Chapter 261: I Didn't Know It Would Turn Out Like This
Draco looked up with trembling fear, his entire body shaking.
“I…”
His lips moved weakly, as if trying to form words. After a pause, only desperate excuses came out through clenched teeth.
“I didn’t know… I didn’t know he’d end up like this… I just… I just wanted to embarrass him… I didn’t know it would turn out like this…”
He sobbed uncontrollably, panic-stricken.
Draco wasn’t unfamiliar with the sight of injured students—Slytherin common room fights were common enough. But witnessing someone lose a limb, or have their body slashed open, or worse, having their internal organs violently torn out… that was something entirely different.
His mind was a blur. The image of Vincent collapsing again and again played behind his eyes like a broken film.
The excuse sounded absurd, but seeing Draco’s terrified, broken state—his pale face, trembling hands, tears streaming down—made even Big Crabbe believe he wasn’t lying.
Indeed… the Entrail-Expelling Curse, while an extremely dark and sinister spell, was, in the hands of a skilled healer, merely a quick and effective remedy for constipation. Fast, efficient—aside from occasionally yanking out the intestines along with the waste, it had no other drawbacks.
Snape’s face twisted in revulsion.
The boy’s thoughts were laid bare like a textbook—every movement of his mind exposed. Draco had only intended to embarrass Vincent in front of everyone, making him soil his pants in public. For a twelve-year-old, such a humiliation could be socially devastating—enough to ruin his reputation, even follow him into the grave.
But the truth was, the Entrail-Expelling Curse wasn’t inherently a harmful spell. Its nature—whether healing or destructive—depended entirely on the wizard’s intent. The precision required to control it was immense—far beyond what any ordinary second-year student could master.
For instance, even at St. Mungo’s, the most advanced healing center in Britain, healers still preferred a bitter-tasting potion for constipation, not a direct curse.
The danger of the spell was clear.
Every wizard learned magic only after studying countless horrifying failure cases—grim warnings about the consequences of misusing power.
Yet Draco had somehow skipped that crucial step.
“Who taught you the Entrail-Expelling Curse?” Dumbledore didn’t scold the panicked boy. Instead, he calmly explained the spell’s danger, then asked again.
Draco froze.
His eyes darted toward Dumbledore, then flickered toward his father’s rigid back and Snape’s stern, dark face. His foot shifted slightly toward his mother.
The ring on his finger suddenly felt unnaturally hot.
The Death Spirit Club…
Why hadn’t they told him the consequences would be this severe?
He bit his lip hard, forcing his voice out.
“No one… I… I saw it in a book…”
Then, realizing the school’s entire library was likely in Dumbledore’s mind, he flinched.
“It was… a family book… an old one… from the Malfoy house.”
Lucius Malfoy closed his eyes briefly.
—Idiot!
He cursed silently, but didn’t expose his son.
No matter how transparent the lie, Lucius Malfoy had to protect Draco.
“I believe you all understand… this was merely a tragic accident born from a minor conflict between children. Youthful recklessness often leads to disaster—misuse of magic is all too common.”
He spoke with an unnatural calm, downplaying the incident as much as possible. Then, with a sincere tone:
“Of course, Draco didn’t mean to harm Vincent. But the damage he caused is undeniable. I will provide full compensation.”
Narcissa nodded silently. Draco noticed her fingers were icy.
Dumbledore had been staring intently at Draco, his gaze so piercing it made the boy’s eyes dart nervously, as if the words “I’m lying” were written across his face.
But then Lucius spoke.
The older man subtly raised his hand, shielding his son, redirecting Dumbledore’s gaze to himself.
Two men locked eyes—Lucius’s gray eyes cold and unyielding.
After a long silence, they seemed to reach an unspoken understanding.
Both turned their attention to the third person present.
“May I, Crabbe?” Lucius asked politely, his tone laced with quiet arrogance.
“I will cover all costs for Vincent’s treatment. In addition, I can offer you…”
He recalled Vincent’s injuries, then mentally added a few extra Galleons.
“—Twenty thousand Galleons.”
Big Crabbe’s lips tightened, his eyes flickering between fury and hesitation.
He had only one son. He doted on him like a king.
At that moment, he wanted to scream: Take your damn money and shove it where the sun don’t shine! We don’t want it! I want that little bastard thrown into Azkaban!
But the truth was—they needed it.
The Crabbe family bore the title of Pure-Blood nobility, but their fortune had long since vanished. They mocked the Weasleys’ poverty, yet their own finances were barely holding on.
Maintaining the image of noble lineage was expensive—especially in recent years, with a flood of extravagant “necessities” draining their coffers dry.
And that student sitting quietly beside them? He bore most of the responsibility.
For families like the Crabbes—former followers of Voldemort—earning money was nearly impossible. Though people didn’t say it aloud, they were quietly shunned, excluded from opportunities.
Of course, publicly, the Crabbes claimed they’d been under the Imperius Curse, forced to commit crimes.
But everyone knew the real story.
So they had no choice but to rely on the Malfoys.
Father to son, chain of dependence.
The Malfoys could live off their wealth for generations without working—sleeping on mountains of gold.
But if the Crabbes lost Lucius Malfoy’s protection, they’d be poorer than the Weasleys within half a year.
After a long, agonizing pause, Big Crabbe finally gave the faintest, slowest nod.
He agreed to a private settlement. But his chest burned with bitterness.
Then, Dumbledore spoke.
“Draco Malfoy used his wand to attack a fellow student within school grounds, causing severe harm. Regardless of intent, he must face consequences.”
Draco’s face turned ashen. He looked up, heart pounding.
The Headmaster’s voice was unyielding.
“Detention. From this afternoon until the end of the third-year final exams. During that time, Draco Malfoy will learn how to respect his peers, how to properly cast spells—”
Dumbledore looked down at Draco, his expression cold.
“And he will prove to the school that, even though he made a grave mistake, he still has the capacity to change. Therefore, his wand will not be destroyed, and he will not be expelled.”
That meant: if Draco made another mistake during detention, the school could combine both offenses and expel him immediately.
Draco looked desperately toward his father.
But Lucius Malfoy didn’t intervene.
He could only nod—faintly, helplessly.
(End of Chapter)
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