Pinky Promises Are Powerful Magic

Pinky Promises

The whispers followed Draco Malfoy everywhere, like the susurration of a pit of snakes. They floated around him at his desk, threatening to topple the messy towers of case-files; they slithered under the door of the stalls of the loo, coiled into the whorls of his ear before he entered the lift, and slid across the shiny floors to interrupt his quiet tea-time. Everyone always had something to say, and they said it with a curl to their lip and hard distrust in their eyes. Chin up, he told himself. Chin fucking up, for he worked his way to where he was now, fought for it with every breath he had: right through the trials, the mind-delving by the Ministry mage-psychoanalysts, the Auror training and finally, his assignment to the force.

He hadn't come this far to let a few whispers stop him.

Oh, but if it were only that, and if it were only a few. They rained on him: tropical summer storms of mutters, gossip and distrust. That was bad enough; his partner, if only in name and not necessarily in reality, was Harry Potter.

Draco suspected that they were assigned as partners to allow Potter to keep an eye on him. Not that Potter, the lazy sod, was doing much of the eyeing.

(The same could not be said for Draco.

He persistently noted this detail with as much disinterest as humanly possible, and shoved it away. One could not help but notice Harry Potter. The man drew attention--yanked the eye towards his slim body and his slow grin--the way he walked and turned his wrist when casting a spell or making a point. Potter bloody revelled in all the attention, just as he always had. It was revolting, really.

Really.)

What Draco hated the most, absolutely despised, was how Harry Potter tried to defend him.

"Oi," Potter would say, happening upon a cluster of murmurers. "What's happening here?"

At his tone, the gaze of one mutterer would flicker in Draco's direction. Harry Potter would get angry, of all things, and his eyes would flash like the gems set in Narcissa's favourite emerald and gold pendant. The mumblers would pull away, their own eyes wide in concern.

"Leave off with that," Potter would say. "That's behind us now, isn't it?" He would walk past Draco with nary a nod, and how Draco would seethe at that. For Potter was a Gryffindor with the tongue of a Slytherin, two-sided and sharpened at both ends; leave off that, in front of their colleagues, but in meetings with supervisors, it was, I'm sure Malfoy shouldn't be on a case like this, really. Conflict of interest, you might say.

Draco wanted to punch his stupid self-righteous teeth in at those moments.

All these matters were soundly complicated when Voldemort's body was stolen.

+

"Why would the Ministry even think of keeping the body in stasis, after all these years?" Potter's tone was incredulous and indignant. He sat in one of the two chairs placed in front of Shacklebolt's desk, fingers digging into the padded arms. "And no one told me!"

Draco said nothing, even though he had lots to say, words piled up behind his teeth. He'd learnt many lessons during and after the War; one of them was you didn't have to say everything that came to mind. He simply kept his tongue and sat still in the other chair, hands clasped loosely in his lap. He was mindful of how he appeared: pale skin and hair, high-collared coat and trousers under the short cape favoured by the Aurors these days. Dark colours, too, contrasting with the coolness he projected. He remained still, and Potter twitched in his direction.

"Did you know this, Malfoy?"

"Do I look like I who would be privy to such information?" Draco replied with crisp annoyance, not allowing the word now to slip out. He reprimanded himself sternly, for he should really know better. Harry Potter brought the worst out in him, especially with that sly expression of distrust.