Chapter Text
THE DAILY PROPHET
March 11, 2003
Malfoy the Menace Strikes Again: Injuries and Property Damage in Latest Broom-Racing Scandal
Appleby Arrows’ notorious Chaser, Draco Malfoy, is making headlines once more, and not for his performance on the pitch.
Sources confirmed late Monday night that Malfoy was spotted leading an illegal broom race through the Yorkshire moors, resulting in the injury of two bystanders and substantial damage to muggle property. This marks his third offence in just two years, reinforcing the League-wide nickname “Malfoy the Menace.”
Known for his blistering speed, raw talent, and a temper to match, Malfoy’s career has been as controversial as it is brilliant. Fans may cheer him for impossible goals, but League officials grow increasingly wary of his explosive presence, both during and between matches. A staggering number of mid-game brawls have been traced back to the Chaser’s sharp tongue and ego.
With five years behind us since the end of the war, many hoped Malfoy had traded scandal for redemption. Instead, it seems he’s only changed arenas. The League has yet to issue an official statement, but insiders suggest disciplinary action is imminent and this time, it may not end with a slap on the wrist.
The locker room reeked of sweat, damp leather, liniment, and something sour. Shame, probably, Draco thought. Or last week’s spilt firewhisky soaking into the floorboards. Hard to tell. Somewhere in the corner, someone’s discarded kit bag had started to rot - the smell of mildew assaulted his nostrils with every shallow inhale. But the worst part was the silence. Not a pin-drop sort of quiet, but the heavy and loaded kind - the kind that came just before someone exploded.
Draco sat on the bench, arms limp at his sides, hair still wet from the rain or the shower. He wasn’t really sure anymore. The echo of raised voices still rang in his ears. Wood hadn’t started with shouting. That was the most terrifying part. He’d started with disappointment. That flat, clipped tone, more lethal than a Howler. And now, the coach paced just a few feet away looking like he was trying very hard not to throw a Bludger through Draco’s skull. Or kick him off the team entirely. The second vein in Wood’s temple was pulsing. Draco counted them now like a doomsday clock. One meant you still had a shot. Two? You were fucked.
“Are you thick, Malfoy?” Coach Wood’s voice cracked like a Bludger through a pane of glass.
His face was red and not just from exertion - he always looked vaguely constipated post-training. But now he was properly livid.
“Three times. Three illegal broom-racing stunts in two years. You think the sponsors are just going to smile and wave their chequebooks at that?”
Draco peeled off his practice robes, not bothering to meet the man’s eyes.
“I didn’t even touch the muggles. They were startled. That’s all. And the shed? That was already falling apart—”
“Oh, piss off with the technicalities.”
Wood hurled a towel across the room. It hit a locker and slumped, defeated.
“You were there. You flew. You nearly crashed into a bloody cow. This isn’t the Underground, it’s the Arrows, and I’ve had it. The League’s on my arse. You know what that means? It means I’m spending my nights massaging egos and lying through my bloody teeth just to keep Bletchley’s Broomsticks from pulling out of their contract.”
Draco finally looked up, eyes sharper than flint.
“I’ve carried this team,” he said, voice venom-laced. “I scored nineteen goals against the Wasps last season. I broke the Falcons’ twelve-year home win streak. You’d still be chasing mid-tier if I hadn’t snatched that final from under Puddlemere’s nose. You want me gone? Fine. Good luck winning without me.”
Wood didn’t blink. Or move. Just pressed two fingers to his temple like he was praying to Merlin for patience. Draco held his ground, but something twisted under his ribs. He didn’t do fallback plans. There was Quidditch, and there was nothing. And if even that was slipping…well.
Fuck.
“You done?” he said finally.
Draco only clenched his jaw.
“Good. Because you are out, Malfoy. As of this morning, you’re suspended pending League review. But—" he raised a finger, and Draco hated how hopeful it made him, “There’s one option left. One way you can stay. Barely.”
Draco stepped forward. “What.”
“You’re not gonna like it.”
“Try me.”
“It’s Ministry-backed,” Coach said, like it tasted like ash in his mouth. “Public-facing. PR campaign. They’ve got this ‘Unity Initiative’.” You could be their poster boy. Media, events, youth outreach. Big smiles and handshake photos. Clean image. Like a makeover for your soul.”
Draco stared at him. “You want me to play...charity Chaser? Do tea with pensioners and pretend to like children?”
“No, no. Worse . You’ll be paired.”
“With who.”
“Granger,” Coach said. “Ministry’s Saint Swot. She’s heading the programme.”
Silence. Draco barked a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Fuck me.”
“Exactly,” said Coach, turning away. "Don’t balls this up."
__________
Saint Swot. No one called her that to her face, of course. But they didn’t really need to. The moniker followed her like a halo she hadn’t asked for but had no intention of shaking off. Hermione Granger, war heroine turned bureaucratic powerhouse, had become the Ministry’s darling in the five years since the war. Leading the “Magical Community Unity Initiative”, a glittering PR circus dressed up as a moral crusade, she spent her days organising interschool cultural exchanges, smoothing pureblood-muggleborn tensions with careful language, and giving rousing speeches about the future while elbow-deep in departmental paperwork.
Her office always smelled of ink and wood varnish. She always arrived at precisely 8:30 every morning, quill already poised for the first round of meetings. Every sentence was thoughtful. Every smile rehearsed. Her schedules ran like clockwork and her appearances like choreography. The press adored her. Old ladies in Hogsmeade wrote letters praising her style. Children named their cats Hermione. You can't spell Hermione without heroine, they'd always say about her.
She was a publicist’s dream - clean lines, calm tone, unfailing composure. Where Malfoy accumulated scandals like Chocolate Frog cards, Hermione cultivated a brand of control so flawless it bordered on divine. Gone were the whispers about her blood status, the slow-burning revulsion she once felt under the stares of pureblood socialites. No one gave a damn anymore; not when she could get the Bulgarian Minister of Magic and the head of the Hogwarts Board of Governors to sit through the same dinner without hexing each other. She was the Ministry’s secret weapon. And if she sometimes stared too long at her own reflection in the mirror, wondering who the hell she’d become…well, no one needed to know that either. The summons came at exactly 9:15am, just as Hermione was halfway through rewriting the guest list for the Midlands Magical Reconciliation Brunch because someone had discovered that two of the invitees had once tried to off each other over a Gobstones match in 1994.
“Granger. My office.”
Desmond Toller, Deputy Head of Magical Communications and Public Outreach, was a rotund man with an unfortunate fondness for brown tweed and faking urgency. His voice always sounded like there were lives at stake, even when all he wanted was tea. Hermione brushed a curl behind her ear, smoothed her blouse, and stepped into the lion’s den. He didn’t offer tea. Bad sign.
“Have a seat,” he said, which was a worse one.
She sat stiffly. Toller clasped his fingers, sighed dramatically, and then dropped the kind of sentence that rearranged the trajectory of one's entire morning.
“You’ll be co-leading the Unity Initiative with Draco Malfoy.”
Hermione didn’t react. Not for a full minute. She simply stared, her face frozen in that polite, neutral expression cultivated over years of tense diplomatic negotiations and mildly xenophobic donors.
Toller leaned forward. “Granger? Are you…are you having a stroke?”
She blinked.
“Oh no,” she laughed. “You were joking, weren’t you? Haha. Very droll.”
He winced. “I’m not.”
The room tilted slightly. Hermione blinked again. “You’re not.”
“No. It’s effective immediately, in fact. The Ministry and the Quidditch League struck a deal. Kingsley signed off this morning. It’s already in the Prophet, actually.”
He paused, then added helpfully, “Page four.”
Hermione stared at a small crack in the wall behind him and thought, briefly, about setting the entire building on fire. Draco Malfoy. Malfoy the Menace, for those that preferred the catchy moniker. The League’s most infamous bad boy, poster child for unchecked ego and terrible decisions. She’d read it all. The illegal broom races across London. The drunken brawls. The time he was dragged out of the Twilfrost Gala after flipping a whole dessert table because a guest called him a “washed-up aristo with daddy issues.” And now she was expected to smile next to him in photographs and pretend they were best mates building bridges. Her pulse skittered. For a second, absurdly, it felt like being seventeen again; off-balance, exposed, hopelessly unprepared. But the feeling passed. Simply because it had to.
“Why?” she asked eventually, voice taut.
“Optics,” said Toller, already massaging his temples. “The public loves a redemption arc. He’s the Bad Boy On The Broom. You’re The Harbinger of Hope. It’s the perfect story! The world needs to see a Malfoy and a muggleborn working together. It’s symbolic. Healing. All of that.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you aware of his track record?”
“I’m also aware of yours,” he said, suddenly sharp. “Which is why I know you can handle it. And let’s not pretend you have a choice.”
Hermione exhaled through her nose. “So, I’m his babysitter now?”
“Wrangler is more like it,” Toller said, without shame. “And yes. We’ll need progress reports. Keep him in line.”
When she emerged from the office twenty minutes later, she looked as composed as ever. Inside, she was vibrating with dread. Draco Bloody Malfoy. Assigned to her. Effective immediately. She’d united nations. She’d reformed outdated laws. Now she was about to spend Godric knows how long managing the human embodiment of a tabloid scandal.
Fan-fucking-tastic.