Chapter Text
“From Pureblood Heir to Poacher: The Draco Malfoy Transformation”
By Marla Mirth, Special Correspondent for High Society & Scandal
Grab your dragonhide gloves and put up your strongest shielding charm, Draco Malfoy has officially traded in his silk-lined robes for soot and something bound to cause a stir during the upcoming social season…
Hold onto your hats as I introduce you to Draco Malfoy: Dragon-hunter.
The once-notorious heir of the Malfoy estate has been spotted in the mountains of Romania, looking more like a wand-for-hire than the pristine Pureblood poster boy we remember. Witnesses describe him as ‘unkempt, tattooed and quite bad tempered’.
Behind his new look and undeniable ruggedness lies a darker question: what secrets is the youngest Malfoy keeping?
Unconfirmed reports from Ministry insiders suggest Malfoy has not registered with the International Dragon Committee, nor has he applied for a license under the Ministry’s Magical Conservation Accord. Several sightings place him in classified territory, where local herders have recently reported mysterious cattle disappearances and scorched earth. Draw your own conclusions, dear readers.
So, is Draco Malfoy a local folk-hero, an unregistered dragon hunter, or does the mystery run even deeper? In this humble reporter’s opinion, we haven’t seen the last of the elusive (and eligible) bachelor.
-
Dearest Draco,
It is with no small degree of frustration that I write to you once again, having received no reply to my last three owls, nor letters relayed via that ill-tempered half-goblin courier you insist on employing.
I will not pretend to understand your current... occupation. I am told (by Theodore Nott, who is terribly concerned for you) that you have decided to spend yet another summer in Romania, chasing dragons like a common farmhand. I cannot imagine what you think you are accomplishing out there.
It is time you returned to the role you were raised for; steward of our family’s future. As for your mother… I don’t believe I need to elaborate.
You have made your point, Draco. Come home.
Your father always,
Lucius A. Malfoy
Postmaster’s note: UNDELIVERED
-
Hermione Granger had the world at her fingertips after the war. Of course, she had to choose a job that was slowly sapping her will to live.
When she’d begun her role as a Healer at St. Mungoes at the age of eighteen, she hadn’t expected to be assigned to the incurable curses ward. It had just happened . One minute she was making a polite observation that topical skelegrow could prove effective to heal surface level burns, and the next she had been bundled into a severely underfunded research team as a specialist healer. Then, she’d taken on the volunteer role in the finance department when it became clear that nobody else could keep up with the paperwork of keeping the ward running.
When it dawned on Hermione that even her obsessive organisation couldn’t pull galleons out of thin air, she’d drawn up a brief campaign to raise funds for the ward. A brief campaign that should have finished two years ago.
The sad truth of the matter was that despite her best efforts, the Janus Thickey ward was still completely and utterly skint.
Luckily for the ward (and unluckily for Hermione), in recent years, the war’s wealthiest survivors, particularly those from old Pureblood families, had made something of a sport out of their repentance. It was clear the Malfoys were going for gold tonight. The manor was absurdly, insultingly extravagant. The great hall was plastered in enchanted banners that read, in tasteful silver script, ‘rebuilding; a benefit for St. Mungoes’, then beneath it in much larger text,
‘SPONSORED BY THE MALFOY TRUST’.
Everyone knew the story of the Malfoys. Yes, they'd been on the wrong side of the war; but they'd certainly played both sides- in fact, the ancient pureblood family had maintained such a diplomatic distance from Lord Voldemort that they'd avoided a trial altogether. Of course, it wasn't a coincidence that Narcissa Malfoy had a contact in the Wizengamot. Not that Hermione Granger believed in coincidences anymore.
“Narcissa outdid herself.” Hermione overheard a witch saying to her husband, with a curl of her lip as a levitating, embellished tray served them crystal flutes of champagne. “Heavens preserve us, we’ll never hear the end of it.”
Hermione had already given her speech on the importance of the work they were doing reversing blood curses in the Janus Thickey ward and considered it a success. Nobody had fallen asleep, at least. Now came the worst part of the evening; nodding politely as potential donors discussed how dreary the social season was with post-war budget cuts.
Hermione took solace in the fact that on this occasion, she had backup. That being said, it didn’t look like Harry was faring any better than she was. He was nodding distractedly as an old, posh witch in a plumed hat talked his ear off. His eyes darted around frantically for someone- anyone - to get him out of this but he was out of luck. His only hope was striding red-faced and furious between the tastefully decorated tables and towards Hermione.
“Healer Granger. Can I borrow you for a moment?” Ginny plastered on a beaming smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then, she was steered away from polite chit-chat with the Bridgington-Waltbys and behind a potted plant.
“Bunch of rich fucking tossers, the lot of them.” Ginny began scathingly under her breath. “That dusty old gobstones champion over there just had the audacity to congratulate me on winning the world cup. Said ‘up Chudley Cannons!’ and just buggered off to the cheese trays.” Hermione winced.
Ginny’s team hadn’t won the world cup; they’d been knocked out in the semi-finals. The Holyhead Harpies had made the Cannons fight for their victory with eight hours of some of the most intricate flying Hermione had ever seen, but that didn’t matter much to Ginny. It was her first season as their chaser, and she had herself to prove.
“He probably doesn’t even watch Quidditch.” Hermione said soothingly.
“He’s probably inbred. Doesn’t make him any less of a dickhead.” Ginny slid off her heels and rubbed her ankles, her face thunderous as she muttered something like ‘next year’ under her breath.
“I’m sorry, Gins. Just grin and bear it, and it’ll be over soon.”
“What I wouldn’t give for a pint of Rosmerta’s home brew and a pumpkin pasty.” She said mournfully. “This posh food always gives me the runs.”
“I know. Next time we’ll do a night at the Three Broomsticks, I promise.” Hermione replied, and tried to sound grateful instead of guilty. It had been hard to squeeze her friends- or anything really- around her punishing schedule.
Ginny had portkeyed in from Scotland for this event and come rain or shine, she would be back on the pitch at 6am sharp to comb through flying drills with the Harpies. Harry wasn’t much better; he had his hands full at the moment with their unruly son James, who was just beginning to teeth. Harry wasn’t the ‘chosen one’ to baby James, just ‘Dada’; an endless source of shoulder rides and magic tricks. Hermione saw him stifle a yawn out of the corner of her eye.
Ginny frowned; she could always sense when Hermione was distracted. It usually resulted in either a heartfelt ‘are you okay, ‘Mione?’ or a wildly inappropriate joke.
“Don’t worry. If things go tits up, you can rent out Harry to Lucretia Greengrass.” Looks like Ginny had gone for the ‘inappropriate joke’ approach; perhaps Hermione didn’t look as burned out as she felt. “She’s been pawing over him all night. Bet she’s got a pretty penny.”
“You and Harry have done enough.” Hermione said darkly.
Her friends weren’t just generous with their time. Their donation to the research fund had been… a lot. Too much, in fact. It would bankrupt her fifty times over to repay them, not that they would ever ask for it back.
She shouldn’t have spent so much on the expedition to Peru. It had taken her five months and a staggering amount of galleons to discover that her research on knotgrass was completely ineffective on blood curses. She’d managed to cure a few mild skin diseases as a consolation prize, and St. Mungoes had labelled it a success instead of what it really was; a catastrophic waste of time and gold.
“Stop doing that.” Ginny interrupted her thoughts.
“Stop doing what?”
“That thing you do where you get all quiet and worried. I’m just being dramatic, it’s not that bad.” Hermione gave Ginny a smile, and tried not to worry about the stack of paperwork waiting for her on Monday. It wasn’t Ginny’s fault their Gringotts vault was a black hole.
“I’m sick of it too.” Hermione admitted, her eyes darting around to make sure no-one would overhear. “Between you and me, I don’t know how I’m going to do this for another three months.”
“It was three months ago last year.” Ginny frowned at her. “Look, I know it’s important but you and I both know your brains are wasted on fundraising. You should be focusing on research instead of kissing arse, I know you miss it-“
“That’s not an option. Do you think I’d be here if it was?” Hermione sounded snappy, even though she didn’t want to. Ginny sighed and massaged her temples.
“I’m not trying to argue.” She said finally. “Look, what if Harry and I made another donation-“
“Absolutely not.” Hermione didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wouldn’t be enough. “I’ll figure something out, don’t worry.” She smiled one of the bright, fake smiles she reserved for public appearances and Ginny gave her a look in return as if to say she didn’t believe it for a second.
“There you are.” Thankfully, Hermione was saved from continuing the eternally awkward debate over money; a slightly red-faced Harry had found them. “Having fun?” Ginny asked her husband brightly.
“Tons, thanks.” Harry scowled. “Cheers for abandoning me with Lucretia. I thought she’d never stop talking.” Ginny raised one eyebrow and gave Hermione a pointed look.
“I don’t know, you two looked rather cosy.” She said with a smirk.
“You were practically flirting with her, Harry.” Hermione added on teasingly and he flushed scarlet.
“She called me an asset to the Ministry, I was just trying to be polite-”
“A likely story.” Ginny raised one eyebrow.
“She’s ninety years old!”
“Alright, graverobber.” Ginny bumped his shoulder playfully and Harry eased into an exasperated smile.
“Ron sent an owl, by the way. James is asleep.” Ginny let out a small noise of outrage.
“Oh, so he can go to bed on time without screaming the house down.” She huffed. “Good to know all it took was Uncle Ron asking nicely.” They began to bicker good-naturedly. Ginny was convinced that Harry was spoiling their son beyond belief (‘Oi, what about that toy broom you gave him last month?’) and Harry was lamenting that in a few years James would be off to Hogwarts, practically a grownup, and they should enjoy this while it lasted (‘He’s six months old , Harry’).
Then, Harry uttered a low oath under his breath as he caught sight of who had just swept by their hiding place; Ginny gave a groan.
“Not those smarmy arseholes. Here, duck down or they’ll see us-” She muttered, yanking Harry down by his collar and furiously shushing her husband’s shocked yelp.
It was Lucius Malfoy, dressed in an immaculate green silk robe and wearing his usual haughty expression. He had already made excuses for his absent wife Narcissa (who was taking an extended trip to the alps for some ‘mountain air’) and now he was doing his victory lap, luxuriating in his role as host as he greeted guests. Trailing behind him was a tall man with ice-blonde hair.
Hermione squinted.
Draco?
“Isn’t he supposed to be in Romania?” Harry asked, already frowning.
“He is. Dragon hunting, last time I checked.” Hermione hadn’t exactly kept tabs on Draco Malfoy and if she had , it was out of safety rather than curiosity.
A few months ago, a snapshot in the Prophet had made her do a double-take. Draco, barely recognisable, dressed in scorched dragonhide, scowling at the camera. A long, painful looking burn snaked up his forearm. Dittany and a simple cleansing charm, Hermione had thought. It wasn’t exactly rocket science.
Beneath the photograph was a short, but gossipy, article that touched on Draco’s extended absence from high society. Woven into the narrative were rumours of illegal dragon poaching in rural Romania and black market goods being smuggled over the border. It was all very dark and dramatic, and Hermione suspected, mostly fiction.
Hermione’s brow furrowed as she watched Draco greet Didalus Delweed, a retired Charms professor, with a graceful bow of his head. He was… immaculate. Handsome, even. Silver haired and silver tongued, a picture perfect gentleman.
“Maybe he used a private floo network. You know the Malfoys.” Ginny said peevishly.
“Not this time of year.” She said quietly. “Look, Draco just shook Delweed’s hand. Is nobody else finding that odd?” Both Harry and Ginny were looking at her like she’d grown an extra head and Hermione sighed and explained. “Fifth year, Draco called Professor Delweed a ‘blustering fool with as much sense as a braindead kneazle’. Then he set his desk on fire.” Ginny snorted.
“Oh yeah. Inextinguishable.” There was a begrudging tone of admiration in her voice. “I thought McGonegall was going to strangle him with her bare hands.”
“Blimey, Hermione, how’d you remember that?” Harry said, sounding mildly impressed. She didn’t answer.
Draco accepted a glass of fizz with his right hand (even though Hermione knew for a fact he was left-handed), and finally caught her staring daggers. He gave her a nervous smile and turned back to his conversation.
“Looks to me like father dearest has tightened the leash.” Ginny said under her breath, amused.
Hermione was barely listening; she had seen enough. Draco Malfoy didn’t smile , the idea was absurd. The Draco she knew at Hogwarts had never smiled like that. He’d smirked like he was about to hex you the minute you turned your back. “Give me a minute. I want to check something.” Hermione said quickly, and left her friends to a fresh debate on whether or not James was old enough to take flying lessons (he wasn’t) and whether or not Uncle Fred was becoming a bad influence (he was).
She watched the Malfoys for half an hour or so to confirm her theory, examining the tall stranger. Not-quite-Draco. He was a master at playing the bureaucrats and ministry officials, weaving through conversations with a lighthearted and very un-Draco-like tone. Occasionally, he offered witty political jabs that elicited roars of laughter from his captive audience and furtive looks from Lucius. She glanced over his suspiciously perfect forearm, the one that had borne a heavy scar in the Prophet’s snapshot only months before. It took years of intricate spellwork to heal dragonfire burns.
Either Draco had a healer up his sleeve that was better than Hermione, or that wasn’t Draco Malfoy .
Her eyes narrowed.
When he separated from the crowd, Hermione took her opportunity.
She concealed her wand beneath the sleeve of her robe. She didn’t want to cause a scene, not when so much depended on this fundraiser’s success. Then, she waited until Draco’s back was turned and promptly jammed it into his ribs.
“Who are you?” She demanded, and not-quite-Draco turned around slowly with a fleeting look of horror on his face.
“What are you talking about? I’m… I’m Draco.” He stammered. “Draco Malfoy- ”
“And I’m a flying erumpent.” Hermione retorted. “What is it, a glamour charm? Polyjuice? Why are you really here? Who sent you? ” She punctuated each sentence with a savagely well-aimed jab of her wand. Not-quite-Draco was looking around now as if he were terrified someone would overhear them.
Lucius Malfoy began to hurry over from the punch-table, almost tripping on the hem of his expensive robes. “You have about five seconds to start talking before I have you dragged out and charged for trespassing at a private function-”
“Healer Granger!” Lucius interrupted, a guilty smile plastered on his face. “How lovely to see you, have you tried the french fancies? Simply exquisite. Come along now, Draco-”
“Ah, Lucius. Perfect timing, it would seem your son is an imposter who may be planning to murder us all.” Hermione said, dead-pan. If Lucius didn’t have a hand in this, she would eat Lucretia Greengrass’ hat. “No harm done, I’ll just call the Aurors in, shall I?” Not-quite-Draco was close to breaking, her wand still firmly lodged against his ribs. He was shifting from foot to foot.
“Alright, alright!” He burst out finally. Several witches and wizards turned around at the commotion and he lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I’m not Draco, my name is Theo. Theo Nott. I’m only here as a favour, I didn’t know it was illegal!!” Lucius shot him a furious look and Hermione’s eyes narrowed.
“Well, would you look at that.” She said, with judgemental satisfaction. Lucius drew himself up to his full height.
“Polyjuice is perfectly legal in private domiciles, I’ll have you know.” He huffed. “I merely utilised young Nott here to fulfil Draco’s social duties this evening. It’s not a long-term solution, of course, it’s just until he gets this dreadful phase out of his system.” Lucius wrinkled his nose in elegant disgust.
“We all have weird phases. Who’s to judge?” Theo-Draco chimed in, trying desperately to diffuse the situation. “Go on then, what gave me away? Was it the sneer? I’ve never been able to get that one right-“
“You talk too much.” Hermione cut him off witheringly.
“I quite agree, Healer Granger.” Lucius snapped and Theo shuffled guiltily and mumbled a ‘sorry’.
“All this effort. Dare I ask why?”
Lucius gave a dramatic sigh. “My son has, for the past three years, been publically gallivanting around the Romanian countryside, slitting dragon’s throats and selling their hides to goodness knows who. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours.” She had never seen a Malfoy look so utterly humiliated. “If he doesn’t show his face in decent society soon, the damage to his reputation may become… irreparable.”
“Have you even considered the damage that would be done to this campaign’s reputation- to your reputation- if someone found out about this ? We’d all be a laughing stock. “ Hermione told him scathingly. “You could have at least hired a better actor.” Hermione gestured to Theo in frustration, who looked slightly hurt at the implications.
“Oi, I was doing it as a favour-”
“Young Nott certainly fooled everyone else.” Lucius cut over Theo haughtily. “He’s a great deal more enthusiastic than Draco, granted...” He was deliberately dodging her questions. Hermione’s nostrils flared, her patience was rapidly running out for whatever was going on here.
“A great deal more enthusiastic is an understatement.” She said dryly. “If the Prophet gets wind of this little stunt, they’re going to eviscerate you.” The fundraiser’s mission statement would also be bumped to page five, but she left that part out. Lucius looked suddenly alarmed at the mention of the press.
“Now now, Miss Granger, surely there’s no need for that. As your host this evening, I would appreciate your… full discretion on this matter.” Hermione folded her arms.
“I’m sure you would. And I’d like three new levitating hospital beds for the children who are, as we speak , currently immobilised from an incurable blood curse in the Janus Thickey ward. In case you forgot the real reason we’re here tonight.” Lucius gave a dramatic sigh as if she had read him a lack-lustre wine list.
“Yes, yes, I know. I read the information leaflet. All very tragic indeed.” He paused, waving his hand dismissively. “Shall we say… five thousand galleons, then? For the children, of course.” There was a glint in his eyes that Hermione didn’t like the look of. “I’ll even throw in a fruit basket.”
Hermione bit her lip.
It was pocket change for the Malfoys, but St Mungoes needed every penny it could get. It wasn’t a question of morality.
It wasn’t three new hospital beds, but it was enough to hire a specialist to fix the broken charm units on the ones they had.
It also wasn’t a bad pay-off for a few hours playing detective. It had been, depressingly, the most interesting thing to happen to her in months.
Hermione sighed.
“The fruit basket won’t be necessary, but a donation would be… much appreciated. As long as it’s for purely philanthropic reasons.” Lucius visibly relaxed as Theo broke into a wide grin of relief that looked comical on Draco’s sharp features, clapping Lucious on the shoulders in triumph.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Nott. I’ve still got my eye on you.” He paled and Hermione turned to Lucius. “This never happens again. Especially not at one of my fundraisers. Agreed?” Lucius muttered something under his breath about ‘bloody integrity’ and waved one of his ring-laden hands like a king making a decree.
“Very well. I will relieve Theodore of his duties immediately.” Theo looked crestfallen.
“Shame. I had just perfected that smug little laugh Draco does. Hold on, you’ve got to see this.” Theo took a deep breath, then posed. He looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. “There you go. Takes jaw strength, that does.” Now Hermione knew his true identity, it seemed that Theo had completely given up on his attempts at acting like a Malfoy.
Meanwhile, Lucius wasn’t paying attention. He was staring at Hermione now as if he were deep in thought.
“I suppose we’ll be on our way then.” He made a small, insincere bow, still looking at her strangely. “Do let me know if you change your mind about the fruit basket.”