The Fairytale Hunter

A/N: This is dedicated to dragonlilleth, fallenwitch and jandjsalmon for betaing, “And the Twilight Sounds,” an unrelated story that may end up here some time. I didn’t know how to thank you so I tried writing a fic that included elements that I thought you might like (try to find them!). Sorry it took me so long to express my thanks. I meant to post this quite some time ago but I went through um, writing issues, as you know.

“My first, my last, my only” effort at writing a light-hearted piece. Be gentle, good reader. (Also, if you’re reading A Common Cure, I apologize for the lag in posting but I will post. Thanks!)

***

Draco emerged from his third fairytale that month entirely exhausted. He leaned heavily against a nearby tree as he tried to get his bearings straight. Where did the fucking portal spit me out this time? he wondered as he surveyed the thick forest around him.

It was cool under the dense canopy, which was a relief. He’d almost broken a sweat after narrowly escaping an enraged Norwegian Ridgeback and then, dodging the advances of an overly grateful and sexually suppressed Norwegian country girl (who of course, was really the long-lost daughter of some king with some castle somewhere — actually, the I-apparently-need-to-compensate-for-something structure was next to the village where the girl grew up).

“Fucking idiots,” he muttered to himself. “Most people just have a village idiot. But NO, not in fairytales. The entire village is fucking moronic.”

It was always so bloody predictable. The beautiful damsel in distress, the lovable but misguided father (who was often short and round for some reason — really, how could people like that realistically produce the daughters they did?), an Evil Stepmother (capitalized, of course), some minion or another (the favorite was a dragon — not exactly “min”-like but as though he had any control over details like that), a little elementary magic and then, breathtaking backdrops that no longer took his breath away.

Oh, and yes, the prince.

“The wimp,” Draco scoffed as he took a closer look at the tree he was still leaning against. He would inevitably land in a forest (or a wood — he amended with a roll of his eyes — it was awful how he could distinguish such otherwise trivial and pedestrian things now) and would have to find his way to an Apparation Point in order to get back home. At least, these days he landed safely on the ground. There had been times when he had ended up IN trees and in Muggle places, no less.

The thick dark grey-brown bark shading into a thinner, orange wood told him that he was looking at a Scots Pine. This meant he was somewhere in Northern Europe - anywhere from Scotland to Eastern Siberia.

“Great fuckity fuck,” he said to himself.

A bird chirped in reply.

If Draco knew where that damn feathered music-box was, he would’ve stared at it in disdain. And perhaps, it would’ve exploded. Yes, that would have been satisfying.

He had never been particularly opposed to species of the avian sort before — until what he now referred to as the Swiss Episode occurred. Tonks thought it was more appropriate to call it the Swiss Musical but Draco was not amused and at least his Stare of Disdain at that time had stopped his cousin from making any further comments. And she could’ve made many more comments too — he had been, after all, still wearing his latest uniform (long shorts held up by suspenders and accessorized by a pair of knee socks) at the time. (Draco successfully managed to Obliviate the embroidered hat from his mind before his supervisors grabbed his wand from him.)

Now the sound of birds always reminded him of all the singing he had to do for that particular fairytale. He hadn’t been able to talk, whisper, yell in frustration for the entire interim of it — every time he opened his mouth, he ended up singing.

Draco shook his head and pushed off the tree he’d been resting against. Despite the density of the canopy above, bright sunlight streamed through gaps in the leaves — no, needles — shit, he could give Longbottom a run for his position at Hogwarts.

With the dappled light, it was relatively easy to detect some worn paths that would hopefully lead him the hell out of there. He checked his watch — set to Greenwich Time. He had a couple of hours yet — but he wanted to hurry anyway. After the trauma he sustained from the Swiss Episode, he didn’t want to risk anything.

He not only had to sing, but after jumping through the portal while beating a speedy retreat from the baker’s heavy daughter (who was really a princess, despite her heavy set — the Ministry claimed they were trying something new but Draco suspected it was really a response to a fierce inner-departmental allegation of discrimination), he’d found himself knee-deep in snow. In the Swiss Alps. No, of course not, the Ministry wouldn’t have been that efficient. He ended up on fucking Kilimanjaro. Yeah, that’s right — Africa. Of course, he didn’t realize that until he reached the base of the mountain fourteen hours later. He’d finally gotten home back after twelve more hours on a donkey and Sophia had been asleep on the coach — her arms wrapped around her favorite stuffed animal — a floppy yellow bunny with fangs. That was the first time he’d ever broken a promise to his daughter (to tuck her in every night before she went to bed) and he swore to himself it would be the last promise he would ever break to her.

He still had nightmares of the Episode — and subsequently, of failing her — and he would wake up, but instead of screaming, yes, it was worse — he’d be yodeling. Fucking yodeling. Yodel-fucking-ling. And his daughter would be shaking him — half asleep herself and not at all amused (even he couldn’t be good at everything, could he?) — “Papa, you’re making that awful sound again.”

Ungrateful brat. It was her fault he had this job in the first place. Otherwise, he’d sit on his arse all day, in his underwear maybe, whittling away whatever was left of his inheritance. But fuckity fuck, he loved her and he was going to give her everything her little heart could ever desire but moreover, he was going to be a damn fine father — something he was sure would make his own father roll over in his grave — and he would set a good example and even the word crud didn’t so much as cross his lips whenever he was with her.

“Oh, FUCK!” He just snagged another pair of Brussels sprout green tights on a nearby bush that popped out of nowhere. He spared a second to give the bush his deathly glare before inspecting the damage on the hosiery.

Damn. And they were riding up. Again. He swivelled his head around to make sure no one else was present before he set about fixing his wayward wardrobe.

That was the worse part of the job — the outfits. The form-fitting (not that he didn’t have great form but a wizard had to be comfortable after all) leggings, the pointy hats, the shapeless tunics — now, that did nothing for his figure.

Occasionally, he would end up wearing leather — which wouldn’t have been so bad if the pants didn’t chafe so much. And they were, for whatever reason, often paired with ruffled shirts and an ascot. His daughter — though, granted, a tomboy — who had soundly taken down an older boy in the playground when he snottily said, “I heard your father was a Death Eater” (it was a proud moment that Draco liked to recall on occasions), had dresses with less ruffles than what he had to wear around his neck.

As Draco tried to give — ahem, himself — more breathing room, he thought it was little wonder that the princes the Ministry’s fairytale writers created were all tossers that wouldn’t even think of leaving their I-apparently-need-to-compensate-for-something structures if there was the slightest hint of humidity in the air. They were dressed up like fucking fairies. How could you charge into a ferocious fight with a pack of dwarves if your billowing sleeves kept getting in the way?

Well, of course, Draco managed. But that was him. In any case, that was what he was paid to do — fill in the role of the dashing prince when the ‘actual’ wanker refused to save his destined princess.

“Who the fuck cares about that?” Draco had asked Kingsley after he covered his daughter’s ears. Of course he had brought his daughter with him as leverage. Maybe he crazy-I-would-die-for-you-loved her but he was Slytherin after all — he wasn’t going to pass up on the opportunity to use a pair of doe eyes to his advantage.

The head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement shook his head. He directed Draco and Sophia to an indoor playground where they dropped Sophia off so they could continue with their ‘serious business’ in the busy hallway.

“Don’t you think the traffic is a bit high for serious business?” Draco asked when a frazzled intern pulling his hair barreled down the corridor between them, screaming, “Viva la France!”

“Oh fine,” Kingsley muttered before opening a door and pushing Draco in. “This is the Story Room for the Fairytale Division.”

The white-walled room housed about a thousand elves or some shit like that — busily typing away on typewriters. The sound of keys echoed throughout the room — raising and falling in cadence as the industrious creatures worked.

“Does Hermione Granger-Potter know about this?” Draco asked with wide eyes.

Kingsley smiled tightly. “What do you think?”

“One day, Shacklebolt, one day, she’ll have you picking rotten fruit in Hades for all of eternity for this.”

“They have compensation and benefits, you know.”

“Say what you will,” Draco replied, putting his hands up. “I’m not the one who’ll be judging you.”

Kingsley grimaced but continued with his explanation of fairytales. “This is important. These aren’t just stories. They’re stories we’ve invented to feed Muggles” — he gestured to the elves — “to confuse them about the magical world.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding,” Draco protested. "And don't you think you're overusing the italics a little? I don't even know what you're actually stressing anymore."

But no, Kingsley wasn't kidding.

“She’s going to force you to eat that shit too,” he muttered quietly to himself as he looked at all the busy elves typing away. “Or maybe her cooking,” he said with a shudder, remembering the purplish meat pie he was served. (By some odd circumstance and deep misfortune, he had ended up having dinner with Harry and Hermione Potter once — and never again.)

Draco shook his head. Fairytales — a Ministry invention to control Muggles. Well, that was a fine cauldron of hypocrisy, wasn’t it? Talk about a bloody conspiracy. But apparently, highly intuitive Muggles without any magical abilities were able to imagine the wizarding world with an alarming degree of accuracy and the Ministry was concerned about wide dissemination of such accurate depictions of the magical world. They thought curious individuals might try dialing the Ministry’s number or run into the wall at King’s Cross. Draco had, of course, raised a doubtful eyebrow. “So you’re saying that if someone wrote a book about our world and accurately depicted the way we,” he gestured to nothing in particular as he tried to find the right word, “access it, that some Muggle kid afflicted with a great sense of stupidity might run into a wall?”

“It’s not that simple. Just imagine the chaos that would ensue if there were a considerable breach. We can’t Obliviate them all. We might miss one or more.”

“Then why don’t you deal with these ‘special cases’?” Draco said, providing air quotes to refer to the Muggles they were feeding fairytales to.

“We might permanently harm them if we keep Obliviating them, and the Prime Minister doesn’t want us to suppress the creativity of its most valuable artists,” Kingsley explained. "Creating fairytales has a more...desirable and lasting impact in any case. We're constructing an actual world for them, a world so vivid that it pretty much supplants their own imaginings."

“Ah, I see.” Draco tapped his finger against his chin — making a show of feigning deep thought. “So I suppose the P.M. doesn’t realize you’re using subterfuge to addle their brains instead, huh? Brilliant, really. But can you remind me what the Second War was all about? Some equality shit with Muggles or something like that?”

“Not with Muggles, with Muggleborns,” the other man corrected.

“Aren’t we splitting hairs here, Shacklebolt? Well…” Draco said, gesturing to Kingsley’s bald head. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

“Look, we’re still recovering from a war, and we just can’t deal with any exposure at this point. Anyway, the powers that be have determined that it’s best we keep our worlds separate until it is in the interest of both our sides to intermingle once again.”

“Okay, okay, but why me?”

“Well you were the one who came to us looking for a job.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I know that but why this job? Why do you need me to play the role of Prince Charming?”

“They’re flawed — the fairytales. We’re using the same general format that they’ve always been based on but we have to tweak them so the Muggles actually think they are coming up with something new and innovative. But whenever we change one thing, something unexpected occurs. Most of the time, the prince, for whatever reason, won’t save the girl. He refuses. We don’t understand why and until we can get them lilies to do their job, we have to send someone else to do it for them.”

“Can’t the girl just get eaten by a dragon?”

“I thought you wanted a job,” Kingsley snapped, the vein bulging at his forehead.

“It’s just a harmless question…” Draco tried making doe eyes but apparently his five-year old daughter siphoned all that talent from him, leaving his doe-eye making well dry.

“These fairytales have to end happily,” Kingsley said forcefully. “We insert them into Muggles while they’re sleeping so it becomes a part of their dreams and subconsciousness. We don’t want to inadvertently motivate people to commit heinous acts or cause them to be severely depressed or anything.”

“Right, if you screw with them, you might as well make them happy helpful members of society against their will.”

Kingsley dropped a book in Draco’s arms. “There's some other kinks we're still trying to work out but nothing fatal. At least, I don't think. Anyhow, Fairytale Hunter, give it a try.”

“What? Fairytale Hunter?” Draco spitted out before Kingsley opened the tome for him and he was sucked into his first fairytale.

Oh yes, that’s right. The worse part of his job was not the tights but the fucking title. How could he forget? The Fairytale Hunter. He sounded like a fucking ponce. It wasn’t even an accurate description of what he did. He got into actual physical altercations with fictional characters, for Merlin’s sake! There was a bit of peril in all that — though he knew that there was an emergency exit to all the fairytales and his magical skills were of course far superior to the simplistic spells the Ministry writers were permitted to put in the tales. But still, he didn’t hunt fairytales — he rode unicorns, swung through trees, fought dragons, charmed evil witches. Sometimes, he would carry a bow and arrow, do some coordinated dancing with some Merry Men, maybe get within a few leagues of a poorly trained Kneazle, but that was as close to a hunt as he got.

He was more of an Errant Knight…reluctantly entering the picture but nevertheless, swooping in to save the day.

“No.”

“How about Dark Knight?” Draco tried.

“Well, you’ve got to admit you’re not ‘dark,’” Tonks noted for her seat diagonal from Kingsley’s.

“Maybe...I'm dark within."

Tonks snorted.

"Well, sometimes, I have black hair. Or a tan. Whatever the fairytale calls for, I cast a proper Glamour Charm.”

“But it’s not consistently — ”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got your point. Devil Snare?”

“Huh?”

Draco struggled. “It sounds cool.”

“How about Dashing Hero?” The currently pink-haired witch suggested.

“Please, as much as my ego may appreciate that, you are too closely related to me to even suggest calling me Dashing.”

“Enough!” Kingsley cried, slamming his fist down on his desk and ending their conversation. “If you don’t stop it this second, I’m changing your title to Fairyman.”

“Fairytale Hunter is fine,” Draco conceded, sticking his tongue out at his boss when the black man turned to talk to Tonks.

Bloody hell — he was finally out of the forest.

Draco nearly pranced across the grass, he was so excited. There were twigs in his hair, two runs in his hosiery, and only three hours left before he needed to pick Sophia up from her grandmother’s, but this was a relatively good drop-off point. He was at Hogwart’s of all places. He could just use the Floo to get to the Manor then. And luckily, it was summer so school wasn’t in session. No bratty, screaming kids. He shuddered, imagining the ruts running around everywhere. He hated kids. Except Sophia. She had been a perfect a baby — perfect from the moment she was born. She had his white-blond hair and grey eyes, but his mother’s heart-shaped face and light dusting of freckles.

But she didn’t have a mother anymore. And they had been fine really — Draco took care of his little girl. And he always would. But sometimes, he wondered if she needed something more. She never said she wanted anything — but if she had picked up any of his sullen disposition, then she would never give voice to what it is she really wanted. Perhaps, a mother? Or maybe that was him talking — maybe it was he who needed adult female companionship.

There was the real hunt — a woman who could fill both roles. Was that really so hard? He spent his days ensuring that “Happily Ever After” worked out but could he find it himself?

As a Fairytale Hunter or whatever he was, he had come across enough Evil Stepmothers to be cautious of the sugar-sweet beauties that Pansy kept trying to get him to date and never mind his experience with desperate princesses. He despised their lack of character (pun fully intended). Of course, most of them were fictional but it only highlighted how fake other women he had come across were.

“Why did you have to marry Longbottom?” Draco had lamented to his former schoolmate.

“Oh please, don’t pretend to be heartbroken over me,” Pansy smirked as she stirred her tea. “You got married before I did. You were the one who broke my heart.”

“Yes and sent you off to a Herbology professor. I shall never forgive myself for that,” he sighed dramatically.

“Prat.”

“Oh, stop it, Pansy. You’re making me blush.”

Draco sighed and slowed down as he past the pitch. He tried sticking his hands in his pockets — as he was wont to do — but then remembered he wasn’t wearing trousers. Shaking his head, he took the leisurely route by the lake.

Sophia was going to love it here — much more than he ever did. She would surely be a great Quidditch player and come down to the lake with all her friends. And she would write to him late at night and tell him how she loved Hogwarts and how well she was doing in Potions with her godfather as her professor. And he would sit by the fire — all alone — and read her letters and imagine her bright eyes lightening up and —

Fuck, he was going to cry. He quickly wiped his eyes to ensure there was no incriminating evidence. He didn’t want to let his little girl go and he certainly didn’t want to be sitting by himself crying beside a fire. It was far too pathetic for his ego to sustain.

Yes, the next time Pansy wanted to set him up, he would not slip a beetle in the bint’s salad just to end the date early. He would — er, try talking to her? Merlin, he might as well bludgeon himself to death now.

“Oof!” Draco couldn’t believe he made such an inelegant sound as he tripped and fell.

“Hey! Get off of —”

Oh, apparently he had tripped over someone daft enough to be lying down on the path. (Never mind, he had actually walked off the path towards the lake and so it was really not unreasonable for someone to be lying down there to soak in the sun.)

The girl had stopped shouting and he turned to see what had made her stop so abruptly. Oh, yes, she was staring at his arse. Well, that happened.

Draco stood up and dusted himself off, not bothering to help her. He peered into the shallow waters of the lake and frowned at his less than impeccable appearance.

“Thanks for helping me up!” The girl shouted behind him.

“No need to thank me for supporting woman suffrage and all. A bloke does what he can.” Ugh, there was a smudge of dirt on his face. He raised a hand to wipe it off. No, maybe he should keep it there and come up with an interesting story for Sophia. Like he was fighting a wild boar or something. Or maybe something with three heads. “What has three heads?”

“Huh?”

“Oh, you’re still there,” Draco said disinterestedly as he took a glance at her over his shoulder. Wild red hair all over the place. And freckles everywhere. What the hell was she doing in the sun anyway? Was she trying to get freckles on her freckles or some shit like that?

Damn, she looked really familiar. He turned to fully face her and eyed her up and down. Yes, he knew her but he couldn’t really place her. She was too short for him to have dated. And of course, she was rather plain too. And the way she dressed. The skirt was too long, making her look even shorter than she probably was. The button down shirt — very unsexy. He surmised that she was one of the younger professors here. Probably had tea with Longbottom and talked about the shape of plant leaves or something equally boring. Nothing at all like even the most unconventional of princesses that he had come across in his two year stint as a fairytale hunter.

“What are you looking at, you fucking ponce?” she shouted, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring daggers at him. “And what are you wearing? You look like a giant Brussels sprout."

"I DO not," he responded emphatically, imitating her pose. "I may be wearing Brussels sprout green" - and for which he had no shame; he looked good in practically any shade of green - "but I certainly strike no resemblance a vegetable."

"Well, then, you look like a fucking fairy.”

And Draco smiled. The hunt was over.

***

One-line sequel (submitted in the forums as a one-line sentence challenge to the prompt by Miranthridel Bloom: “Can't I have just a little bit of peril?”): “Can't I have just a little bit of peril?” Sophia Malfoy asked when Ginny suggested she read her “The Ugly Duckling” as a bedtime story; “That's my girl,” Draco said as he smiled at his daughter from the doorway.

And they lived happily ever fucking after…

***

A/N: Okay, FW, so the Brussels sprout thing was more of a jab but I included *other* things that you actually do like.

Also, I apologize that this story has suffered because of my lack of impetus to write but I still hope you enjoyed it. Thanks to my non-DG beta for looking over something you have no interest in.