’m not worried about Harry’s safety, and you shouldn’t be either. I do want to hear the whole story, Harry. You can tell us later on tonight.’
Ron still looks like he’s been hit by a shocker curse, but eventually he gives a weak nod, and they all head off to lunch.
🐺🍵
There’s nothing quite like the Hogwarts grounds. It’s a perfect day, despite the cloud cover; crisp and new, the grass fresh with dew and smelling of petrichor. It helps that they’re off to see Hagrid for his first ever class as teacher. Draco and Arthur stride along beside them, snickering at Harry’s recounting of this morning’s lesson.
‘The Grim ain’t a thing to joke about, mate,’ Ron informs him. ‘Wizards are scared pantsless of seein’ it. My uncle Bilius–’
‘I’d be more inclined to consider your point if you hadn’t just used the word ain’t in the sentence. Ain’t, Weasley, are you serious?’ Draco drawls as if personally offended by the word. Hermione ignores him.
‘Divination seems very woolly to me. And that Professor Trelawney… Em’s absolutely right, Harry, you’ve got nothing to worry about.'
That sets them off bickering for the rest of the walk. Em isn’t there to break it up, being the only one not taking Care of Magical Creatures. Arthur rolls his eyes and Harry shrugs, like, what can ya do? Harry decides to ask Draco how his first class went, and they speak about that while Ron and Hermione snap at each other.
‘Herbology. That’s pretty good, going from herbology to COMC.’
‘Mm. Only need to clean my fingernails once,’ Draco agrees, looking over his nail beds which, sure enough, are uncharacteristically dirty. ‘It’s good to get out, even if the class is absolutely ridiculous. Really, the things they have us do here, it’s appalling. This is supposed to be a place of propriety, I shouldn’t be digging around with the worms. Did you know I nearly got tuber pus on my robes? Unbelievable.’
Every scoff makes Harry’s smile widen. He could have guessed that answer from Draco word for word, if he’d thought to. ‘Yeah, I didn’t take you for much of a gardener.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? I do like– that is to say…’ Draco looks away, clearly kicking himself for saying anything. Harry’s interest is piqued. Why is Draco… embarrassed? Is that what he is? Does he actually like herbology? Why would he lie about that, though? The things that Draco seems to view as shameful really make no sense to Harry, so he has no idea if this is one of them. It’d be quite sad to know that he can’t even admit to liking a subject, though.
‘What?’ Harry encourages. Draco looks back. His eyes are the same bright, clean grey as the sky, made even more startling by the delicate platinum lashes framing them. After a moment of staring into Harry’s own curious eyes, the boy gives in.
‘I do… have a certain propensity for flowers. I’m quite the hand at potions, of course, and a lot of that is because I have a healthy interest for the ingredients. That doesn’t mean I want to sift around in the dirt all day! That’s what the gardeners are for, I hardly see the need for me to do battle with those horrible weeds twice a week. The next time I get mucus in my hair, someone’s getting fired. Speaking of which…’ Draco trails off as they start to approach Hagrid’s hut. Harry picks up on his meaning, his hand coming up to finger his snitch necklace as he’s picked up the habit of doing. ‘I know you’re… friends, with the… man, but I shudder to think what being subjected to a class taught by Hagrid might entail.’
Ron’s clearly about to retort, and Harry has half a mind to as well, but Arthur speaks over them both.
‘I’m a little worried myself,’ he admits, which pulls a little of the wind from Ron’s sails.
‘He’s lovely, he truly is,’ Hermione assures the Slytherin. ‘He’s just a little misguided at times.’
Draco sniffs, but he doesn’t say anything. Even Ron recognises the improvement that signifies, so there’s no more arguing until they reach the rest of the class.
Hagrid, ruddy and cheerful as he’s ever been, leads them off to a paddock just by the forest. The wringing of his hands is the only sign he’s nervous– aside from his eyes flicking around, his stuttering, his anxious rambling, and the fact that cannot seem to stand still for more than a second. The poor man is completely transparent. Draco, bless his heart, refrains from making any snide comments.
‘Everyone gather 'round the fence here!’ he calls once they’re all situated. ‘That’s it – make sure yeh can see. Now, firs’ thing yeh’ll want ter do is open yer books –’
‘How?’ Draco asks for the whole class. Hagrid blinks, having not expected any questions before he’d even explained what they’re doing.
‘Eh?’
‘How do we open our books?’ Malfoy repeats with an affectation of great restraint. He holds up his copy of The Monster Book of Monsters– at least, Harry assumes that’s what’s in the clasped black book cover he presents. A flicker of concern crosses Hagrid’s face as he lumbers over, taking it with great care from Draco’s hands.
‘Oh no, oh dear– yeh been keepin’ ‘im like tha’ all this time? Oh, no, poor li’l bugger.’ He continues to whisper soothingly to the book through its leather binding, stroking the spine. A muffled growling purr sounds from within. Draco takes an alarmed step back when Hagrid unclasps the binding, but the book remains calm and lets Hagrid slide it out from within. It hisses and blinks in the light, but it only snaps once, limp and calm in Hagrid’s great hands. ‘There there, yeh poor thing…’
Harry shuffles awkwardly, trying to hide his own book behind his robes. He’s not the only one. People start producing their books, belted, clipped, or simply bound shut, with varying degrees of sheepishness. Hagrid looks around, brow furrowing.
‘Hasn’ – hasn’ anyone bin able ter open their books?’
The class all shake their heads.
‘Yeh’ve got ter stroke ’em,’ he says as though this was the most obvious thing in the world.
Cautiously, the students begin running their fingers down the spines of their books, stirring a cacophony of growling purrs. Harry’s surprised to see that Arthur’s book isn’t bound at all and is quite happily nibbling on his finger. The boy gives him an apologetic look.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I thought you’d figured it out.’
Harry waves him off. He rather suspects Em was the one to catch onto it. Smart as Arthur is, he’s less of a talk-it-out kind of guy and likely would have battled his book to the death if Em wasn’t there to stop him.
Hagrid ambles off into the forest, assuring them he’ll be right back. Harry almost wants to face palm. You can’t leave your class alone, especially not right outside the forest! Luckily, he’s back soon though, and following him is a crowd of… well, Harry’s not sure what to call them. Harry recognises their back legs and tails as those of horses, but their anatomy shifts toward the front, short hair rippling into a sleek ocean of feathers. Their front claws are powerful and vicious-looking, like a dinosaur’s, or maybe a very large eagle. Their necks are thick and powerful, holding up their proud heads with sophisticated grace. Their faces aren’t like any Harry’s ever seen, but they suit them. Each of them is a little different, some rust-coloured, some inky black, some gleaming chestnut. The impacts from their stamps tremble through the earth and up Harry’s legs, making his heart pound in response.
Hagrid has them all on chains, like leashes, but made of metal and no doubt thick enough to hold the beasts. Harry’s not sure how he expects to be able to keep hold of all of them if they startle, but then again, it is Hagrid. In any case, he tethers them all to the fence when they’re close enough.
‘Hippogriffs!’ he announces happily. ‘Beau’iful, aren’t they? So, if yeh wan’ ter come a bit nearer ...’
Arthur steps up, and Harry finds himself following without making the conscious choice to. He hears Ron and Hermione step forth a beat behind, and then– he turns to check– Draco.
‘--Gotta know abou’ Hippogriffs is they’re proud,’ Hagrid is saying. ‘Easily offended, Hippogriffs are. Don’t never insult one, ’cause it might be the last thing yeh do. Yeh always wait fer the Hippogriff ter make the firs’ move. It’s polite, see? Yeh walk towards him, and yeh bow, an’ yeh wait. If he bows back, yeh’re allowed ter touch him. If he doesn’ bow, then get away from him sharpish, ’cause those talons hurt. Right – who wants ter go first?’
Most of the class backs further away in answer. Draco looks like he’s just been asked if he fancies a dip in the lake during the giant squid’s mating season. Harry can’t blame him, honestly. The hippogriffs toss their heads and snort at being restrained, muscles rippling with deadly promise. A few even extend their fantastic wings, flapping them in displeasure.
‘No one?’ Hagrid asks despondently. Arthur uncrosses his arms and makes to step forward.
‘I guess I’ll–’
‘I’ll do it,’ Harry blurts. He didn’t mean to. He wouldn’t take it back though. They really are beautiful, and he wants to meet one.
‘Potter!’ Draco hisses in warning while a few of the girls behind him advise him to remember his tea leaves. Harry sends Draco a reassuring smile. He’ll admit he’s a little worried, but he’ll also admit it’s probably not half as much as he should be.
‘You sure, Harry?’ Arthur asks. There’s no judgement in his tone or his gaze, but that just makes Harry want to do it more. He nods, and Arthur’s eyes twinkle.
Harry climbs the paddock fence, pleased to find it’s not half as difficult as it would’ve been before he started training with Arthur. Despite himself, a thrill of confident excitement runs through him. The idea of being acknowledged by one of these amazing creatures makes him feel strong and humbled at once. He dearly hopes they accept his approach. He would genuinely feel honoured.
‘Good man, Harry!’ Hagrid roars, clapping him on the back. ‘Right then – let’s see how yeh get on with Buckbeak.’
Hagrid makes for one of the closer hippogriffs. Its– his (Harry thinks) feathers are a reflective blue-grey, like the lake on a cloudy day. His feathers are distinctly fluffed up towards the back of his head, ruffled by the calm breeze filling Harry’s lungs. Harry’s so mesmerised watching the light slide across the creature that he only peripherally notices Hagrid removing Buckbeak’s collar.
This is when Harry’s eye meets Buckbeak’s, and suddenly they are stuck in the most high-stakes staring contest Harry’s ever been a part of. He finds it’s no hardship. Buckbeak’s eyes are beautiful, large and golden like bottled amber. They shine like the sun’s out in full glory despite the cloudy weather.
‘Easy now, Harry,’ he vaguely hears Hagrid say. ‘Yeh’ve got eye contact, now try not ter blink – Hippogriffs don’ trust yeh if yeh blink too much … tha’s it… tha’s it, Harry ... now, bow ...’
Harry finds the idea of breaking eye contact unfathomable in the moment, but Hagrid knows best. So, despite every sense screaming at him not to, he dips down. His neck feels terribly exposed. Still, he feels sudden movements aren’t the way to go here, so he forces himself to rise back up slowly.
Again, their eyes meet. Buckbeak stares him down unflinchingly. Harry hears Hagrid tell him to back away, but he can’t move. The tension mounts, and a few other voices join Hagrid’s, warning him away from incoming doom, and Harry still can't move.
Then, as he watches, the hippogriff bends, his whole body shifting with the different motion. With amazing fluidity, he bends one scaly knee, bracing himself on the other, and dips his great head so deeply his beak all but grazes the dirt. Harry only realises this when the beast breaks his gaze to lower his eyes in respect.
‘Well done, Harry!’ Hagrid exclaims, ecstatic. Buckbeak rises smoothly and gives Harry a blink. ‘Right – yeh can touch him! Pat his beak, go on!’
Truly? A reverent smile lights up Harry’s face as his feet shuffle forth. He extends a hand as his eyes fly over the creature. Buckbeak’s even more wondrous up close. Harry can’t believe his luck when he feels the cool beak against his hand. He pats up the face between his eyes. The feathers are so fine, Harry feels an amazed gasp-chuckle escape him as he runs his fingers over them. Buckbeak croons, and Harry feels it in his bones.
Distantly, he registers applause. He forgot about the class. He remembers now and smiles at Arthur’s delighted laugh amongst the polite clapping, the distant drawling ‘Show off.’
The next few minutes are a bit of a blur. Harry’s ready to call it a day and pat himself on the back for a job well done, but Hagrid apparently has other plans. Harry does try to protest, but Hagrid’s already got him on Buckbeak’s back, and with one slap to the hippogriff’s flank, Harry’s flying. Suffice it to say, prefers his broom.
At any rate, he touches back down in one piece, and that’s the rest of the class’ crew to step up. Draco’s already jogging over.
‘Potter. Are you alright? You look dazed.’
‘You try–’
‘Harry!’ Arthur crows delightedly, pulling him into a side-hug that feels more like a wrestling hold and jostling him around a bit. ‘Well done, junior! That was something to see! Oh, Em’s gonna be livid he missed that.’
‘Harry, you alright?’ Ron repeats.
‘Brilliant,’ Harry pants. Another, slightly shakier laugh escapes him. ‘That was– I’m brilliant.’
Draco clicks his tongue and gives his shoulder a friendly shove. ‘I wouldn’t go that far, Potter. C’mon, if you can do it, I want to try.’
So they all split off and try their hand at bowing to the hippogriffs. Arthur courts a magnificent golden one, and Draco makes nice with a particularly beautiful white mare(? Is it still called a mare?). Ron and Hermione take turns greeting a chestnut brown one that Hagrid says is named Corduroy.
‘You really like them,’ Draco accuses Harry as he pets his hippogriff’s cheek. She’s one of the tamer ones, so she doesn’t mind as Draco’s gaze shifts to Harry, who looks back in surprise. He ducks his head, shuffling his feet.
‘Yeah, I guess so. They’re… gorgeous.’
Draco looks back to his chosen beast, appraising her. ‘They’re rather like horses.’
‘Are they?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve never met a horse.’
Draco looks at him in surprise. ‘Truly?’ Harry nods, waiting to be ridiculed for it, but instead the silence stretches. Harry gets the impression he might say something, so he waits for it. Draco seems to let things sit on his tongue sometimes, and you just have to wait until he comes out and says them. ‘I always wanted a horse. There are magical creatures like them, but I specifically wanted a horse. In fact, at one point I wanted a unicorn, but… anyway. It was infeasible. The manor grounds were kept religiously, tidy bushes and trimmed lawns. Horses are, in essence, messy things. There was no place for one at the family home. And we keep peacocks, you know. I resigned myself to that fact. When I was eleven, my mother started construction, levelling part of the forest surrounding the grounds. She said it was for one of father’s plans. But then one day, she took me out to the finished field, and there was the most beautiful white horse, grazing happily. Mother resculpted the whole forest for me, so I could have her. This one,’ he nods fondly at his hippogriff, ‘reminds me of her.’
‘That’s amazing,’ Harry breathes. Draco has a horse! He never would have guessed. ‘Do you miss her?’
‘I do. She’s what I miss most about home, apart from…’
Draco cuts himself off, and Harry kicks himself for asking such a stupid question. He looks around for something to say to make it better.
‘What’s her name?’ he blurts. Draco gives him a secret smile, like he can read his mind. Harry tries not to blush, but really he’s just glad Draco’s not unhappy. Crisis averted.
‘Isabella.’
Harry is just thinking that of course Draco’s horse has such a beautiful name (although he had expected something like Scheherazade or Malinodathea or something equally extravagant and pretentious) when a particularly offended squawk cuts through the conversation. Harry turns with everyone to watch as Creed Bozzelli from Slytherin makes one of the stupidest moves they’ve ever seen anyone make.
‘Oh, please. You’re just a glorified chicken, aren’t you? You haven’t got a clue what you’re doing, bowing to a bunch of mongrel children. I bet you’re not dangerous at all, are you?’ he sneers to Buckbeak. ‘Are you, you great ugly brute?’
Buckbeak stamps once, twice. He paws at the ground, leaving great gouges in the earth like slash wounds. When he rears, he flaps his mighty wings and blots out the sun, coming crashing back down with an earth-shaking THUMP. Harry doesn’t even realise he’s grazed Bozzelli until the boy hits the ground, hard. Blood blooms against his white shirt. No, wait… that’s not Bozzelli. That’s…
‘ARTHUR!’ Hermione leaps forth to drag the boy back, and Harry’s already moving to help her. Jesus, when did he even move? Harry just blinked, and there he was, shielding Bozzelli!
Arthur hardly needs the support. He’s back up on his feet in a second. He grimaces once, biting down on a grunt. That’s it. Then he’s assuring them that he’s fine, yes Hermione, he knows he’s bleeding, it’s not as bad as it looks.
Hagrid gets Buckbeak back into his collar with no small amount of effort. Hermione, meanwhile, is immediately demanding Arthur roll up his sleeve so she can look. Draco does it himself while they’re arguing and his eyes pop at what he finds. Harry gasps himself. There’s a long, deep gash in Arthur’s arm, running diagonally from his elbow to his wrist. There’s even more blood than Harry realised, but Arthur’s clamped down on it with his other hand, so he can’t say how much. It’s probably just a scratch, but Arthur definitely shouldn’t be up and chatting like it’s a bug bite. The blood alone is enough to make Harry wince in sympathy. But Arthur’s the calmest of all of them, asking Ron if he’s gonna be alright, he’s looking a little pale.
‘ME?! Me, a little pale, are you–’
‘Calm down, Ron, you’re scaring the hippogriffs.’
‘Arthur!’ Hagrid blusters, looking close to tears. ‘Awh, blimey. I’m– I’m so sorry, I- I thought–’
‘It’s alright. Hagrid, I’m alright. Seriously, it’s just a scratch. Now, I’m gonna head up to the med bay. You stay with the class, alright?’
‘No! No, I– I should bring yeh up, it’s only righ’, I’m the teacher–’
‘Absolutely not. You need to stay with the class and take the hippogriffs back to their flock. Here, look, I’ll take Hermione with me, alright?’
‘O-okay. Yeah, alrigh’-- yeh sure?’
‘I’m sure. And Hagrid, it’s not your fault. It’s gonna be fine.’
Hagrid nods tearfully. Arthur signals for Hermione to head up with him, but he doesn’t let her get too close for fear she’ll get blood on her robes. He’s still gushing.
‘Jesus, Arthur!’ Harry hears Hermione hiss in distress as they walk off. He grimaces. She only reverts to muggle swears when really stressed.
‘That was terrifying,’ Ron breathes. ‘What was he thinking, jumping in front of Bozzelli like that?’
‘Very little, I imagine,’ Draco drawls. Harry can tell he’s a little shaken up too, though.
‘He sure was casual about it,’ Harry muses. ‘I’m starting to think there’s nothing that can faze that bloke. Barring a dismal quidditch match.’
Harry turns to Hagrid to see if he can help the man at all, but despite everything, Bozzelli’s apparently not finished.
‘Did you see that?’ he announces loudly. Even raised in outrage, his voice is raspy, slithering unpleasantly in one ear and out the other. ‘That thing could’ve disembowled me, and you’re parading it around freely among third-years?! What if it’d killed someone, you great oaf? And they think you’re fit to be a teacher?!’
‘Shut up, Bozzelli!’ Harry snaps even as Draco’s cold hand clamps down on his forearm in warning. Ron goes to Hagrid, who’s only just holding in tears, and stands protectively in front of him. He means well, but it just makes Hagrid look even less dependable.
‘This is disgraceful. Hogwarts can’t continue like this. And it won’t,’ Bozzelli pronounces ominously. His coal black eyes land condemningly on Hagrid, and the poor man’s lip quivers.
‘D’you think he’ll be all right?’ Ron asks nervously once Hagrid’s dismissed them.
‘’Course he will, Madam Pomfrey can mend cuts in about a second,’ Harry assures him. He can more than attest to that.
‘Forget him. Worry about your bigger friend,’ Draco counsels darkly. ‘Bozzelli’s no joke. Nasty bit of work, that one, and well-off enough to become a real problem. If Hagrid’s still here by the end of the week, I’ll eat my tie.’
‘No!’ Harry gasps in horror.
‘Well you can call ‘im off, can’t you?’ Ron demands. Draco frowns at him.
‘Me? What the hell do I have to offer him? Don’t be ridiculous, Weasley.’
‘Why not? You’re friends, aren’t you?’
‘Believe it or not, not all of us Slytherins are chummy. You don’t get on with all the Gryffindors, do you? And let me tell you, it’s a whole different world in Slytherin. There’s a hierarchy, an order. So no, I can’t just “call him off”. ’
‘So you don’t know him?’ Harry asks. He hopes it doesn’t come out accusing or anything. Draco doesn’t seem to take offence.
‘Of course I know him. We all know each other. There’s a difference between knowing someone and being friends, Potter. But I’ll tell you what I know:
Bozzelli’s family aren’t known Death Eaters. Legally speaking, they’re completely clean. In fact, they weren’t even being investigated during the dark lord’s time, but they were almost certainly involved. No one knows how they pulled it off, but no charges were ever even brought up. It takes a lot more than connections to come out completely unscathed like that when everyone knows you played a part. If you want my guess, I’d say they’re just that good. Real shadowy types, working in the background, and effective at it. From what I understand, Creed embodies that perfectly. He can be a bit petty, but he plays the game well, and he makes a point to temper himself when there’s any chance of consequence. He will never strike in front of anyone of worth– er, that is, anyone of any political or social standing. He’s also notoriously stubborn. He remembers anything he can use, and he holds grudges with the best of them. He’s not explicitly a leader, but others will find themselves turning to him for direction. He is a major force in Slytherin, and currently, my biggest headache.’ Here Draco clicks his tongue, annoyed. ‘It's a shame Arthur stepped in. Watching Bozzelli get gutted would’ve made my whole week.’
‘Psycho,’ Ron mutters. Draco glares, but he’s saved from responding when Harry splutters over the both of them, gaping at Draco. ‘All that, and you don’t know him?’
‘I told you it was a different world,’ he shrugs, looking away. Something in his tone strikes Harry as sad. Damnit, Harry’s put his foot in it again.
‘Why is he your biggest headache?’ he blurts, and then wants to hit himself over the head. Distract Draco from his problems with another problem-- great going, Harry! Super smooth! He mentally smacks himself as Draco sighs.
‘Things have been… unideal, for me, since the inter-house implosion last year. I suspect he’s a large part of the reason for that. He’s also just a general cock.’
‘Geez, tell us how you really feel,’ Ron mutters.
Harry is about to ask Draco what he means when a friendly arm links around his neck, and the other around Ron’s. A familiar earring brushes against Harry’s cheek.
‘Hey poppets! What’s up, why are we looking so glum?’
Harry and Ron exchange a look, unsure how to break it to him. Draco has no such reservations.
‘Your hubby’s in the hospital wing. One of the hippogriffs got him.’
‘Oh dear. Is Hagrid okay? Hermione?’
Ron looks at him like he’s gone bonkers. Harry isn’t much better off. He hears that about Arthur, and he’s worried about Hagrid?
'Well, you'd hardly be wandering around having a chat if it was serious,' he says. ‘You’d better tell me what happened,’
That’s what they do as they all make their way to the infirmary. Em takes it remarkably well, only scowling when they tell him about Bozzelli insulting the hippogriff, nodding sagely when they explain how Arthur jumped in. Arthur greets them with a wave as they enter the hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey is hard at work on his other arm, tracing her wand along the skin with purpose. It’s hard to see what she’s actually doing. Hermione jumps up, head whipping between them and Arthur as if demanding something. She seems even more frazzled than she did when it happened. Arthur’s obviously well past assuring her he’s fine, only rolling his eyes at her state.
‘Fifteen stitches!’ Hermione hisses. ‘Fifteen!’
Ron gapes. ‘You’re joking.’
Harry rushes past the two of them to take up post by the stool Arthur’s seated on. His eyes widen at the scene. Harry can see each of the stitches, but they’re not regular muggle ones. These ones look like they’re imbued with magic, visibly glowing a soft pink through Arthur’s skin. Now that there’s no blood, Harry can see the cut properly. It’s definitely not nothing. He can’t believe that much of Arthur was sliced open while the boy just calmly told them all he was fine. Ron comes up behind him while he gapes, still sniping at Hermione.
‘--were we supposed to know that– BLOODY HELL!!’
Madame Pomfrey rounds on him so fast that even Arthur twitches in alarm. Harry’s not sure if his wince is out of pain or from the look on the matron’s face.
‘Listen here, Mr. Weasley. I am currently treating a patient, and there is no place here for outbursts like that. If you interrupt my work again, I won’t just send you out, I’ll take you to your head of house myself.’
Ron nods hysterically. Hermione sniffs as if to say, serves you right.
‘How’s Hagrid?’ Arthur demands, not to be deterred. Hermione throws her hands up, at a loss, muttering something that sounds like ‘fifteen.’
‘Class was over pretty quick after,’ Ron says thickly, eyes stuck on Arthur’s damaged arm. ‘We thought you were done for.’
‘No one thought that,’ Draco corrects. ‘And more importantly, you missed Bozzelli’s threat.’
Arthur and Merlin both turn steely at the phrasing. They explain it all to them, including Draco’s character analysis.
‘Surely he can’t press charges,’ Ron says, looking around at each of them. ‘He wasn’t attacked, you were! …You’re not gonna press charges are you?’
Arthur looks like Ron’s just asked him if he's planning to eat a puppy. ‘No!’
‘Alright, just checkin’!’
‘He can, actually,’ Em sighs. ‘Bozzelli, I mean. That was technically reckless endangerment.’
‘Not just technically,’ Draco mutters out of the side of his mouth. Em winces, conceding the point.
‘Draco, what did you mean when you said he was making things difficult for you?’ They all turn on Harry at the non-sequitur. He hastens to clarify. ‘Bozzelli.’
Arthur sits up in his seat, eyes flicking to Draco. ‘He is?’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘No, tell us,’ Hermione encourages.
‘If he’s a problem for you, he’s a problem for us,’ Em rationalises. ‘I like to know what I can about my problems.’
Draco obviously sees the logic in that. Still, his eyes flick to Madame Pomfrey, and to Harry’s surprise, while she still outwardly pretends not to be listening, her eyebrow raises expectantly.
‘...It’s nothing crippling yet,' Draco concedes. 'He’s just turning as many people against me as possible, pulling strings to make it social suicide to be seen with me. Spreading rumours… I can’t trace anything back to him definitively, but I doubt the Slytherins are coming up with the pranks they pull on me on their own. My name still carries enough weight to uphold my official reputation, but I don’t doubt he has designs to change that, and likely the leverage to as well. He is half the reason most of Slytherin is still so adamantly opposed to inter-house mingling. Bozzelli is keen to cast me in the role of the leader of this little rebellion against pureblood ideals, and to stir the crowd up enough that they crucify me all on their own. He is annoyingly good at it.’
Hermione huffs in pity. Draco bares his teeth at her, and she refrains from saying anything. Ron sits back in surprise.
‘Bloody hell, mate. I had no idea.’
‘This is the kind of stuff you tell us, Draco,’ Arthur says, not too soft, not too firm. Em nods.
‘Yeah. He’s probably been counting on you keeping mum about it. No one ever won a war alone.’
‘Yeah… sure…’ Draco hums, but he’s more concerned with the look on Harry’s face than their words. He thought he’d seen Harry get serious, but evidently he had not.
‘Ron,’ Harry announces quietly, ‘it looks like we have a new nemesis.’