Chapter Text
Draco Malfoy was an idiot.
This wasn't any great revelation, rather a gradually growing certainty that he had tried to ignore for most of his life. The first evidence appeared when he was eleven, when with confidence worthy of a better cause, he extended his hand to Potter on the Hogwarts Express, as if he was doing him some bloody favour. Some part of his brain—apparently the only functioning part—was already trying to make him realise that perhaps it would have been better not to insult the first person Potter had spoken to in the wizarding world. But no, Draco Malfoy, future heir to fortune and name, didn't need to concern himself with such trivial details as "tact" or "common sense."
Then there was that embarrassing situation with the hippogriff in third year, when he decided to ignore the teacher's clear instructions—even if it was Hagrid, whose qualifications one might have had certain doubts about. Instead of exercising elementary caution, he approached the magical creature with the arrogance of someone who believes that even mythological beasts should fall to their knees before him. It ended with a slashed arm and months of pretending to be more injured than he actually was, which in retrospect seemed so pathetic that at the mere thought of it, Draco felt his face burning with shame.
It was also hard to forget the moment when Granger had punched him in the face. In that moment, he was too stunned to react, but a voice in his head whispered: "What did you expect, you idiot?" The same voice that over the years became his internal commentator, growing louder and more merciless.
But the real proof of his idiocy—the one that should dispel any doubts—was the decision to take the Dark Mark. Even if he did it mainly out of fear for his family, the fact that for a moment he had actually felt proud of it showed how mistaken his understanding of reality was. Voldemort was a monster, not the saviour of the wizarding world, and only a complete idiot could fail to see that. And Draco, for a time, was exactly that sort of idiot.
Then there was that catastrophe in the Room of Requirement, when he allowed Crabbe to use Fiendfyre—a spell that the idiot couldn't control, which ended in his death. Draco still sometimes woke up at night, hearing the screams of his former companion. Further proof that his judgment of people was about as accurate as a house-elf's weather forecast after Firewhisky.
After the war, instead of taking advantage of the second chance he got thanks to Potter's testimony, he lingered for years in a strange limbo, not fully accepting the new reality. He played Quidditch because it was the only thing he was truly good at, but off the pitch his life was a series of spectacular mistakes.
Like when at twenty-one, under pressure from his mother, he almost married Astoria Greengrass. Astoria was beautiful, elegant, and from a good family—everything Narcissa Malfoy expected from a future daughter-in-law. The problem was that Draco didn't love her, and she didn't love him, which seemed rather significant when planning a life together. Fortunately—on the eve of their official engagement—they had an honest conversation, during which they both admitted that marriage would be a mistake. Astoria accepted this with relief that was almost offensive, and Draco's mother with a resignation that suggested this was exactly what she expected from him.
Or that evening at the Three Broomsticks, when after a few Butterbeers he began singing the Hogwarts school song to the tune of "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," which ended with him being asked to leave the premises and a three-week ban. He was twenty-eight then, not fourteen, which made the whole situation even more pathetic.
Later, there was that memorable interview for the Daily Prophet, in which he decided to be honest about his past as a Death Eater, which ended with the headline "MALFOY SHOWS NO REMORSE: 'I'D DO IT AGAIN'"—such a gigantic misrepresentation of his words that even Rita Skeeter had to admit the editorial staff had gone too far.
Despite all this evidence, Draco still deluded himself that perhaps it wasn't so bad. Perhaps he was merely making "mistakes" rather than being a complete, utter idiot?
But now, at the age of thirty, flying over the Quidditch pitch in the orange robes of the Chudley Cannons—a team that hadn't won the championship for over a century—Draco finally had to admit to himself that he was an idiot. An absolute, hopeless, incurable idiot.
Because only an idiot would abandon a lucrative contract with Puddlemere United to join the worst team in the league. Only an idiot would agree to wear a robe in a colour that made him look like a patient in the magical diseases ward in the final stage of dragon pox. Only an idiot would voluntarily choose to play for a team whose motto—"Let's all keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best"—was as inspiring as the slogan "Maybe this time we won't lose too badly."
But the greatest proof of his idiocy—the one that finally dispelled all doubts—was the fact that the captain of this team was Ronald Weasley.
"MALFOY!" Weasley's voice broke through the whistling wind as they hovered twenty metres above the ground. "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT?! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KEEP TO THE FORMATION!"
Draco executed an elegant, almost lazy turn on his broomstick and looked at Weasley with an expression of polite boredom that had driven teachers at Hogwarts to distraction, and now apparently worked just as effectively on ginger Quidditch captains.
"The formation was senseless at that moment, Weasley," he replied, maintaining perfect position on his broomstick without effort, which always irritated opponents. "The Snitch was on the left side, and your wonderful plan assumed I should be circling on the right. What was I supposed to do? Send it an invitation to kindly fly to the other side of the pitch?"
Weasley flew closer, his face almost as red as his hair. Draco noticed that when he was irritated, his freckles became more pronounced, as if each one wanted to personally express its indignation.
"The plan is for you to stick to the strategy, Malfoy! We operate as a team, not a collection of individuals who do whatever they please!"
"Strategy? You call it strategy to tell the best Seeker in the league to ignore the Snitch because your brilliant plan says he should be somewhere else? That's not strategy, that's sabotage."
"Best Seeker in the league?" Weasley snorted. "You're getting carried away, aren't you? Last time I checked, you hadn't once won the award for best player of the season."
"Because awards are given out by journalists who still remember I have a Dark Mark on my arm," Draco replied with a perfectly measured dose of bitterness in his voice. "But statistics don't lie, Weasley. I caught more Snitches last season than any other Seeker. Including your ex, Cho Chang."
That was a blow below the belt, but he couldn't help himself. Weasley looked as if he had just swallowed something particularly sour.
"If you're so brilliant, then why the hell did you join the Cannons?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
That was a question Draco couldn't answer honestly. He couldn't say that after that unfortunate interview in the Prophet, when his words about regret for the past magically transformed into a declaration of eternal loyalty to Voldemort, the atmosphere at Puddlemere United had become unbearable. That teammates who previously treated him with cautious neutrality now looked at him as if they expected him to show up for training one day with an army of Inferi. That the coach had taken him aside after the last match and suggested that "perhaps a team with a less public profile would be better for you, Mr Malfoy." As if the fact that he had caught the Snitch in record time meant nothing compared to a headline in a rag whose level of journalism was comparable to the level of mud in the Forbidden Forest.
No, he couldn't say that. Especially not to Weasley, who would probably shrug and say something like "you earned it yourself, you git."
"To irritate you, Weasley," he answered instead, smiling maliciously. "I thought—what could annoy Ronald Weasley more than the fact that a former Death Eater and heir to the Malfoys joins his beloved team and proves to be better than all its members combined? And I see my plan is working perfectly."
Weasley snorted.
"It's always about you, isn't it? The great Draco Malfoy and his grand plans."
"Of course it's about me," he shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Who else would it be about?"
In reality, deep down, Draco knew that this time it was about something more. About escaping from suspicious glances. About a chance for a new beginning, even if it involved orange robes and a team that was more of a joke than real competition in the league.
"All right, Malfoy, let's leave the philosophical reflections for later," Weasley interrupted, running his hand through his ginger hair with impatience. "We have a charity match for the Ministry on Saturday and, believe me, I intend to win it, even if it's the only victory for the Cannons this season."
"Charity match?" Draco raised an eyebrow. "Nobody mentioned that to me."
"Because you joined the team three days ago, genius," Weasley snorted. "Anyway, we're playing against the Department of Magical Law Enforcement team. Most of them are office workers, but they have a few former professional players. Get to work!"
Draco rolled his eyes but obediently soared higher, positioning himself as Seeker. From this height, he had an excellent view of the entire pitch and his new "teammates"—a term he would only use under the influence of Veritaserum. He observed them with a mixture of professional curiosity and chronic scepticism.
Jenkins, one of the Chasers, was executing a complicated manoeuvre that might even have been impressive if not for the fact that every few seconds he looked down, as if afraid of heights. He was tall and thin, with shoulders so narrow that Draco wondered how he maintained balance on his broomstick at all. However, he had surprisingly quick hands, passing the Quaffle from one to the other with a precision that suggested years of training. Perhaps not all was lost.
Next to him flew Thompson—the only woman on the team. She was short, stocky, and aggressive in the air, as if every centimetre of space was her personal territory that needed to be defended at all costs. Her movements were more instinctive than technical, but she made up for it with determination. When Jenkins passed her the Quaffle, she caught it without looking, as if she knew exactly where it would be. That was a skill that couldn't be taught—either you had it or you didn't.
The reserve Chaser was Lewis, who Draco had heard joined the team straight from Hogwarts, without any professional experience. And it showed. He flew uncertainly, as if every gust of wind could knock him off his broomstick. His passes were weak and his catches unsure. Then he noticed how Lewis suddenly accelerated, performing a zigzag in the air that was so unexpected that even Draco, with his years of experience, was impressed. The boy had a talent for unpredictable movements that could surprise an opponent. Perhaps he wasn't hopeless after all.
The Matthews brothers, the Beaters, were twins, which he found ironic—Weasley clearly had a weakness for twins with bats. These ones, however, had dark hair and were much more synchronised than Fred and George had ever been. They moved as one organism, hitting Bludgers with a force that could break bones. The problem was that they focused so much on each other that they sometimes forgot about the rest of the team. Twice he had seen a Bludger nearly hit Jenkins because the brothers were too busy showing off their skills to each other.
Stevens, the reserve Seeker whom Weasley had mentioned, was young—perhaps twenty—and so green he was practically emitting chlorophyll. He flew quickly, that was a fact, but without finesse. His movements were predictable and his gaze scattered. Instead of looking for the Snitch, he spent half his time staring at the other players, as if he were in the stands rather than on the pitch. Draco sighed inwardly. If this was his potential replacement, he didn't need to worry about losing his position.
And finally, the Keeper—Robinson, a veteran of the team, as he'd heard. A man in his forties, with the beginnings of a beer belly and a balding head, but with reflexes that defied his age. He stopped Quaffles with precision, predicting trajectories seconds before the shot. His only problem was that he never left the hoops—not by a millimetre. As if an invisible circle had been drawn around them that he couldn't cross. This was a good strategy against average Chasers, but an experienced player would quickly exploit it.
Above all this hovered Weasley, the third Chaser, shouting instructions and gesticulating so energetically that he seemed to be in three places at once. His face was almost as red as his hair as he yelled at Lewis for a failed pass, but a moment later he patted him on the shoulder when the boy executed a successful manoeuvre. Draco had to reluctantly admit that Weasley as a captain had something that many professional teams lacked—passion. He wasn't playing for fame or money, but because he loved the sport. It was almost admirable, though he would rather swallow the Snitch than admit it aloud.
He observed all this from the corner of his eye, as the main part of his attention was focused on spotting the Snitch.
The individual elements of this team weren't as hopeless as he had initially assumed. Jenkins, Thompson and Robinson had real talent. The Matthews brothers were brutal but effective. Even Lewis, despite his uncertainty, had flashes of genius. The problem lay elsewhere—in how they functioned as a whole. Or rather, how they didn't.
They were like precisely made cogs from different watches. Each operated according to its own mechanism, its own rhythm. Thompson passed the Quaffle, expecting Jenkins to be five metres further than he actually was. Lewis performed manoeuvres that nobody expected, so nobody was prepared to support him. The Matthews brothers sent Bludgers to places where one of the Chasers had been a moment ago, instead of predicting where they would be in a second.
Draco suspected that this was exactly why Weasley was so attached to his idiotic strategy—he was trying to impose any common rhythm on a team that without it resembled an orchestra in which each musician played a different melody. The problem was that this strategy wasted their potential instead of utilising it.
Suddenly, a golden flash on the left side of the pitch caught his attention. The Snitch! He felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that always accompanied the beginning of a chase. This was the moment he lived for, this feeling of pure, unbridled freedom, when his entire body and mind focused on a single goal.
This time, however, he decided not to just catch the Snitch. He decided to show this bunch of idiots calling themselves a team that they had the best bloody Seeker in the league in their ranks. One spectacular display of skill should cut short any doubts about whether he was up to it. And, incidentally, it might shut Weasley up about his alleged lack of commitment.
He dived suddenly, executing such a sharp turn that any other player would have been knocked off their broom. He accelerated violently, feeling the wind tousling his hair. The Snitch, as if sensing the danger, changed direction, now flying in a zigzag pattern just above the ground, straight towards the stands.
Perfect.
Draco followed it, lowering his flight so much that his feet almost brushed the grass. This was a manoeuvre that required absolute control over the broom and a complete lack of self-preservation instinct—exactly what he excelled at.
The Snitch turned right, darting along the empty stands, as if it wanted to give him the best opportunity to show off before an imaginary audience. Draco slowed down slightly, deliberately prolonging the chase, building tension. Now that he was so close, he could catch the Snitch within a second, but where was the fun in that? Where was the spectacle?
He executed a fluid rotation around his own axis, flying between the benches of the stands with a precision that was the result of thousands of hours of training. The Snitch changed direction again, now flying straight up along the stairs of the stands. He followed it, flying so close to the structure that he felt the coolness of the wood on his cheek.
And then he saw her.
Hermione Granger was sitting in the lowest seat, dressed in official attire, with a notebook on her lap and a quill in her hand. Her curly hair was tied in a careless bun, a few locks falling on her face as she bent over her notes.
It was such an unexpected, such an absurd sight that for a fraction of a second, he thought he was hallucinating. What the hell was Granger doing here? And alone, without any official delegation, without Potter?
This question, and the sight of her face—so familiar, yet changed by the years that had passed since their last meeting—made Draco do something he hadn't done since his first year of professional play: he lost his concentration.
He turned his head to get a better look at Granger, completely forgetting that he was racing at breakneck speed along the stands at a height of just two metres. This moment of inattention was enough for him not to notice the approaching post.
The impact was so violent that he heard the crack before he felt the pain. The force of the collision knocked him off his broom and sent him flying through the air like a rag doll. For one terrible moment, he felt himself falling, helpless against gravity, and then he hit the ground with a force that squeezed all the air from his lungs.
The world exploded in a kaleidoscope of pain, and then darkness fell.
The last thing he registered before losing consciousness was the sound of Granger's voice, shouting some spell, and the strange feeling that his fall was slower than it should have been, as if something had softened his collision with the ground at the last moment.
But that had to be an illusion. Because why would Granger save him, Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and the man who for years had called her the worst possible names?
The world sank into darkness, and his last thought was that if he survived, he would never, ever admit that he had crashed into a post because he was staring at Hermione Granger.
* * *
He regained consciousness slowly, as if fighting through a particularly dense fog or trying to surface from the depths of a lake. First came the sounds. Distant, distorted, as if reaching him through a layer of water. Voices, raised, concerned, someone speaking rapidly, someone else answering in a tone that sounded familiar, reassuring. He heard other sounds too—the rustle of wind, the flutter of robes, a distant whistle that could have been a bird or the signal of a referee's whistle.
But all these sounds were irrelevant, completely unimportant, because when he finally managed to lift his eyelids, he understood that he had apparently arrived in heaven.
An angel was leaning over him.
It wasn't the sort of angel that would adorn the walls of cathedrals—powerful, majestic, with severe, inhuman beauty. This was an angel with a delicate face, with features that were simultaneously gentle and distinctive—brown eyes the colour of the finest chocolate from Honeydukes, long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, a perfectly defined nose with barely visible traces of freckles, full lips, now pressed together in an expression of concentration. Dark, curly hair surrounded this face like a halo, or rather... no, it wasn't just hair. Behind the angel's head was an actual halo, a golden glow that encircled her like a nimbus in medieval paintings.
This angel also had a voice—quiet, melodious, which sounded strangely familiar, though Draco couldn't place it in his memories.
"...should regain consciousness within a few minutes. No, Ron, we can't move him until we're sure there's no spinal damage. Yes, I know this will delay training, but would you rather have a disabled Seeker on your conscience?"
The angel was apparently capable of sarcasm. That was unexpected. Draco had always thought heavenly beings were more lofty. Less mundane. And yet this angel sounded a bit like an irritated nurse at St Mungo's, explaining something to a particularly dense patient.
He opened his eyes wider, trying to focus. The halo around the angel's head was blinding, making it difficult to discern the details of her face. Draco blinked several times, and the world slowly became sharper, clearer. From afar came sounds that sounded like angelic trumpets—loud, piercing, calling to...
"...complete idiot! What was he thinking?! He could have killed himself and you, Hermione! What were you even doing there? I told you we were training from nine!"
Wait. Hermione?
Draco blinked once more, feeling his brain trying to process this information. Hermione. Not a typical example of an angelic name. In fact, he only knew one Hermione in his life, and she certainly wasn't...
Suddenly everything fell into place with brutal clarity.
Dark, curly hair. Intelligent, brown eyes. That specific tone—a combination of patience and irritation—that he had heard hundreds of times during lessons at Hogwarts.
This wasn't an angel. This was Granger.
And that golden glow around her head wasn't a halo, just the ordinary, bloody bright sun, positioned directly behind her head, blinding him and apparently causing hallucinations. And those sounds he had taken for angelic trumpets were nothing more than Weasley's shouts, who was currently experiencing a spectacular panic attack.
"...don't understand! This charity match is our chance to show that the Cannons aren't completely hopeless! That we have a chance for something more than last place in the league! And now our new Seeker, for whom we paid a fortune—all right, maybe not a fortune, but significantly more than we should have—is lying unconscious because apparently he doesn't know how to avoid fixed structural elements of the stadium!"
"Calm down, Ron," Granger's voice was calm but firm. "I was under a Shield Charm. And now, if you'll allow me, I'm trying to assess whether your new Seeker has a damaged spine."
Spine. That explained why he couldn't move. Not because the angel (Granger, he corrected himself mentally, it was Granger, not an angel) was keeping him pinned to the ground with her heavenly power, but because he had just crashed into a post at a speed that had probably crushed half his bones.
"I'm alive," he croaked, surprised at how hoarse his voice was. He sounded as if he had swallowed a kilogram of gravel. "Though I'm a bit disappointed. I thought I was in heaven, but it turns out I'm still stuck in this nightmare with orange robes."
Granger immediately looked at him, and her face—which he had just considered heavenly beautiful, which was clearly the effect of a concussion—took on an expression he knew all too well. A mixture of relief and irritation, as if she was simultaneously glad he was alive and regretted having to endure his presence.
"Lie still, Malfoy," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder when he tried to get up. Her hand was warm, much warmer than he expected—angelic or not, Granger apparently had a normal body temperature. "You've had a serious accident. I cushioned your fall with a spell, but you still hit your head on the ground. You have a concussion and probably a broken collarbone."
"Brilliant," he muttered, ignoring the pulsating pain that radiated from his left shoulder and slowly spread to the rest of his body, like a particularly nasty potion. "Now I'll not only be the idiot who crashed into a post, but also a cripple."
"Can you explain what you were actually doing?" she asked, furrowing her brow in a way that brought back memories of long sessions in the library, when he observed her surreptitiously from behind bookshelves. "You were flying straight at the post. As if you didn't see it at all."
Draco felt warmth spreading across his neck and face. Gods, no. There was no way he would admit that he hadn't seen the post because he was too busy staring at her like a complete moron. A post that had been there forever, a post that any player with a modicum of common sense would instinctively avoid without even thinking about it. If he admitted that he had crashed because he saw her, Weasley would never let him forget it. And Granger herself... well, he preferred not to think about how she would interpret this fact.
"I was testing... a new manoeuvre," he invented on the spot, trying to make his voice sound confident and convincing. "Very advanced. Requires extreme precision. I apparently misjudged the distance."
"Right," said Granger with that irritating, know-it-all smirk that suggested she could see right through him. "A manoeuvre involving smashing your aristocratic face into a post. Very advanced, indeed. I bet you've been practising it for years."
Weasley, who had been circling around them like an agitated hippogriff, suddenly leaned over him, blocking the sun. His face was so red that it almost merged with his hair, creating a uniform, fiery image of fury.
"What do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" he growled, waving his arms like a windmill. "First week with the team, and you're already trying to kill yourself?! And during my training?! Do you know how much paperwork I'd have to fill out if you actually died?! Not to mention that Hermione could have been injured because of you!"
"Ron!" Granger's voice was sharp. "First of all, I had a shield. Secondly, he can't hear you right now because he's just lost consciousness after hitting a post at a speed exceeding stadium regulations. And thirdly, paperwork? Really? That's your biggest concern?"
"I can hear you," mumbled Draco, though indeed Weasley's voice was reaching him as if through a thick layer of cotton wool. "And I'm not a concern. As I said, it was a planned manoeuvre."
"A planned manoeuvre to end up in St Mungo's a week before our first match?" Weasley sounded as if he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "Great plan, Malfoy. Brilliant. Perhaps you should also plan to break both legs?"
Suddenly everything began to blur. It grew dark before his eyes again, and the world around him began to spin like a carousel. The voices became distant, distorted, as if coming from behind thick glass. Something about transferring him to Mungo's. Weasley's shouts, which sounded as if someone had just told him the Cannons were going to be disbanded. Granger's angry responses that "no, he can't be Apparated in this condition, that's elementary medical knowledge, Ron."
Draco tried to blink, to sharpen the image, but his eyelids seemed to weigh a tonne, and his eyes refused to cooperate. The world now consisted of blurred patches of colour—the orange of the team robes, the red of Weasley's hair, the dark brown of Granger's curls.
Someone—most likely Granger—was casting stabilising spells. He felt the magic permeating his body, immobilising broken bones, reducing pain.
"...need to call for professional help," reached him a voice that now sounded as if it was coming from the bottom of a very deep lake. "Ron, send a Patronus to Mungo's. Ask for a trauma team. And you, Jenkins, bring me more water. Thompson, can you find a blanket? And tell the gawkers to get off the pitch, this isn't a spectacle!"
Draco felt a sudden surge of respect for Granger. Even now, in the midst of a crisis, she maintained her composure and issued commands with the precision of a general on the battlefield. All this respect, however, was pushed into the background by a powerful wave of pain that rolled through his body when someone (most likely that idiot Weasley) moved carelessly, nudging his broken collarbone.
Darkness pressed on his consciousness more and more strongly, and he no longer had the strength to fight it. But before he completely surrendered, he heard Granger's irritated voice once more.
"So I take it you won't be able to give me that interview today, Malfoy?"
Interview? What interview? What the hell was she talking about?
He tried to ask, he really did, but his mouth refused to cooperate, as did the rest of his body. His tongue seemed to be made of lead, and his jaw of concrete. Instead of words, only a quiet, pathetic moan escaped his throat, which was rather a poor start to any conversation, let alone an interview.
And before he could force his body to cooperate, darkness consumed him completely. The last thought that flashed through his mind was that at least he had fainted with dignity—if one can lie with dignity on a Quidditch pitch with broken bones, surrounded by a bunch of idiots in orange robes and Hermione Granger, who apparently wanted to conduct an interview with him.
Considering his life so far, this wasn't even in the top ten of his most humiliating moments.