POTTER, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? | drarry

a. broomstick

EDITED / JULY 23 '18

"Malfoy," Harry pinched his nose bridge in agitation, shoving his glasses upwards by a small inch. "What in Godric's tits are you doing?"

Draco was brought into a halt from his wrestling with the seriously defective broomstick, and like a deer caught in headlights, he narrowed his eyes towards Harry's way as he then carelessly shrugged and continued to one-sidedly battle with the broomstick.

"Is this what I get for giving myself to be your parole officer?" He shook his head.

After the war, Malfoy hadn't been thrown to Azkaban like Lucius Malfoy, nor he was kept on house arrest like Narcissa Malfoy. In fact, he had gotten something worse than Azkaban, something that would have made his father run amok, something that would make younger Draco shudder and wail; being exiled to the Muggle world.

Kingsley Shacklebolt and a large quantity of the Ministry was still, kind of, thoroughly unconvinced that Draco did commit justice during the war. Even if what he had only done was save Potter from falling to the Dark Lord's hands in the Manor. That should be enough to convince the old bints, was it? No, it wasn't.

They seemed to have taken a vast liking into marking Draco as a Death Eater with no fairness at all, until the great and almighty Harry Potter basically shouted his arse off in the Court Room, that they had to obediently lower Draco's previous charges from being thrown into the same cell in Azkaban with Lucius Malfoy to being evicted to the Muggle world for a whole, cruel year.

And jolly, Kingsley just had to make Harry keep an eye on the pureblood for the next year and live with him in the given Muggle home. He was taken off-charge from his newly Auror duties, and was given what you can say, a sabbatical.

He had tried to talk Kingsley through it, to not send him away to the Muggle world. But seeing as none other parole officers in the Ministry had wanted to take the Draco Malfoy to their care, Harry had taken him into pity and groaned a "fine" in hesitant agreement.

Now he had to face this.

Malfoy battling a Muggle broomstick.

Great.

"Malfoy, once again, what are you doing?"

"I'm trying," He wrestled the inanimate object again.

"To," Wrestle.

"Fix this bloody defective broomstick! Why won't it make me fly?" He whined.

"It's not a magical broomstick."

That caught Malfoy's attention. "Excuse me?"

"It's not a magical broomstick." Harry repeated, his arms crossed as he stared down to Malfoy that was still pathetically combatting the poor broom.

The blond gaped and cried out, "Why in Salazar's knickers would anyone make a non-magical broomstick!"

"Because," Harry huffed. "Muggles. Need. Them. To. Clean."

"But you have spells for that."

"If you haven't noticed, Malfoy. Muggles don't inherit magic, you absolute tit."

"But-" Malfoy addled.

"Have you ever seen a non-magical broomstick, Malfoy?"

"No." He muttered. "If the house elves did use it, I would have never known, anyways. I've never been around when they clean."

"Just how protective were your parents to you against mundane things that you don't even have any primary knowledge of basic cleaning tools?"

Draco glared, "You think?"

Harry smirked, "Fair enough."

He then offered out his hand for the pitiful git whose legs was still tangled around the broomstick in an inelegant position, on the floor. "Get up, now, before I laugh at you."