The morning after the incident, the castle felt unusually tense. Whispers coursed through the corridors as students speculated about Draco Malfoy's dramatic tumble at Care of Magical Creatures. By the time Harry, Ron, and Hermione reached the Great Hall for breakfast, a hush had settled over the Slytherin table. Draco sat there, arm still heavily bandaged, glowering fiercely, while Crabbe and Goyle hovered anxiously nearby.
Harry noticed how pale and subdued Draco looked, though his jaw was set with stubborn pride. The boy barely touched his breakfast, and every now and then he glanced around as if expecting someone or something to exact revenge. The whispers weren't wrong; word of the hippogriff incident had reached far beyond the classroom.
It wasn't long before the true weight of the aftermath became clear. Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father, had heard of his son's injury almost immediately. Furious, he stormed into the Ministry of Magic, his voice cold and sharp as he recounted the events. To anyone who would listen, he painted a portrait of a deadly, uncontrollable beast that had viciously attacked his innocent child. The Department of Magical Creatures listened, tense and cautious; Lucius Malfoy was not a man who could be easily ignored. By the end of the morning, orders had been quietly whispered through the Ministry, Buckbeak's life was now at risk.
Hagrid, who had arrived late to breakfast, looked exhausted and disheveled. His eyes, usually warm and sparkling, were clouded with worry as he slumped into the seat beside the golden trio. "I… I don't even know where to start," he muttered, voice heavy. "I tried warning them, showing them respect, but now… now they're talking about killing him. I even told them it's a good creature, he keeps his place clean.p"
Harry's stomach sank. "Kill Buckbeak?" he repeated, incredulous. "But he didn't do anything wrong. Draco provoked him."
Hagrid shook his head, a deep frown etching his face. "It doesn't matter. Lucius Malfoy's got the Ministry listening. They don't care if Buckbeak's a noble creature. All they see is a hippogriff attacking the Malfoy boy. I'm heartbroken."
Hermione's hands clenched around her fork. "We have to do something, Hagrid. We can't just let them..."
"I know, I know," Hagrid said quietly, his voice trembling. "But right now… right now I can't even think straight. I was late, and the class…" His shoulders sagged further. "I feel responsible, I do. If I had managed it better… if I had prepared, maybe this wouldn't've happened."
Ron scowled. "It's not your fault, Hagrid. You can't control every student's reaction."
Hagrid's eyes glistened with unshed tears, and Harry felt a pang of sympathy. The gentle giant was devastated, torn between protecting the creature he loved and the overwhelming threat posed by a powerful and influential wizard.
Meanwhile, Draco's outrage simmered at the Slytherin table. "This is outrageous!" he spat, his voice trembling slightly as he gestured with his good hand. "Buckbeak should be put down! He's a menace! My father's already taking steps. I won't allow anyone to be safe until he pays!"
Harry flinched at the intensity in Draco's tone, but he couldn't deny the pang of guilt that twisted in his chest. The incident had escalated far beyond than assumed. Draco's pain, combined with his father's influence, threatened the life of a creature Harry had come to admire.
By afternoon, Hagrid had been called to a series of meetings with the Ministry, leaving the golden trio wandering the grounds, restless and uneasy. Harry could see how much the incident weighed on him, the worry etched into his face, the dragging of his feet, the slow, heavy way he moved. For once, Hagrid seemed humanly frail, vulnerable under the weight of bureaucracy and prejudice.
Hermione spoke softly, almost to herself, as they walked. "We need to find a way to protect Buckbeak. We can't let Lucius Malfoy get away with this."
Ron grumbled, shaking his head. "It's like the whole Ministry's gone mad. They'll just listen to him and do whatever he says."
Harry tightened his jaw, fists clenching. "Then we'll have to do something ourselves. Buckbeak didn't do anything wrong. He doesn't deserve this."
They fell into a grim silence, walking alongside the frozen lake where the snow lay untouched. The sunlight reflected off the ice, sparkling innocently, as if mocking the tension that gripped Hogwarts. The golden trio knew the days ahead would be difficult.
As Hagrid finally returned, exhausted and glum, the trio could see the truth in his eyes, Buckbeak's fate was uncertain, and the shadow of Malfoy influence loomed over Hogwarts. Harry's chest tightened, his sympathy for Draco momentarily mixed with frustration, and a quiet determination settled in. Whatever it took, they would not let Buckbeak be punished unfairly.
The winter sun glinted off the castle walls, cold and unforgiving, as the golden trio silently vowed to protect the hippogriff and perhaps, in the process, defy the fury of Lucius Malfoy.
Harry caught sight of Draco again later that afternoon, standing alone near the courtyard archway. Snowflakes drifted lazily around him, settling lightly on his blond hair, but Draco didn't seem to notice. His sling was still tight against his body, his posture stiff, but something was different.
The fire that usually burned in his eyes, the indignation, the smugness, the need to declare the world unfair wasn't there. He looked distracted. Withdrawn even. Trapped somewhere deep in his own thoughts.
Harry slowed his pace. Ron and Hermione were talking beside him, but their voices faded into a distant hum as Harry watched Draco's expression shift in pain, frustration, and something softer, almost uncertain. There was no triumphant smirk, no pointed glare across the courtyard. Just a boy in discomfort, tired and maybe overwhelmed.
For the first time, Harry wondered if Draco even wanted Buckbeak dead. Malfoy had yelled, yes. Threatened, complained, raged. But now, standing alone, with his shoulders tense and eyes unfocused… he didn't look like someone plotting vengeance. He looked like someone hurting and unsure how to process it.
Harry found himself thinking of Lucius Malfoy storming through the Ministry, twisting the story, pushing for punishment, not out of concern, but pride. Power. Control. Was Draco even part of the decision? Had he asked for it? Or had Lucius simply taken one look at his injured son and decided it was an opportunity to assert dominance?
Harry's chest tightened. He thought of Draco's small, quiet admission of pain the day before. The way he'd looked at the girl who approached him, honest and stripped of any mask. Vulnerable. A side Draco never showed unless he slipped.
Ron nudged him. "Mate, are you even listening?"
Harry blinked, eyes fixed on Draco. "Do you think… he actually wants Buckbeak dead?"
Ron scoffed. "He said it, didn't he?"
"Yeah," Harry murmured, "but that was yesterday. Look at him now."
Hermione followed his gaze. Her expression softened. "He looks… scared," she admitted quietly. "Not angry. Maybe this is his father's doing."
Harry swallowed, unsure why that thought made his heart twist. Maybe it was because Draco suddenly seemed smaller, swallowed by expectations he didn't choose. Or maybe it was because Harry recognized that feeling, being pulled along by someone else's decisions, someone else's legacy.
As Draco finally turned to leave, his good hand clutching his cloak tighter, Harry couldn't shake the thought echoing through him: Maybe it wasn't Draco who wanted the creature to die at all. Maybe he was just another kid caught in the storm of someone else's fury. And somehow, that made everything feel heavier.
Harry kept watching Draco from across the hall as he sat alone, his bandaged arm propped awkwardly in the sling. The usual sharp arrogance, the gleaming pride, even the searing malice, most of it was gone, replaced by a quiet, almost fragile self-absorption. His jaw was set, but his eyes flickered with discomfort rather than fury. He winced slightly every time someone passed too close, tugging at his arm or adjusting his robes.
Harry felt a strange tug in his chest. The venom and entitlement he normally associated with Malfoy were muted, almost humanized. The boy's pain seemed genuine, not theatrical, and it made Harry pause, forcing him to confront an uncomfortable thought: perhaps the cruelty he so easily attributed to Draco wasn't all his own.
As Lucius Malfoy's shadow loomed over the situation, Harry realized the situation was heavier than he'd expected. It wasn't as simple as good versus bad, right versus wrong. Pain could make even arrogance vulnerable, and in Draco's quiet suffering, Harry saw a complexity he hadn't been ready to acknowledge.
Later, Draco sat alone in the Slytherin common room, staring at the snow-dusted window, his bandaged arm throbbing with every slight movement. He clenched and unclenched his good hand, a restless rhythm that mirrored the storm in his mind. The humiliation of the hippogriff's kick had faded, replaced by a heavier weight: guilt.
His father's fury, the way Lucius had stormed the Ministry and manipulated the situation, now hung over him like a dark cloud. Because of him, Buckbeak, a creature whom he had thought was weird, was at risk of being executed.
He hadn't wanted this. Draco had wanted revenge, a way to assert himself against Harry Potter or the embarrassment he'd suffered, but he had never imagined his father would push for the creature's death. Every boast, every threat, now felt hollow in the shadow of the real consequences.
The memory of his father's eyes, sharp and criticizing during their brief morning encounter, burned in his mind. Lucius's disappointment was a constant echo, a judgment Draco couldn't escape. Deep down, he felt trapped in self-loathing, suffocating under the weight of pride, fear, and regret, realizing that sometimes arrogance and obedience could cost far more than he had ever intended.
His chest tightened as he thought of his father. He wished, more than anything, that Lucius had asked how he was, if he was hurt, or even acknowledged the pain in his arm before launching into threats and ultimatums. A small, aching part of him longed for concern, for a gentle word instead of the cold assertion of dominance that had filled their morning. Instead, he had been treated as a tool, a pawn to reinforce Malfoy power. He clenched his fists, heart heavy, imagining a world where his father's first instinct had been care, not control.