Malfoy didn't reappear in classes until late on Thursday morning, when the we were halfway through double Potions. He swaggered into the dungeon, his right arm covered in bandages and bound up in a sling, acting, in my opinion, as though he were the heroic survivor of some dreadful battle.
"How is it, Draco?" simpered Pansy Parkinson. "Does it hurt much?"
"Yeah," said Malfoy, putting on a brave sort of grimace. But I saw him wink at Crabbe and Goyle when Pansy had looked away.
"Settle down, settle down," said Snape idly.
Harry and Ron scowled at each other; Snape wouldn't have said 'settle down' if they'd walked in late, he'd have given them detention. But Malfoy had always been able to get away with anything in Snape's classes; Snape was head of Slytherin House, and generally favored his own students above all others.
We were making a new potion today, a Shrinking Solution. Malfoy set up his cauldron right next to Harry, Ron, and me so that we were preparing our ingredients on the same table.
"Sir," Malfoy called, "sir, I'll need help cutting up these daisy roots, because of my arm —"
"Weasley, cut up Malfoy's roots for him," said Snape without looking up. Ron went brick red.
"There's nothing wrong with your arm," he hissed at Malfoy.
Malfoy smirked across the table.
"Weasley, you heard Professor Snape; cut up these roots."
Ron seized his knife, pulled Malfoy's roots toward him, and began to chop them roughly, so that they were all different sizes.
"Professor," drawled Malfoy, "Weasley's mutilating my roots, sir."
Snape approached their table, stared down his hooked nose at the roots, then gave Ron an unpleasant smile from beneath his long, greasy black hair.
"Change roots with Malfoy, Weasley."
"But, sir —!"
Ron had spent the last quarter of an hour carefully shredding his own roots into exactly equal pieces.
"Now," said Snape in his most dangerous voice.
Ron shoved his own beautifully cut roots across the table at Malfoy, then took up the knife again.
"And, sir, I'll need this shrivelfig skinned," said Malfoy, his voice full of malicious laughter.
"Potter, you can skin Malfoy's shrivelfig," said Snape, giving Harry the look of loathing he always reserved just for him.
Harry took Malfoy's shrivelfig as Ron began trying to repair the damage to the roots he now had to use. Harry skinned the shrivelfig as fast as he could and flung it back across the table at Malfoy without speaking. Malfoy was smirking more broadly than ever.
"Seen your pal Hagrid lately?" he asked us quietly.
"None of your business," said Ron jerkily, without looking up.
"I'm afraid he won't be a teacher much longer," said Malfoy in a tone of mock sorrow. "Father's not very happy about my injury —"
"Keep talking, Malfoy, and I'll give you a real injury," snarled Ron.
"– he's complained to the school governors. And to the Ministry of Magic. Father's got a lot of influence, you know. And a lasting injury like this" — he gave a huge, fake sigh — "who knows if my arm'll ever be the same again?"
I pointed my knife at him not looking up from my potion. "Would you like another cut Malfoy? Maybe I'll make this one somewhere that can't be healed so easily."
YOU ARE READING
The Weasley of Slytherin: The Prisoner of Azkaban
Fanfiction(Y/n) Wesley, only in his third year has already been possessed by Lord Voldemort , and since then has been hearing his voice in his head every since then. And now going in to his third year how will he cope with this new burden, and what mischief...
