Chapter 3: A Malfoy Apology
"When did Hermione come in?" Weasel frantically whispered to Potter from their desk in the DADA classroom.
Just one minute earlier, Snape had swept into the room, his coal-black robes billowing behind him like giant bat wings. He'd taken over during Lupin's absence – last night had been a full moon. It had been about a week since his conversation with the teacher and Draco had avoided DADA on Monday, in favour of ditching and not having to explain exactly what he knew. He'd cooled off some, and even though he thought he was right to let off anger, he'd been ill advised to let on just how much he knew. Yet, he couldn't deny the rush he got from teetering on the edge of giving himself away. Childishly, he liked the idea of a professor thinking Draco knew everything. And why shouldn't he take pride in that? Lupin knew most of his fears, it seemed only fair that Draco give him a scare.
"Did you see her come in?" Weasel asked again, knocking the contemplations of Lupin and fear from his mind.
In truth, Draco hadn't even noticed Granger sit across the aisle from him, just out of arms reach. Odd. Since she had McGonagall's book, he'd been keeping tabs on her whenever she was around, ever watchful for a flash of red leather. So, how had he not noticed her sat so close to him?
They caught eyes and immediately a crease between her brows formed before she looked back to Snape's slides about werewolves. His eyes slid down to her bag to find that it was closed – no red book in sight.
Glowering at Granger's side profile, Draco scribbled a note and folded it into a bird.
"Now," Snape began coldly from his place by the projector as he dimmed the lights. "Who can tell me the difference between an animagus and a werewolf?"
The energy with which Granger raised her hand made her look as if she were busting for the toilet and this sparked a familiar twinge of annoyance in Draco's chest as it had so often in his younger years at Hogwarts.
Snape walked to the front of the dimmed classroom, and as his back was turned, Draco blew the paper bird and watched as it landed on Granger's desk. With the hand that wasn't waving around in the air for Snape's attention, she scrunched the bird into a ball before plopping it near her spare quills in the middle of the desk, lightly huffing as she did so.
Draco rolled his eyes.
"No one?" Snape said, eyes looking around the class, blatantly ignoring Granger. Draco was quite sure Snape was the kind of teacher that loved teaching but hated children.
"Sir," She spoke, "an animagus is someone who elects to turn into an animal whereas a werewolf has no choice. With each full moon, he no longer remembers who he is. He'd kill his own best friend if they crossed his path." She paused, cautious as Snape's shoulders grew tense.
"Unless they take a wolfsbane potion." Draco added. "Or there's always the Homorphus Charm which turns the werewolf back into a man for a brief time." He added, thinking of the few times his mother had used it on him during the war. "Wolfsbane is best though."
"Thank you, Mr Malfoy. Would you care to illuminate the class about the effects of wolfsbane, or will you cede the answer to Miss Granger who clearly takes pride in being an insufferable know-it-all?"
Granger, cheeks red, looked at her desk with stubborn tears in her eyes.
"Know this one, Granger?" Draco asked, cockily raising his brows for half a second.
Her lip trembled before she spoke. "Wolfsbane is a potion of great complexity that relieves, but does not cure, the symptoms of being a werewolf. Thus, allowing the werewolf to maintain their mental faculties after the transformation, rendering them an ordinary, fatigued wolf. Furthermore, the potion must be taken daily the week of the transformation, or it will be rendered useless. If even one potion is missed, he will lose his humanity during the transformation from man to beast."
Snape swiftly stepped into the aisle between Draco and Granger, dropping his heavy hands to the corners of both their desks. "Anything to add this time, Mr Malfoy?"
"Just that it tastes like piss…" He shrugged, smirking at Snape. A few laughs sprouted from the class. "…or so I've heard."
"Silence!" He snarled. "5 points from Gryffindor and Slytherin." The class gave hushed whines. "As an antidote for your ignorance, on my desk by Monday morning, two rolls of parchment on the werewolf with particular emphasis on recognising it."
More whines came, but instead of the homework, all Draco could think about was how dumb he'd been the first time around. He'd been too busy sticking his nose into the air to see what was right in front of it, like that Snape had just given them all access to the truth: Lupin's lycanthropy. Lupin was lucky students never actually applied the written work to their lives. Correction: most students.
His eyes snapped to Granger just in time to see the cogs turning under her honey-coloured hair.
Whilst Snape dealt with Potter's whines about Quidditch being tomorrow, thus he had no time for the essay, Draco leant closer to Granger.
"Psst." He said her way.
Exasperated, she turned to him.
"The note." He hissed through gritted teeth. "Read it."
Her upper lip curled in disgust.
"Read it."
Rolling her mud-coloured eyes, she un-scrunched the note with a frown.
It read: Done with the book yet?
She shot him a sour look; lips pursed. He raised his brows in response.
Her eyes narrowed. "Not yet."
"When will you finish?"
"Not yet!"
"Hurry up then." He hissed.
"Why should I?"
Snape returned to the space between them, crouching as he slammed his hands on their desks. "Will you both remain silent? Miss Granger and Mr Malfoy, must you insist on interrupting this class? Already, you have lost points, must I… take it further?"
"No, sir." Granger said as Snape stood to full height.
He held his hand out and Granger's eyes flickered between Draco and the professor before she dropped the note into Snape's hand. With dull eyes, he read it. "Mr Malfoy has asked Miss Granger if she has finished a book. Mr Malfoy, pray tell, what book of Granger's is so important that it cannot wait until after the class has concluded?"
"It's not important." Granger jumped in, tawny eyes barely containing her worry.
"Clearly…" Snape spat. "It is. At least to Mr Malfoy."
Sensing Granger's hesitancy, Draco said, "It's for our Transfiguration homework. Complications and Confusion in Reptilian Transfiguration. The library only had one copy and she's taking forever."
Snape gave a nasty glare at Granger. "See that it doesn't interrupt the class again or you'll both be serving detention."
"Yes, sir." Granger said, furiously eyeing Draco.
As Snape droned on about werewolves with dull eyes and an even duller voice, Draco looked to the window where the bright cold day met him. Fear danced through his stomach as he thought about the Dementors outside. He'd been a fool to ever tease Potter about them; they truly were vicious things and Draco had yet to master a Patronus as Lupin had, and it was a sore spot that Potter had managed it in their exams. It was an even sorer spot now, given that it could mean survival if he ran into one outside.
Once Snape had finished the main points on lycans, points which Draco half-heartedly listened to due to his musings and extensive knowledge – and experience – on the matter, the class fell into hushed chatter.
Draco again leaned across the aisle toward Granger and said, "It seems you don't want anyone to know about the book."
"It's not that." She said, hushed, jotting down notes from the textbook.
"Yes, it is."
"So what?" Her brow furrowed as her quill scraped harder at the parchment. "It's not like you to cover for me, of all people, so I must conclude that you also don't want others to know."
He scoffed at her accuracy. "Does Potter know? How about that idiot pet you keep around? Although, it seems you're more likely to be his pet. I bet you finished that essay off for him, didn't you?"
"Shut it, Malfoy."
"Or what? Going to punch me?" He smiled; mirth laced in his eyes. Draco recalled the aching jaw she'd given him five years ago – or a few months from now. Draco hoped that if she punched him again, the context surrounding the situation would differ vastly, but he also hoped she wouldn't punch him at all.
"As if I'd resort to violence." She shook her head, unaware of the irony. "And I doubt I'd be capable of doing much damage."
"I think you're very capable of a lot of things." He said, without even a hint of malice.
She looked up from her notes for the first time during their discussion, and a look of wonder crossed her eyes. It was as if she was shocked someone was believing in her, and even more shocked that the someone was Draco. He stilled, just as shocked as Granger, only his shock was tinged with guilt – believing in a Mud- muggleborn went against his father completely. He wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not.
Steadily, his smile dropped and was exchanged for a pensive tilt of his brows. Absently, he itched at his left forearm as was habit since the war.
Granger turned from him, her frown hinting at a vulnerability he once would've thought was tempting. A feeling stirred in his chest; one that wasn't all that dissimilar from when he'd seen Potter stood alone under the clocktower, permission slip unsigned. Empathy. In a way, he supposed Granger was lonely, and even outcasted among friends. Neither Potter nor Weasel matched her intellect and thirst for knowledge.
Sitting up again to get some distance from her, he clenched his jaw, and stared at his blank parchment.
…
Draco went to the library – as was routine – and tried to make a start on Snape's homework, but instead he found himself watching from a window seat as a small girl with ice blonde hair made her way to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. From the length of the scraggly hair, Draco knew it must be Luna. He'd barely seen her, yet he'd thought of her often, and despite himself, he missed her fiercely. She'd offered the strangest advice, but it had always rung true. From advice on schoolwork and family, haircare, and manners, it was all good and all necessary. Draco smiled, leaning his head against the window. His hot breath fogged the glass, obscuring his view for a moment before he wiped it away and found Luna had disappeared, likely to feed those weird skeletal creatures.
No matter how much he needed that advise and no matter how much he wished that was the same Luna down there, she simply wasn't. The thought of waiting five years to meet his Luna again made his lip jut out slightly and tremble as if he was actually thirteen again and had been denied French chocolates from his mother.
Sighing, his eyes trailed along the edge of the forest until they landed on Hagrid's shed.
Pursing his lips, he swiftly turned from the window. Like the strange and unwarranted empathy that had stirred for Potter and Granger, he felt a similar spikey feeling bubble up like hot poison fizzling through his veins until it found its way to his heart: guilt.
Harshly, he tossed his quill to the table. It bounced off the parchment, hit his DADA textbook and rolled off the edge of the table. Heaving a great sigh, he bent to pick it up. As he sat up again, his eyes found red hair and hand-me-down robes walking his way.
"Weasel, if you've come to ask me to do Snape's essay for you, I didn't think I needed to remind you of something I have that Granger apparently lacks: a backbone. Do it yourself."
Weasel tossed the red book to his table. "Hermione said McGonagall told her to give this to you."
"Finally." He grabbed the book, opening it to the contents page. He skimmed through it; all the subtitles looked vague beyond words, giving him no clue as to what aspects of time instruments the chapters were about.
"And Hermione told me to tell you that McGonagall told her to tell you that you have a week to read it."
Draco blinked. "Come again? I'm not fluent in rodent."
"Shut it, Malfoy." His cheeks were tinged pink. "You only have a week. Then give it back to McGonagall."
"Why only a week?"
With a malignant shrug, Weasley asked, "Do I look as if I know?"
"You look as if you don't know much."
"Arse." He shook his ginger head before turning.
"Why didn't Granger bring it herself?" Draco asked.
"She's busy."
"Doing your work for you?" Draco asked, voice sounding more like the lectures father had given him than his own.
"No, she's helping Harry."
"Hmm."
Weasley huffed. "Oh, and before I forget, stay away from Hermione and my sister."
"Your sister?"
With hands on hips, he said, "You bumped into her the other week."
"I'm sure she won't die." Draco gave a sleek smirk.
"But that book your father gave her almost did her in!" He all but shouted.
Draco's smirk fell. "Huh?"
"Ask your father."
"Must you be so vague?" Draco gave a great roll of his eyes. "Your sister said the exact same thing. What book?"
"A diary."
"Scary." He said, arrogantly nonchalant as he leant back in his seat.
"You're such a prick!" Weasel's voice raised again.
Madam Pince barrelled around the corner and stalked into their aisle, looking every bit the ashen and eviscerated vulture people described her as.
"Mr Weasley, if you're not doing work, then leave!" She said in a hurried and vicious whisper before she vanished around the stack.
Weasley's jaw tightened, bunching the muscles until he looked as if several chocolate frogs were trying to escape.
"Oh, and Weaselbee, before you go, tell Granger that Snape's essay should give her and I a lot to think about." He smirked.
Shaking his ginger head, Weasley stomped away, leaving him in isolation. Draco skimmed the contents page again, found something possibly promising and flicked to that page, all the while lowly humming Weasley is Our King.
…
The chilled night air made Draco's feet freeze and gooseflesh rise as he searched the dark dorm for any sinister movement. He pulled the covers around his shaking form, curled up on the bed with his head between his knees and refrained from using Lumos. The light would only wake the others up, and he didn't want to explain why he suddenly needed a night light.
In truth, he'd woken from a nightmare; he'd been in the DADA classroom once more, but Lupin hadn't been there. Draco had been helpless, too cowardly to cast Riddikulus, and way too unprepared to cast the Patronus Charm.
When asked to conjure one in his exams, his happy moment had been his father watching as an instructor taught Draco to fly at 4-years-old. The memory was fogged with time, but Lucius's cold expression lifting for a few seconds of wonder was still as clear as freshly polished glass. After the exam, he'd figured out that a stronger memory was needed, but Draco didn't really have many strong ones. It was possible he'd be a late bloomer; only able to conjure one once he'd been married or had his heir. Hopefully, those future events would become the happiest memories of his life.
Lupin – like so many others he'd seen during the exam, many of them from Dumbledore's Army – had seemed to conjure their Patronus so simply. It was about the only thing Draco hadn't excelled at.
In the darkness of his dorm, his arms curled around himself, and Draco promised himself that he'd learn the spell. Surely, there was a happier and more potent memory in his head just waiting to be remembered.
…
It was only when Potter fell from the electric sky, red quidditch robes fluttering around him like the flicker of a candle the storm just couldn't quash, that Draco remembered what had happened above the pitch in third year.
Dumbledore slowed Potter's fall, making him lower to the ground slower than the pelting rain.
Draco's jaw tensed, remembering himself joking with Crabbe and Goyle after this match about Potter's fear of Dementors, a fear which, after his residency at Azkaban and the boggart incident, he shared. It had taken a while to admit to himself, but after waking from the nightmare a few hours ago, he'd knew he was just as scared as Potter was.
The match was Hufflepuff verses Gryffindor, and despite this, Crabbe and Goyle had pestered Draco into coming. They didn't have to pester too much though; Draco had his own agenda today and figured it would be best to be distracted and cheered up by a Gryffindor loss – even if he knew the chances of that loss were slim. He was shocked that Potter's fall hadn't amused him in the slightest; it only made him think of the Dementors who flew above the pitch like vultures.
After the chaos sparked by Potter's descent, Draco didn't care to watch the rest of the match and abandoned Crabbe and Goyle, wandering down the rickety stands until his feet finally touched ground. Although, he doubted many would consider the soggy mud and slippery patches of grass as 'ground' – more like a swamp. He stepped through the sopping grass with a scowl until his eyes found a familiar and ragged professor twenty paces away, head tucked into his shoulders and hands trying to seek refuge from the storm in the pockets of his tatty tweed jacket. Lupin was sorely unprepared for today's weather.
With a shiver and careful footing, Draco fought his way through the mud to catch up with Lupin, almost losing his left dragon leather boot in the process.
"The match not good enough for you?" Draco called.
The man turned, scarred face going blank with shock for a moment until an awkward smile took hold. "I was just going to go check on Harry."
"Dementors got him, right? Only this time it wasn't a boggart."
"No…" Lupin squinted against the rain as he looked at the raging grey sky, darkly electric and sinister as it swirled above them. "No, I'm afraid it wasn't."
Draco likened looking up at those thick clouds to looking down at the ocean; one didn't know when the lurking danger would strike.
Lupin looked down at him as they walked next to each other, both uncomfortable in the cold wind which flung fat droplets of winter rain down their necks. "I've been meaning to ask you something."
"Yes?" Draco said, already knowing what Lupin was talking about.
"You're very bright, you know?" He said with a nervous half-laugh, making Draco's brows shoot upwards – he hadn't expected a compliment. "So, what gave it away?"
"That doesn't matter. What does is that Snape knows."
"Well…" He didn't look surprised in the slightest. "Secrets always escape, and I've found that the harder one tries to conceal a secret, the easier it becomes for others to uncover."
Draco glared at the wet ground as his hand scratched the scarless juncture of his neck. "That's not always true."
Lupin gave him an impishly knowing grin.
"I expected you to be angry." Draco huffed. "I was very… forthright last we spoke."
"There's no need for anger, Draco." Lupin said. "Are you sure you know what I am?"
"Quite. And I'm sure Granger isn't far from figuring it out, Snape saw to that by setting an essay on werewolves, with a – and I quote – 'particular emphasis on recognising them.'"
Once at the entrance, they stood and looked out to the distant quidditch pitch as Lupin cast Hot Air Charms on both of them.
"I wouldn't have bothered. I'm planning to go back out into that as soon as the match ends." Draco said, eyeing the quidditch pitch where the cheers and screams of victory began. "Which seems to be right about now."
"Where are you headed?"
"There's…" Draco couldn't meet his eyes. "Something that must be done. I failed to right a wrong and the least I can do is apologise."
"On occasion, you can be very vague, Mr Malfoy." He gave another impish smile.
"I have to be."
"Or what?" Lupin's brows tilted up some, eager to help – or just eager to dig his nose in where it didn't belong.
Draco resisted the urge to curl his lip and snarl, instead focusing his glare on the scratch on Lupin's neck. "I'm not letting you in on any more of my secrets, it's already enough that you saw my boggart."
"I'm sorry for prying. It's only with the intention to help. Before you go, I just… I wanted to say that Fenrir Greyback is truly a monster and I'm very sorry you met him." Lupin's eyes swam with empathy. How many times had Draco wished to see this look upon Lucius's stoic face during the war? Even the barest hint of it would've sufficed. Maybe Draco hadn't looked hard enough, or maybe empathy had never crossed his pallid face at all, and only the vague notion of disgust and fear had been there.
He felt a twinge of guilt; he loved his father, and Draco knew how hard it could be to be honest with one's emotions.
"It wasn't ideal." Draco's eyes again fled from under Lupin's, preferring to watch as students rushed down the quidditch stands and slopped through the mud, getting closer to where they stood in the entryway.
"That's an understatement." Lupin said, letting a small breathy laugh pass his lips. "Since I am beginning to think that you are the brightest wizard of your age, I think I'm ready to hear your theory about Peter Pettigrew – or as we know him, Wormtail."
"It's fairly easy to deduce, I'm sure you'll kick yourself after I explain it, but…" Draco watched his hot breath as it lilted out before him, drifting away like a ghost. His eyes trailed the edge of the forest before landing on the groundskeeper's hovel before darting back to the oncoming mass of students, hyped from the game. "I have to go before all of Hogwarts descends upon us and I abandon any idea of apologising in favour of reading in the library and casting a Warming Charm. We can carry on later. Perhaps after class on Monday? All I shall say is that I think Pettigrew – the actual snitch – is still alive."
…
Apologising to the oaf was going to be… weird. Possibly very awkward. Draco wondered whether the oaf would get mad enough to sit on him and crush him to death. That would certainly affect the timeline.
Much like Lupin, he fisted his hands into the pockets of his robes so that his fingers could escape the wet cold as he trudged down the steep steps to Hagrid's shed. His shoes, now caked in mud and grass, didn't have the best grip and he nearly slipped several times. Soon, he found himself within twenty feet of what the half-giant called a home. He'd only seen it up-close a few times, one of which being when he'd tattled on Potter, Weasley and Granger in first year. The other time had been when he'd let the Death Eaters into the school and they'd had their fun setting Hagrid's shed alight.
He let out a shaky breath, willing the memory to leave. Aunt Bella's cackles rang in his ears like the shrill cries of a vicious Doxy.
As he approached, his courage shrank, making him pause and study the filthy hut. The wood seemed to be rotting away, and was charred in places, which matched the blackness of some of the stonework. The black quality was likely smoke damage, which made Draco conclude that the rumours of the oaf setting fire to place in drunken stupors weren't wrong. The windows were like a patchwork quilt – an ugly fad of the lower classes – yet Draco thought the odd bits of coloured glass must liven up the place during the few days Scotland saw sunlight. Instead of a garden, there was a pumpkin patch where, upon stepping closer, he heard a flutter of heavy feathers accompanied by an annoyed snort.
There it was: the hippogriff, sat proud in the middle of the patch, as if the pumpkins were its loyal subjects. Or, Draco supposed, the animal looked more like a dragon surrounded by its horde of orange gold and the numerous crows cawing away from their seats on the pumpkins were the loyal subjects.
Draco stepped closer into the pumpkin patch where the creature sat, waving away a few crows as they fled, black wings brushing his hair.
Heart pattering away in his chest as violently as the rain, he tried to remember what Hagrid had taught them in third year. Approaching slowly seemed right. Of course, Draco remembered the bow. He'd mocked Saint Potter behind his back about how he'd be bowing to him one day – his superior. Draco resisted scoffing, knowing it may frighten the creature. Draco of the future should've done more than simply bow to Potter for getting him out of Azkaban, yet he was still a Malfoy and Malfoy's do not bow nor grovel – at least, not to people like Potter.
Draco shrugged; he'd make an exception just this once. And so, with his back facing the distant and rowdy quidditch pitch, he bowed to the creature.
"I guess it's easy to apologise to chickens-" He stopped, wincing when it huffed at him. "Sorry, I meant animals. It's easier because you can't talk back and remind me of what an arse I can be. But it's fun to be an arse sometimes. You must understand."
The creature bowed back. He remembered this! It'll return a bow to show respect, and that's when Potter reached out to smooth it. Draco swallowed, standing again, yet not as straight as he had been. He was definitely not touching it.
His eyes caught sight of a wooden pole sticking out from the ground, and from this pole, hanged dead ferrets.
"Of course, it would be bloody ferrets." He huffed as he untied one of the small corpses from the pole. The hippogriff stood, excitedly huffing. "Fancy a snack, chicken?"
"What're yer doin', Malfoy?" Called a gruff male voice. Draco spun on his heel, losing balance in the slick mud. The hippogriff snatched the ferret from his hand, nicking his skin in the process. The animal threw its head back to swallow the ferret whole, just as a bird ate worms.
Hagrid stomped over and pulled Draco away by the wrist with a tight grip.
"What're yer doin'?" Hagrid asked, voice raised.
"I wanted to…" Draco didn't finish, instead watching as Hagrid's eyes widened in terror when he saw Draco's blood. Despite mixing with the rain, it was still thick as it dribbled from a massive V shaped slash in the centre of Draco's palm and onto Hagrid's fingers.
"Oh no, no, no!" He whispered, releasing Malfoy's wrist. "Buckbeak! Look wha' you did, you silly old thing." He called, sorrowful.
Draco inspected his palm. The gash was deep, starting from his thumb joint and stretching to his wrist and up again to the lower knuckle of his index finger. The blood was spurting out fast and hot, mixing with the rain as it dripped under his sleeve.
"History just had to repeat itself." Draco whined.
Echoing his sentiment, Hagrid said, "Oh, no' again. Are yer okay? Let's get yer to tha 'ospital wing."
Draco – mind fogged with pain and the sight of blood – was torn. He could heal himself with the lyrical spell, Vulnera Sanentur, the same spell Snape had used to save his life in Myrtle's bathroom. But if he did that, he'd have to explain to Hagrid how a child was so talented in such advanced magic, and he'd rather not. Besides, Draco had only been successful with that spell twice. He shivered, and blamed it on the storm, not the memories of wartime.
So, Draco let Hagrid take him to the hospital wing, ignoring his flighty glances of panic mixed with intense dislike.
"Put pressure on it." The half-giant said as they began their hurried walk up the steep hill towards the entrance. With his good hand, Draco pressed his sleeve into the wound and pressed hard, hoping to slow the blood. As soon as they got out of the rain, their steps grew quicker, no longer in danger of slipping. Draco tried to keep up with Hagrid's bounds, battling his dizziness.
"Hagrid." Draco said.
"Yeah?"
"I- I- I am sorry for acting like an idiot in your lesson last month." Draco began, watchful as Hagrid looked over his shoulder at him, only able to see the wrinkle between his brows from Draco's lower angle. "I can tell you feel for the hippogriff." Draco said, thinking of how sorrow had permeated his voice when telling the creature off. "And I'm sorry for any consequences my actions bring."
The apology was short, and it was all Draco could really muster without beginning to sound insincere.
The man stopped walking and caused Draco to do the same. His dark eyes flew across Draco's face, searching for deception. Utter disbelief wrinkled Hagrid's brows and made his bearded lips press together.
"Forgive me fo' sayin' so, but I'm not sure I believe you." He spoke.
"I thought you'd say that." Draco said, vision fogging some as he looked to his blood-drenched hands. His sleeves had soaked up his warm blood and his nose was filled with the bitter scent of copper. Peeling away his sleeve from the cut, he found a red gash angrily throbbing. On the floor where Hagrid and he had paused, several drops of blood had spattered, staining the stone. His eyes drooped, and Draco found himself unable to fight the warm darkness enclosing around him.
…
When his eyes opened, it was to the brightly lit ceiling of the hospital wing and the towering silhouette of Hagrid. Even when Draco had been over 6 foot, the half-giant had still towered above him, making him feel as if he may as well be back in first year again, terrified and disgusted by the dirty and enormous groundsman.
"I fainted?" He sat up, instantly regretting it – black dots speckled across his vision like tea leaves at the bottom of a cup waiting to be read by Trelawny.
"You lost a lot of blood Mr Malfoy." Pomfrey said, before pressing a potion to his lips. He gulped it down, recognising the feeling in his veins as being a Blood-Replenishing Potion. Starting from his lips and throat, and shortly followed by the rest of his body, the surface under his skin tingled as the blood cells sparked, alive, as they regenerated en masse, and made the pounding in his head soften to a dull and constant pressure.
"Professor Hagrid carried you." She nodded at Hagrid.
"Thank you." He rubbed his brow with his good hand as he tried to ignore how foreign those words felt on his tongue. "Thank you both."
Hagrid and Pomfrey exchanged a surprised glance.
"What happened Mr Malfoy?" She asked.
He stared down at the new scar across his palm. Pomfrey must have cast Vulnera Sanentur. The earlier gash had faded to a thin pale pink line shaped like a thin arrow. Immediately, he was reminded of the sundial necklace which had been shaped exactly the same. His hand balled into a fist, ridding himself of seeing the new scar.
"I'll get you dittany for that." She said, standing and pulling aside the mint green curtain, revealing a group of red-clad Gryffindors stood over a bed across the room. He deduced that it must be Potter's bed as it was surrounded by his adoring fans; three gingers (the Weasel twins and Weaselbee himself), along with other members of the quidditch team, one of which was holding a blanket with the bristles of a battered broom poking out.
Granger was there too, and her hair had doubled in size thanks to the rain, looking as massive and electric as a storm cloud. As if sensing eyes on her, she turned and found him watching. His eyes dropped, narrowing at his hospital bed as he tried to ignore her gaze.
"Don't bother, Pomfrey. I don't mind the scar." A lie. He did mind the scar, but Draco did not want to be outnumbered by Gryffindors any longer than necessary. Even Hagrid had probably been a Gryffindor.
"You're sure?" An X shaped wrinkle formed between Pomfrey's eyebrows as her eyes flickered between his and Hagrid's.
"Quite." Draco said. "As for what happened…" His eyes found Hagrid's just as worry fluttered across his bearded face, and Draco saw this as his chance to prove that he was truly sorry. "I slipped on the steep steps near Hagrid's…" hovel, shed, box, "…home."
Hagrid's lips parted before clamping back together.
"And, obviously, slashed my hand on the edge of a step."
Pomfrey hummed. "Well, you're lucky Hagrid was there."
Draco couldn't help a small smirk. If Hagrid hadn't of been there and startled Draco, then the hippogriff wouldn't have snatched the dead ferret away, nicking Draco in that process. So, no. He wasn't lucky Hagrid had been there.
"Can I go now?" He asked, still trying to ignore the feeling of entrapment under Granger's glare.
"Only if you can stand without feeling dizzy." Pomfrey raised a brow.
Palm aching as he lent on it, he stood from the bed, ignoring the black spots at the edges of his vision.
"I'm fine." He shrugged, lying a third time.
"Well, then, Mr Malfoy, you're free to leave." Said Pomfrey.
"I'll see to Malfoy and then come back to visit 'arry if that's alrigh'?" The groundsman said, concern heavy in his voice. Draco scratched where his Dark Mark used to be as a familiar ache of jealousy stirred in his stomach. But what exactly did he have to be jealous of? An oaf's attention? Inwardly, he scoffed at himself.
Pomfrey nodded at the oaf before tottering away to Potter's bed.
As he took subtly shaking steps to the end of the bed, Hagrid reached out as if to steady him but changed his mind last second, pulling away.
"Are yer goin' ta blackmail me?" Hagrid asked, quiet and grumpy.
Draco lent against the end of the bed rail, trying to blink away the haziness. "I may be a Slytherin, but that doesn't mean I'm not capable of trying to help someone without an ulterior motive. I got you in a lot of shit already, and I tried to write to my father to clear things up, but it's already in motion. The Ministry are involved now, and because of that, it's likely your hippogriff will be executed."
Helplessness made Hagrid's lower lip tremble. "Buckbeak hurt a ministry inspector."
"He did?" Draco's brows shot up to his hairline.
Hagrid nodded.
"It seems the hippogriff isn't safe for young witches and wizards to be around. But, for what it's worth, I hope they don't execute him." Draco bowed his head, already feeling as if he knew the outcome despite not remembering the truth. Death just seemed so final, and he'd seen far too much of it to wish it on any creature.
"Me neither." Muttered Hagrid.
Draco stumbled as he stepped away from the bed, eyeing Pomfrey's back, hoping that she didn't see.
"C'mon, lad," Hagrid said with a large hand on his back. "Let's get yer out of 'ere."
Sheepish, he nodded up at Hagrid, straining his neck as he did so, and not knowing in the slightest how to respond to his help. As Hagrid led him from the hospital wing, Draco looked over his shoulder to where Potter's fans chatted and found Granger watching them leave with a curious frown.
…
After Hagrid had walked him to the Great Hall, Draco had eaten a lean dinner – alone – before heading for the library. Where else would he go?
McGonagall's damn red book didn't have anything on sundials yet. He sat over the book, head in hands with elbows up on the table – terrible manners which his mother would have scolded him for – when he heard a huff from three stacks down.
With immediacy, he found Ginevra's pumpkin hair peeking through the shelves. She was hopping on the spot, trying to reach up for a book when Draco rounded the stack and smirked at her. Upon spotting him, her eyes widened with glossy fear.
"What book do you need?" Asked Draco, sleekly smirking. "Did you forget you're a witch in a magical school? Could easily get it yourself."
She crossed her arms. "Go away."
Mirroring her position, he said, "If you don't want my help, I'm sure Madam Pince will assist you."
Ginny's lip trembled.
He asked. "What book?"
"Astronomical Astronomy."
His eyes searched for the book, finding the slanted title on the middle shelf, easily accessible if he was still in his eighteen-year-old body but not so much now.
"Accio Astronomical Astronomy." He muttered, hand outstretched. It fell to his hand, and he held it out for her to take.
She frowned at it.
"Why so cautious? I asked your brother – the ginger one, oh wait… they're all ginger."
She snatched the book away with a huff as she walked away from him. He followed.
"I asked Weaselbee-"
She glared over her shoulder as they carried walking through the library.
"I asked Ronald," He said, barely able to stop the shiver, "what had happened between you and my father and didn't get an answer. I, clearly, do not know. So, before you judge me for my father's actions, I'd like to know exactly what he did. Ronald said my father gave you a diary?"
"If I tell you, you'll only make fun of me for it."
"I won't." He reached forward and placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her strides, just as Hagrid's had rested on his shoulder earlier. "I just want to know."
Glancing at his hand, her mud-brown eyes turned to slits and, as if she were on fire, his hand flinched away and dropped to his side, letting it hang limply.
"The diary was horrid." Her eyes became glossy again, fear-filled, and so much like his own reflection in Myrtle's bathroom in sixth year. "It wrote back to me. Became my friend, made me do things…"
"What things?"
Her lower lip trembled.
"Perhaps…" He began, sensing Ginevra's pain. "I shouldn't have brought it up. I wasn't aware of any diary. And I'm…" Maybe the Blood-Replenishing Potion hadn't worked, and the loss of blood had made him insane as he felt another apology stirring in his gut. "I'm sorry for whatever pain my father caused."
All this apologising was really good practice for when he returned to the future and people expected him to be mature and honest and so very, very, painfully Gryffindor if he were ever to enter respectable society again.
"How about a change in subject?" He asked, head tilting to her level just as Lupin did when he tried to be less of an intimidating height. "Are you friends with Luna Lovegood yet?" He said, restraining himself from wincing; he probably shouldn't have added the 'yet.'
"Who? You mean Loony?" She replied, brows knitting together.
"Loony?" Draco said. "You call her that?"
"Yeah, me, you and just about everyone."
"Oh…" He said, awkward. "Well, stop then."
"You can talk." She shot back. "You've called my brother worse and called Hermione a mudblood."
"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be calling Luna 'Loony.'" He frowned. "You're just as bad as I am if you do."
As she crossed her arms, sarcastic as she asked, "Oh, what? You have a heart now?"
"No. Don't be disgusting."
He turned, fleeing from the pumpkin haired girl, and back to his table, eyes rolling hard at who he found there, their arms crossed and foot tapping on the floor.
"I cannot believe you just left the book here for anyone to take." Granger whined.
"I cannot believe you waited here to tell me off." He said, scoffing as she placed her hands on her hips, ready to tell him off some more, but before she did, he spoke. "Enjoy Snape's werewolf essay?"
"Riveting." She said with a dirty glare.
"Illuminating, is what I'd call it." He smirked, swiping the red book from the table and leaving without sparing Granger a glance. He wasn't quite sure why he wanted Granger to know that he knew about Lupin; perhaps it was the idea of her thinking that he knew information before she did – even if that information was unfairly gained through living this year already.
Lousy know-it-all.