Chapter 40: A Nose for Trouble
"It's all because of you, you slimy stalker!" Ron roared, his face flushing a deep, angry red.
"I don't see it that way, Weasley," Draco drawled, his voice dripping with condescension. "It's the law. Every wizard has an obligation to report such a crime to the Ministry. I'm not a degenerate like you, content to wallow in rule-breaking."
He made a show of looking Harry and Ron up and down, his lip curled in a sneer. "Just look at the pair of you. One raised by Muggles, the other..." He turned slightly to address Crabbe and Goyle. "You know, Weasley's father actually likes Muggles. Can you imagine—?"
He was cut off as Ron, with a wordless roar of fury, launched himself forward. Draco, distracted by his own gloating, didn't see it coming. He only registered the alarm on his cronies' faces a second too late. Ron's fist connected solidly with his nose with a sickening crunch.
Blood spurted instantly. Draco staggered back, his hands flying to his face, a sharp cry of pain escaping him. Crabbe and Goyle, finally spurred into action, caught him before he could fall.
"What are you standing there for!" Draco shrieked, his voice muffled by his hands as he tried to stem the flow of blood.
The scene descended into chaos. Even without Draco's direct participation, Harry and Ron were no match for the larger, heavier Slytherins. Harry was shoved aside easily, crashing into the wall. Goyle and Crabbe set upon Ron, who had been knocked to the floor, their fists and feet landing with dull thuds. In moments, Ron's face was a canvas of blossoming purple and blue bruises.
Despite the throbbing pain in his nose, a vicious sense of satisfaction bloomed in Draco's chest as he watched Ron being pummeled.
The commotion, however, had drawn attention. The portrait hiding a secret passage swung open, and Fred and George Weasley emerged, arms laden with what were clearly contraband goods. The sight of their younger brother being beaten on the ground wiped the usual grins from their faces. While they teased Ron mercilessly, that was a brother's prerogative. No one else was allowed to do it.
Without a word, they dropped their parcels and drew their wands. A series of sharp, non-verbal spells sent Crabbe and Goyle stumbling backwards, breaking their hold on Ron.
Just as the twins advanced, wands raised to teach the Slytherins a proper lesson, a soft meow froze them in their tracks.
It was a sound they knew all too well from their nightly escapades: Mrs. Norris. Where the cat was, her master was never far behind.
Fred and George scrambled to retrieve their dropped items. "Harry! Ron! Scram, Filch is coming!" one of them yelled, and both twins vanished around the corner in a flash.
It was too late for the others. Draco, still clutching his bloody nose, Crabbe and Goyle cowering by the wall, Ron moaning on the floor, and a dazed Harry—were all caught red-handed by Argus Filch.
Student brawling was a serious offence in any school. While sending for parents was uncommon in the wizarding world, detentions and point deductions were not.
Each house was docked twenty points. All involved were sentenced to two weeks of detention with their respective Heads of House. While Snape was unlikely to be harsh on Draco, Harry and Ron faced Professor McGonagall's icy wrath. To make matters worse, with all the interruptions, they had completely forgotten to send the letter to Charlie.
That night, both the injured Malfoy and Weasley found themselves in the Hospital Wing. Harry, without Ron, had no idea how to contact his brother in Romania.
Draco was discharged the next morning and eagerly recounted the previous night's events to Solim over breakfast.
"You let him hit you on purpose, didn't you?" Solim said, giving Draco a sidelong glance.
"Maybe," Draco admitted, his eyes gleaming with smug calculation. "I know they'll try to get rid of the dragon before the Ministry arrives. All I have to do is delay them." He shot a triumphant look towards the Gryffindor table, where a bruised Ron was glaring back with pure hatred. "I've figured it out. One of the Weasleys works on a dragon reserve in Romania. That's their only way out. I'm having the owlery watched. I'm certain they haven't made contact yet."
His plan was simple: ensure the Ministry officials, who could Apparate, arrived before Charlie, who would have to travel by broomstick with a dragon in tow.
"Then I wish you luck," Solim said, wiping his mouth as he finished his meal. After a moment's thought, he added, "But don't get your hopes up. I suspect Dumbledore is already aware of this. With his influence, stalling the Ministry for a day or two would be trivial."
Draco looked at Solim intently. "I can tell you don't like Potter and Weasley either. We could make their lives miserable together."
Solim looked pointedly at Draco's nose, which Madam Pomfrey had only just repaired. "Is that so? Then how is it that I heard," he said with a faint, mocking smile, "you were the one who needed mending last night?"
Draco's cheeks flushed. "That was a cheap shot! I was talking to Goyle when that Weasel attacked me like a coward!"
Solim's smile vanished, replaced by a stern expression. "Then you should be grateful it was a 'coward' who attacked you, and that he used his fist and not his wand. Consider what would have happened if he'd silently cast a Full-Body Bind, or worse."
Draco opened his mouth to retort, but no sound came out.
"Never drop your guard until your enemy is completely neutralized. And even then, don't waste time gloating. Finish it. Quickly." Solim's voice was cold. He had seen and heard of too many fools who had lost their advantage—and their lives—by celebrating too soon.
"I think this little victory has made you complacent, Draco."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You think learning non-verbal Expelliarmus makes you invincible? Weasley just proved he can beat you with his bare hands. If you hadn't brought your bodyguards last night, how badly do you think Potter and Weasley would have thrashed you?" Solim's tone was dangerously playful.
The truth was, while Draco might have a slight edge in spellcasting, the gap wasn't vast. In a chaotic scrap between first-years, fists were often more effective than wands.
"You want to ruin them? Fine. But be smart about it." Solim traced a slow circle on the table. "You don't need to confront them personally. You could have just had Crabbe and Goyle ambush them. Instead, you walked out and gave a speech, and Weasley punched you in the face. What were you thinking?"