Draco Malfoy lay sprawled on his hospital bed, bored out of his mind. Every so often, he'd pop a sweet into his mouth, muttering to himself between bites.
Life in the hospital wing was intolerably dull. In the name of recovery, Madam Pomfrey forbade him from doing anything—she wouldn't even let him work on his homework, let alone allow visitors. There was no one to talk to, and nothing to do.
He was told he'd have to endure this for a whole week. That afternoon, his father had written back with strict instructions: act as if his injuries were severe, and leave the rest to him.
Just as Draco was fantasizing about how he'd get back at that wretched hippogriff, the empty ward echoed with quiet footsteps.
Draco hurriedly swallowed his sweet and began moaning theatrically.
But when he saw who entered, he froze mid-wail, momentarily forgetting his act.
Douglas set a basket of fruit on Draco's bedside table, his tone warm and friendly.
"Good evening, Mr. Malfoy. How are you feeling?"
Draco instinctively clutched his arm—which, truthfully, hardly hurt anymore—hesitated, then forced out a pained reply,
"Still terribly sore. I can barely feel my arm at all… Professor, what brings you here?"
He'd half-expected Dumbledore himself to visit, but never imagined Professor Holmes would show up.
Douglas offered Malfoy a mild, knowing glance, but didn't bother exposing his poor performance.
"Oh? And why shouldn't I come? You're my Class Representative. I heard your injuries were quite serious—of course I had to check on you.
But judging by the state you're in, it looks like you might miss Wednesday's Class Representative selection…"
Only then did Draco remember something critical: his Slytherin rival, Theodore Nott, had always been eager to take his place.
This term, there was an unspoken rule among Slytherins: the Defence Against the Dark Arts Class Representative represented strength, while the Potions Class Representative signified Professor Snape's favor. Last year, the fourth-year who held both posts had become the new prefect—setting off a wave of ambition among the rest.
Theodore Nott already held the Transfiguration and Herbology Class Rep positions. If he used this opportunity to take Draco's spot…
Draco shuddered at the thought.
He really didn't want to deal with this Professor—after all, Holmes had somehow taken his family's house-elf, making his father a laughingstock among pureblood circles. But for the sake of his future, Draco decided to temporarily let that grudge slide.
To Douglas's surprise, Draco's pale face suddenly flushed with determination. With a vigor that belied his supposed agony, he declared,
"Don't worry, Professor! Madam Pomfrey says my injury isn't serious at all. Just one good night's rest and I'll be back in class tomorrow, no problem!"
Had Draco not retained a shred of sense, he might have jumped up and demonstrated a punch on the spot—just to prove he wasn't faking.
Douglas was momentarily thrown. He hadn't even begun his prepared pep talk about resilience and youthful ambition; he'd just been laying the groundwork.
Was the Defence Against the Dark Arts Class Rep position really this coveted?
He studied Draco's eager expression. That hunger wasn't an act.
For a moment, he was at a loss—he couldn't very well deliver the speech he'd planned.
Instead, he broke into a satisfied smile and patted Draco's shoulder (near the injured arm). Draco barely flinched, showing no real pain.
"Excellent. That's the spirit a young wizard should have! Those who achieve greatness don't get bogged down by trifles—character is forged in the details. From this alone, I can tell you're destined for big things.
On behalf of Hagrid and Little Grey—oh, that's the hippogriff who injured you—thank you for your forgiveness and for not making a fuss."
Draco basked in the praise for a moment, but the more he listened, the more wrong it sounded. Wait—when had he ever agreed to forgive that oaf and the beast? Just moments ago, he'd been imagining mounting the hippogriff's head in the Slytherin common room.
Douglas caught the confusion on Draco's face, and his tone shifted instantly to one of cool disdain,
"Is there a problem, Mr. Malfoy? Or are you saying you're unwilling to let them off?
Is the Malfoy family's reputation for generosity so fragile that it can't forgive a professor's first mistake and a rare hippogriff's misstep?
Perhaps I was too quick to praise you. With that kind of attitude, you'll find it hard to get anywhere in life…
And from what I've learned, it seems you didn't follow the professor's instructions, and even provoked Little Grey when he was trying to be friendly…"
The sudden swing from admiration to sarcasm left Draco reeling. He quickly backpedaled,
"No, no, Professor, you misunderstood! I never said I wouldn't forgive that—er, I mean, Professor Hagrid and the hippogriff.
As heir to the Malfoy family, I am, of course, magnanimous. In fact, I've already forgiven them. Yes, truly, I have."
Draco Malfoy took a deep breath. This was the biggest concession he was willing to make. As for apologizing to a half-giant and a beast over a classroom mishap—absolutely not.
Douglas immediately switched back to a beaming smile,
"That's wonderful to hear. By the way, I heard your father…"
Draco jumped in,
"I'll write to Father and tell him not to make a fuss about this."
At that moment, he caught a glimpse of his father's style in Douglas—one moment stern, the next all charm. He'd seen Lucius Malfoy do the same with others countless times.
He'd never expected to encounter such masterful face-changing at Hogwarts. The psychological pressure was real.
Convincing his father wouldn't be a problem, though. Lucius had specifically instructed him not to provoke Professor Holmes.
Seeing Douglas's satisfied nod, Draco ventured,
"Professor, what's your relationship with the hippogriff? I remember when the big guy—er, Professor Hagrid—introduced it, he called it Buckbeak. But you just called it Little Grey?"
Douglas replied offhandedly,
"Oh, we're old friends. I watched him grow up."
Draco couldn't help feeling a twinge of disdain—typical Muggle-born, making friends with magical beasts.
Douglas caught the look but let it slide. He checked the time, reminded Draco to focus on recovery, and left.
Draco watched Douglas leave, then pumped his fist in triumph.
It wasn't Douglas's praise that got him excited. His father had taught him well: in the wizarding world, there are no permanent enemies—only interests to be traded. Anyone could be a friend, so long as there was something to gain.
From Draco's perspective, this was a successful deal. As long as he could hold on to his Class Rep positions in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions, the injury was worth it.
His only regret was that Professor Snape hadn't come—maybe he could have doubled his gains and made the deal perfect.
He resolved to let Hagrid and the hippogriff off the hook for now. First thing tomorrow, he'd get discharged and write to his father with all the details of this transaction…
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