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Madam Pomfrey was furious when Hagrid carried Draco to the hospital wing, but, unlike usual, she wasn't furious at Draco.
"Hippogriffs?" she said, her mouth a thin disapproving line and her voice clipped as she bustled around Draco.
Hagrid shuffled his hulking, enormous body like a misbehaved schoolboy. It reminded Draco of Crabbe and Goyle, but he quickly banished that thought. Hagrid was just a Potter-loving halfwit who'd got him scarred, of all the abhorrent things, and Crabbe and Goyle were his best friends. They weren't comparable at all, and Draco would never feel sympathy for his enemies!
"Hippogriffs! For their first lesson! What were you thinking! You're lucky it didn't tear out his throat - or that more students weren't injured!"
Draco quite agreed with her and would've silently cheered her on if his arm hadn't been slashed open. If it weren't for the pain, he could've enjoyed this show more. He didn't think he'd ever be the same after this. He'd be a half-cripple for the rest of his life. He'd be known as that Half-Arm Malfoy.
"Well," Hagrid mumbled, sounding abashed, "I thought it'd make an interestin' firs' lesson."
"Yes. Perhaps for fifth-years," Madam Pomfrey snapped, before turning towards Draco and speaking to him with soothing competence.
When she healed his wounds and the pain eased like spring rain, Draco made the split-second decision to keep up his piteous moaning, just to hear her rail at Hagrid and fuss over him some more.
He did this often when he was sick, much to his mother's amused indulgence. It was the least he deserved for having been slashed like a polecat for a meal.
This play came to an abrupt halt when Pansy Parkinson rushed into the hospital wing, looking distraught. Hagrid shuffled his enormous body awkwardly out, but Draco didn't mind the loss of his entertainment all that much. Pansy stopped beside his bed and cried and cooed over him while Draco preened tragically for her. He quite liked her; she had a wicked sense of humour and a cute little upturned nose.
Madam Pomfrey shooed her out after a while, and Draco leaned back into his pillows and contemplated the ceiling in the following quiet.
This was all Potter's fault, Draco decided. Nothing in his life had gone well since they'd met that day in the robe shop, and briefly, Draco considered the idea that Potter had cursed him. But no - that couldn't be. Potter was totally incompetent; he barely knew how to do three spells.
It was just - Draco had looked forward to his life at Hogwarts. He'd had all sorts of plans for his school life, like smuggling his racing broom into the school and becoming a first-year Seeker. But somehow Potter had snatched that away from him instead. And now his pet oaf was ruining Care of Magical Creatures, too.
He'd always liked magical creatures. When he'd been a child, he'd wanted a dragon. He'd imagined himself riding one, flying about the country, charring his enemies to a crisp. It would've been grand.
His father hadn't yet caved to Draco's best efforts to let him have a pet, though - "What'd you need a pet for, Draco? Those beasts are filthy and messy. And don't you already have Vincent and Gregory?" - aside from Hydra, his eagle owl. But his mother had insisted he have her, because she wanted to send care packages to him at Hogwarts. Almost every month Hydra had to go fetch a package or a letter from his mother. Draco supposed at least she'd keep slim.
And sure, maybe he sometimes secretly suspected that Crabbe and Goyle had giant or troll blood in them, but it wasn't quite the same. While Draco could train them - and oh, did they need to be trained - he couldn't exactly pet them without it being weird. The last time he'd tried that they'd been four, and Goyle had started crying because Draco had apparently patted his head too hard. It wasn't his fault he'd thought it'd be harder than it was.
He'd thought Care of Magical Creatures would be a sufficient substitute - at least until he came up with a plan how to sneak an elf cat into the manor without Father noticing. He'd been most watchful since Draco had thrown grindylow eggs into the lake on the grounds, and he'd had to summon the pest control to get rid of them, much to Draco's consternation.
But not only was the class shared with Gryffindors, the senile nepotist himself had appointed Hagrid as the new teacher. He wasn't even a proper wizard. He'd been expelled in his third year, didn't have a wand, couldn't do magic, and was barely literate.
As if that glitzy buffoon from last year hadn't been enough - even if Draco had quite admired his hair. The rumours said he'd Obliviated himself because of some fame-induced breakdown. Draco wondered what it was about celebrities and their fragile tempers, and whether it was possible to drive Potter and his pet Weasley to an early breakdown. They were both easy enough to provoke, if nothing else. Draco had high hopes for a rage-induced aneurysm at least.
But, well. He'd hoped Potter would get slashed, too. When the big oaf had introduced the hippogriffs, Draco had made a bet out of it with Crabbe and Goyle. After all, Potter was an insufferable, rude git-face. Surely a hippogriff would give him another scar or two. It wasn't like Draco had to pay attention to the lesson anyway; he already knew all about hippogriffs. For example, unlike their esteemed professor, he was well aware that hippogriffs were fifth-year material and not suitable starters for beginners whose only contact with magical creatures so far had been their pets.
But instead of carving Potter up for Draco's enjoyment, the over-glorified equine chicken actually let Potter fly him - never mind bowed to him. Evidently, even animals weren't immune to the confounding properties of Potter's scar. That was why Draco had forgotten himself for a moment and ended up in the hospital wing instead. It wasn't his fault; that was just how he spoke. Crabbe and Goyle understood - that was why they were best friends. Fang understood, too, whenever Draco snuck in to see him when Hagrid wasn't home. He just panted happily and let Draco get on with scratching him, no matter how he spoke to the filthy flea-bag.
He made a face, thinking about how insufferable the Care of Magical Creatures was going to be with Hagrid teaching. That incompetent idiot was going to get someone killed one of these days, and Dumbledore would just brush it under the rug like he brushed everything else his pawns did. Draco needed a plan; he was a Slytherin, not to mention a Malfoy. It was what they did.
He wheedled Madam Pomfrey into letting him stay in the hospital wing so he could mull over his plot to get Hagrid sacked and put the gears in motion. She pursed her mouth, looking torn between indulging him and slapping him silly if he weren't her patient. Draco got that a lot. His mother said it was one of his father's charms and how he'd got her into dating him, which had been one detail too many.
By Thursday morning, her charitability ran out, though, which was just as well. Draco had his bandages, his sling, and his plan, and Professor Snape had double Potions that morning anyway.
He hadn't exactly planned to get injured, but, Draco thought as he swaggered into the dungeon fashionably late, he could definitely see all sorts of benefits to it.