Merry Christmas 🎅
Wishing you all lots of happiness and prosperity
May you all be healthy and happy
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Chapter 89
On the second morning after Ron's accident, students from every year and every House were whispering over breakfast.
At Hogwarts, news never needed more than a single night to ferment and spread. By now, everyone knew that Hagrid's first Care of Magical Creatures lesson had gone disastrously wrong—and that a student had been seriously injured.
"Why did you save that annoying red-haired idiot?" Pansy asked sharply, prodding at her breakfast with obvious displeasure. "If it were me, I wouldn't have lifted a finger for someone who talks like that.
Even if my views are changing, repaying insults with kindness still makes my skin crawl."
"Saved him?" Malfoy replied lazily, not even looking up. "If I'd truly wanted to save him, he wouldn't be lying in the hospital wing right now.
All I did was make sure Professor McGonagall arrived in time." He paused, then added coolly, "And didn't she award Slytherin twenty points? She said we reported the incident promptly."
He lifted his gaze and swept it over the nearby Slytherin students before continuing in an even tone, "He's a pure-blood, after all.
As such kind and generous guides"—he stressed the words with faint mockery—"we should allow him the chance to learn humility and recognize our… traditions."
Malfoy sighed, as though weighed down by responsibility. "Pure-bloods are already disappearing fast enough. If one of them dies out of sheer stupidity, it only worsens our situation."
"Besides," he added casually, glancing toward the Gryffindor table, "he's paid dearly already, hasn't he?"
Following his gaze, several students noticed the empty seat. Ron Weasley was nowhere to be seen.
"Oh, and didn't he call me a coward?" Malfoy continued, a faint smile touching his lips. "Only to be helped by that very coward moments later. Imagine how that must sit with him."
"Young Master Draco truly lives up to his reputation," sneered a tall, thin Slytherin boy. "I honestly thought you might help our enemy out of sentiment. This is much better—humiliation without mercy."
A ripple of admiration moved through the Slytherin table. Some students lowered their heads in shame, keenly aware that they still lacked the finesse to grasp the elegance of Malfoy's three-layered retaliation.
Strictly speaking, such open conversation at the breakfast table was impolite—but not forbidden. It was impossible for Gryffindor not to overhear.
Harry's fingers tightened around his cutlery. For a brief moment, he almost stood up. Almost spoke. But the image of Ron lying pale and bandaged in the hospital wing flashed before him, and his strength drained away. He lowered his head instead.
Ron, hearing the details later, felt as though his heart might burst.
He would have preferred Snape assigning him a year of cauldron scrubbing over being "saved" by Malfoy. Yesterday, he'd mocked him openly—his sworn enemy—and now that same enemy had intervened. The blow to his pride was unbearable. Ron could already imagine the looks, the whispers, the smirks waiting for him once he recovered.
Hermione ate in silence.
Her face was blank, but blankness itself spoke volumes. Her thoughts churned chaotically.
She remembered first year—Hogsmeade, the awkward conversations, Malfoy teasing her about blood status with a smile that almost felt sincere. And now? Now he spoke like a pure-blood aristocrat putting on a performance for an audience.
Was that who he truly was?
Or had he always been wearing a mask?
And if it was a mask—what about the Chamber of Secrets? What about the basilisk, the missing memory, the pieces that never quite fit?
Her thoughts tangled further the more she tried to grasp them.
This was third year now. She could go to Hogsmeade freely. That shouldn't feel significant… and yet, something told her it was.
Hermione swallowed, forcing down the bitter taste in her mouth.
"You're not telling the truth."
After breakfast, as the Great Hall gradually emptied, Pansy stopped Malfoy and stared at him intently, as if trying to peel away every layer he'd wrapped around himself.
She didn't believe him.
The boy who had once spoken to her about freedom, about choice, about stepping beyond inherited hatred—that Malfoy wouldn't say such things without reason.
"You're lying," she said flatly.
Malfoy was just about to respond when a dreamy, sing-song voice drifted in from behind them.
"Lies and secrets scare away Crumple-Horned Snorkacks," Luna Lovegood said serenely. "They don't like liars. They can smell dishonesty."
Malfoy froze.
Luna tilted her head, her pale grey eyes oddly penetrating. "But you don't feel dishonest," she added thoughtfully. "There's no bad intent clinging to you at all."
Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned, skipped in a random direction, and vanished into the crowd.
"…Merlin help me," Malfoy muttered.
He turned back to Pansy with a tired sigh. "I always have my reasons."
"You said that last time," Pansy snapped, turning her head away. There was a sour edge to her voice now. "You're always hiding things."
"Class," Malfoy said smoothly, pretending to check the time. "We're going to be late."
"You always change the subject," Pansy replied darkly, shooting him a sideways glare.
One day, she thought, I'll make you tell me the truth willingly.
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