Evening had drawn its cloak across the castle, and the Great Hall glowed with hundreds of candles floating serenely above the long tables. Platters of roasted chicken, shepherd's pie, glazed carrots, and steaming bread rolls filled every dish, their scents wafting like warm comfort through the cavernous room. The Gryffindors were gathered at their table, noise of chatter and clatter of cutlery rising merrily into the air.
Cela sat beside Hermione, her posture composed yet relaxed, fingers idly turning the stem of her goblet as she surveyed the hall. Across from her, Harry sat hunched forward, stabbing at his shepherd's pie with unnecessary ferocity. Ron, oblivious, was piling potatoes onto his plate in an impressive tower. Hermione gave Harry a side look and sighed.
"Harry, stabbing your dinner isn't going to change anything," she said firmly.
Harry grunted but didn't answer. Cela smirked faintly, sipping her pumpkin juice. She didn't need to ask why Harry was tense—the sound of footsteps and the sudden dramatic hush that rippled through the Slytherin side of the hall answered for him.
Draco Malfoy had arrived.
He entered with theatrical slowness, his pale hair gleaming in the candlelight, his left hand swathed in thick white bandages tied with precision. He cradled it against his chest like a war wound, milking every ounce of sympathy the sight might grant him. Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle loomed like lumbering shadows, carrying themselves with ridiculous solemnity as though escorting a returning hero from battle.
The moment he stepped through the doors, Malfoy lifted his chin proudly and let his eyes sweep the hall. When his gaze landed on Harry, his smirk widened into something venomous. He gave a mocking hum under his breath, clearly pleased with himself, before striding with deliberate arrogance toward the Gryffindor table.
Cela arched an eyebrow. "Oh dear. He plans a performance."
"Don't," Hermione muttered quickly to Harry, who was already tensing.
Malfoy came to a halt, right beside the Gryffindor table. Without waiting for invitation, he slid gracefully onto the bench directly behind them, close enough that his voice would carry with ease to every Gryffindor ear. Several Slytherin girls trailed after him, including Pansy Parkinson, who immediately clutched her hands to her chest as if just breathing Malfoy's air was a gift.
"Ladies, gentlemen," Malfoy announced loudly, raising his bandaged hand so that the candlelight gleamed off its pristine wrappings. "I must recount the events of this afternoon—for your safety, of course. It was no ordinary class—it was a battle for life itself!"
Hermione made a choking noise. Cela pressed her knuckles against her lips to hide a smile.
Malfoy went on, his voice dripping with false humility. "The beast—vile, sharp-beaked, claws like spears—lunged at me! Naturally, I stood my ground. Fought back bravely, like any true wizard would. Madam Pomfrey herself said that if I hadn't shown such courage, if I hadn't resisted, my hand might have been lost entirely—" he paused dramatically, lowering his voice just enough to pull the Slytherin girls closer in anticipation, "—and the rest of you, well… the creature might have turned on you all next. A massacre, saved only by me."
Pansy squealed in delight. "Oh, Draco, how heroic!"
Astoria Greengrass, sitting near the end of the Slytherin table, leaned in with shining eyes. "You could have died! But you didn't—you fought it!"
Harry's fork clattered onto his plate. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening as his breath came sharper. He was halfway out of his seat, fury sparking like fire in his eyes.
"That—lying—"
"Harry!" Hermione hissed, grabbing his wrist with both hands and dragging him back down. "No! Sit!"
"He's lying to everyone's faces!" Harry snapped, struggling against her hold. "He insulted Buckbeak, and then screamed like a baby when it snapped at him! And now he's—"
"Harry." Hermione's voice cut through, low and sharp as steel. She shot him a meaningful look, flicking her eyes toward the teacher's table. At the end, Professor Snape sat languidly, his black eyes glinting as he surveyed the room.
"If you fight him now, Snape will take points from Gryffindor," Hermione said quickly, her words pitched low so only Harry could hear. "That's exactly what Malfoy wants. Don't give him the satisfaction."
Harry froze, seething but listening. His jaw worked furiously, and he finally yanked his arm free, slamming it onto the table. "Fine," he muttered. "But one day, I swear—"
Hermione pressed a calming hand onto his arm. "Ignore him. He's deliberately trying to provoke you. That's his game."
Cela leaned her chin on her hand, watching the scene with amusement flickering in her blue eyes. Malfoy's voice carried still, weaving his absurd tale with increasing embellishment.
"I've already written to my father," Malfoy declared proudly, raising his bandaged hand again for effect. "He was outraged. He said he'll deal with that bumbling oaf of a giant and the dangerous beast he parades in front of students. Hogwarts deserves better than creatures that attack without warning!"
Cela caught the way Harry's shoulders tightened again, his hands trembling with the effort of restraint. She spoke softly, almost lazily, but her words carried weight.
"Oh dear," she said, voice laced with dry irony. "So Lucius Malfoy is going to use his money and influence to bully a man out of his livelihood. How noble."
Harry gave a bitter laugh, glaring across the hall. "That's exactly what's going to happen. Hagrid—he's—" He swallowed hard, lowering his voice. "This afternoon, Hermione said he was crying in his hut. His first class, and he thinks he failed."
Hermione's expression softened, pain in her eyes. "I tried to calm him, I really did. But he just kept saying, 'I failed them. First class, an' I failed.' He was heartbroken." She turned her gaze into a glare at Draco, who was now gesturing grandly with his free hand as though he were recounting an epic battle from legend.
Cela's eyes narrowed slightly, though her face remained calm. She noted the glitter of triumph in Malfoy's expression as he glanced mockingly toward the Gryffindors, clearly enjoying every spark of anger he provoked. Around him, Slytherin girls sighed like maidens at a knight's tale, their eyes shining as if they gazed upon a hero from an old ballad rather than a spoiled boy who had nearly wet himself that very afternoon.
Dinner ended in a mixture of simmering anger and exasperation. The Gryffindors filed out together, heads bent in low conversation, their moods soured by Malfoy's endless boasting.