At the centre of it all was Hagrid, his voice booming over the chatter. All righ’, gather ‘round! This ‘ere’s a Hippogriff. Name’s Buckbeak. Yer gotta be respectful…

Harry Potter had just completed a successful, if wobbly, bow and flight. He landed looking pale but triumphant, earning a smattering of applause and a proud grin from Hagrid.

A massive, taloned front leg lashed out. There was a sickening rip of fabric and a sharp cry.

Later, in the Great Hall at dinner, the buzz of the incident hadn’t died down. The talk of Buckbeak, of Hagrid’s likely dismissal, and of course, of Draco Malfoy.

The doors swung open. Draco made his entrance. His left arm was encased in a thick, gleaming white cast from knuckles to elbow, supported by a stark black sling that stood out against his Slytherin robes. He moved with a pronounced, pained limp that hadn’t been present an hour ago, his face a masterpiece of suffering nobility.

He made a slow, deliberate path toward the Slytherin table, his eyes scanning the students. They landed on you, Y/n, sitting with some acquaintances. A flicker of something—calculation?—passed over his pained expression before he sank onto the bench directly across from you with a heavy, sighing groan.