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The Auror Method	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7771 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

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Chapter Two—The Hidden Gem
            “You’re utterly unable to think of anything that would make someone threaten you?”
            Draco looked down at his cane. The top of it reflected the walls around him, which included a panel that hid one of his greatest collections of rubies. If they found them, the Aurors would be immediately suspicious.
            It pleased Draco, to stand there talking to someone that a lot of people praised as the best Auror of all, and know he had no more idea of what Draco was concealing than an ordinary Auror would have.
            “Nothing?”
            Draco blinked and looked up. “I can think of plenty of people with grudges,” he whispered tiredly. “But you told me that most of them are shut away. Is it surprising that after we’ve gone through a list of prime suspects and eliminated most of them, I would have trouble thinking of any of the rest?”
            Potter was silent, frowning instead of talking. He turned and lifted his wand so that it pointed at one section of the wall that constituted the outer edge of the panel. Draco’s heart gave a great bound, but he stood still. If Potter found the hidden gems through his own effort, then Draco would take the challenge and deal with it. He wasn’t going to be cowardly enough to reveal it because of his reactions, though.
            But Potter said only, “Memoria.”
            The walls glowed briefly, along the edges of panels and in the center of them alike. Draco straightened his shoulders. At least this spell wouldn’t help Potter uncover the location of anything Draco had hidden.
            It did bring to life memories of things the house had seen. If that included some of Draco admiring his gains, then Draco would have to act quickly.
            But instead, the pale blue light that poured from the walls formed into delicate, etched white images that showed Death Eaters parading through the corridor, clutching a bloody heart in front of them. Draco didn’t have to feign his shudder or his pulling back.
            Potter, he noticed, was watching him. “Do you see something that could be the face of your enemy?” he asked softly, gesturing with his wand at the memories.
            Draco had to sneer. “You were the one who told me that all of the Death Eaters I could name were dead or in prison,” he said, and didn’t care if it was pettish. Potter would probably expect him to be pettish, anyway. There were people that Draco’s guise of “completely reformed Death Eater” worked on, but not him.
            Potter raised his eyebrows a little, and his expression altered. “Is it hard, living with those memories?”
            Draco spent a moment only making rapid calculations in his mind. This sympathy was probably false, the sort of trick that Potter used to lull suspects, but on the other hand, Draco’s persona would respond to it in a certain way. Draco just had to keep on his guard against taking Potter’s soft tone seriously.
            So he let his head droop and his shoulders slump, and he nodded. “Sometimes it is,” he whispered. “When we—when I came back to live here, I realized that every place in the Manor is associated with a memory of death or torture.” He glanced at the memory, which had changed into a vision of the Dark Lord addressing some Snatchers. He turned his head to the side, genuinely uncomfortable now. Well, let that strengthen the pretense. “I don’t want to look at it anymore.”
            Potter banished the memory spell with a flick of his wand. “I was just trying to call up memories of people who might have been in the Manor and threatened you in a way you don’t remember,” he said soothingly.
            Draco laughed wearily. “Trust me, I remember all of it.”
            Potter hesitated and reached out one hand. Draco had no idea where it would settle. He stood still, wondering if Potter would touch him after all.
            But then one of the other Aurors, who Draco had learned was called Jordan Mytherian, yelled from the dining room. “Sir, we need you to look at the owl!”
            Potter pulled his hand back, gave Draco one more cool look, and walked back to the dining room. Draco lingered, staring sadly into the head of his cane (and incidentally making sure that all of his secret panels were still shut and sealed in the reflection).
            He was thinking, too, of Potter’s expression and apparent desire to touch him, thoughts he could hardly indulge in front of the other Aurors.
            He was shocked by his own desire to receive that touch. And that altered the plan he wanted to use with Potter. Two such desires should not go unused.
*
            “This owl has been scrubbed clean of personal magic.”
            Draco settled heavily back into his chair and lifted a hand to his mouth. He didn’t have to conceal laughter; his control was too perfect for that. But he had to admit, he was glad that he had lived to hear such incredulity in the voice of an Auror. They had never sounded anything but certain when they were arresting his parents.
            “What does that mean?” he asked, in a quavering voice, and thumped his cane on the floor when no one looked at him. “I said, what does that mean? I don’t understand.”
            Auror Mytherian glared at him. Mytherian had clear brown eyes, brown hair that fell to his shoulders in windswept waves, and an honest-to-Merlin cleft in his chin. Draco wondered, idly, if Mytherian resented that he had diminished chances to be a hero as long as Potter was around. “It means,” he said, voice mocking, “that this owl has been scrubbed clean of personal magic.”
            “Jordan.”
            The one word from Potter, uttered as absently as Draco’s thoughts while Potter held the Stunned owl on one fist and carefully examined its wings, and Mytherian shrank like a whipped puppy. He turned away from Draco and made a little bow towards a far wall. As much of a compromise as he can make with his pride, Draco decided.
            Just like that, a plan for dealing with Mytherian bloomed in Draco’s mind. It wouldn’t be necessary if Potter was the only Auror who stayed, but it might be amusing if Mytherian did.
            “It means,” said another of the Aurors, Sarah Crystal, who seemed to have decided that it was her job to be sympathetic to Draco, “that whoever owns this owl has gone through the trouble of having all sorts of magical signatures removed. Not only his—or hers—but the signature of anyone who owned the owl, who bred it, and who enchanted it.” She gave a thoughtful glance at the bird. She had blue eyes, and a firm grip on her wand that Draco thought was wiser than she could have known, if she was wasting sympathy on him. “I’ve seen that done, but only on inanimate objects. Weapons, mostly. I wonder how a living one survived it.”
            “It’s clear that it did,” said the third Auror, who stopped prowling around the dining room long enough to glance over his shoulder. “Who cares how?”
            This Auror, Elian Greengrass-Rosier, had dark eyes and a hateful glare for Draco every three steps or so. Draco kept his eyes down, and acted tame and meek. He would know how to handle Greengrass-Rosier if he needed to, and that would have to be enough.
            “Any bit of knowledge could be critical to this case,” said Potter, with a look round that would have damped Draco if was an Auror. He could only be glad that he wasn’t. “We need to remember that.”
            Greengrass-Rosier straightened his back and clasped his hands behind it. “Of course we need to remember it, sir, but—”
            “The owl has nothing to tell us,” said Potter, and turned away from Greengrass-Rosier with an aplomb that made Draco lick his lips. That was permissible. His persona was such a coward that they could well be chapped and in need of licking. “Do you have any other clues to the identity of your enemy?”
            “I didn’t know the owl was a clue,” Draco muttered, and blinked, and grasped at the head of his cane for a moment. He thought about it, letting the whole, agonizing effort of the thought be visible on his face, and then shook his head. “No. Nothing.”
            Potter was silent for a moment, fingers drumming on his wand holster.
            “He hasn’t received any other threats since then, either,” said Greengrass-Rosier, giving Draco another glare. “I don’t think this enemy has been active enough to warrant the attention of four full-class Aurors, sir. I suggest we leave.”
            “We’ll do that after we find out who’s threatening Malfoy,” Potter said, and Draco thought he would continue, but Greengrass-Rosier interrupted.
            “With all due respect, sir, who cares about a threat to Malfoy? It would only be someone doing what should have been done during the war! If it’s an assassination, I would be tempted to help the assassin—”
            “Elian.”
            Potter’s voice had more echoes than it should have. Greengrass-Rosier went still and pale and tilted his head back, a muscle jumping in his throat. His skin was so pale that Draco was tempted to reach out and touch it, to feel the warmth draining away. He managed to restrain himself, but it was hard.
            “I know full well that Malfoy was supposed to marry your sister, and did not.” Potter’s voice had dropped an octave, and it sounded impressive. Draco wondered for a moment why Potter didn’t use this voice in his day-to-day life. “I didn’t question your assignment to this case because I know that you have a lot of experience with death threats and tracking anonymous owls to their sources. Now I see that I should have questioned it. You’re dismissed.”
            The last word might have been poison, from the way Greengrass-Rosier reacted. He was paler than ever, and stretched out one hand as though he assumed he could touch Potter and have his mistake redeemed. “Please—sir—if I receive another reprimand—you know what’ll happen—”
            “So do you.” Potter stared at him with eyes as pitiless as Nagini’s, and Draco knew something about that, from the number of times the Dark Lord had forced him to stand before the swaying snake as punishment. “That should have let you keep your tongue still, but it didn’t. Get out of my ward’s house.”
            “You can’t even call him your ward yet! You haven’t determined whether you need to protect him, whether there’s a bodyguard case here, instead of Malfoy just exaggerating or trying to play a trick on us—”
            I’m glad that I didn’t marry into his family, Draco thought fervently, although his face only expressed a little stupefied surprise, his mouth hanging open and his eyes blinking frantically. What an idiot. And it’s probably hereditary.
            “I determined that there’s enough of a threat when I saw the presence of utterly unknown magic on the owl,” said Potter. “And you know as well as I do that it’s the Auror in charge of a case who makes that decision.” He moved a step forwards, and Greengrass-Rosier retreated, even though Potter hadn’t drawn his wand. Yet, Draco added mentally, watching the way Potter’s hands twitched near his waist. “Don’t try to use procedure against me. Not when procedure demands your reprimand. Go back to the Ministry. Now.”
            The last word wasn’t even particularly emphatic, but Greengrass-Rosier flinched and nodded. He did turn his back and stalk towards the doorway.
            But as he passed Draco, he tried to cast something. It was probably as harmless as the Tripping Jinx. Draco could easily have resisted or bypassed it, even in his persona, and not taken much harm.
            He didn’t get to find out what the spell was, though, because before the first syllable had slithered out of Greengrass-Rosier’s lips, Potter moved. There was a long, complicated moment that Draco backed away from without thinking, and which he knew he would have to watch in a Pensieve later to make complete sense of.
            But it ended with Greengrass-Rosier on his back, squalling, and Potter standing above him with one boot on his chest and one on his windpipe. His left hand held the wand Greengrass-Rosier had been drawing. He looked down, and when Greengrass-Rosier tried to open his mouth to complain, Potter merely shifted his weight forwards. A warning crackle came from the trapped Auror’s throat, and he shut up, his eyes widening.
            “Sir,” said the Auror named Crystal. Draco looked at her and saw her studying the scene with some appreciation, but the moment she saw him looking, she veiled her eyes and glanced at the floor. “This will give Greengrass-Rosier more evidence against you if he does decide to report the conflict to the Ministry.”
            “So? I’m not worried about what I might say under Veritaserum, let alone what the Pensieve memories would show.” Potter tilted his weight delicately back, and Greengrass-Rosier went from fearing for his neck to fearing for his breath, from the expression on his face. “Besides, the minute I show this conversation to someone, he’s not an Auror anymore.”
            “That’s true, sir,” said Crystal, and stretched out a placating hand. “But I still think it would be for the best if you let him go.”
            Potter considered that, then nodded. “You’re probably right. I think he’s learned his lesson.” He jumped to the side with a long, arcing motion, landing smoothly on the floor and turning around to eye Greengrass-Rosier. “Get up. Get out of here. Wait outside. When I decide who’s staying here, I’ll send the other person who’s leaving to you with your wand.”
            Greengrass-Rosier stood up and glared hatred. It had no obvious effect on Potter, leaving the departing idiot to stomp outside without his wand, but with a grudge big enough to last a lifetime. Draco had watched enough of them form that he should know.
            Potter turned to speak with Crystal and Mytherian. Draco blinked at his back. He could get away with simply maintaining a bemused response all through this, since he had already established himself as not particularly smart.
            Inside, he was reeling.
            Potter’s competent. He’s intelligent. He’s a good fighter. He’s a good leader. Why would anyone report otherwise?
            Draco paused, making a connection he never had before. Some of his first contacts in the Ministry and Knockturn Alley had told him about Potter’s incompetence right before they got arrested or disappeared. He wondered now how many of them had run afoul of Potter or other Aurors because of inaccurate information. Maybe Potter only seemed formidable when you saw him in battle—and few of them would have had the opportunity Draco had, to see him there after becoming his new ward.
            So. This is another chance for me. I’m going to need a powerful distraction, though, one that’s different than the little flirtatious statements I intended to bewilder him with.
            Another plan, one he’d only half-considered, slid forwards and took that discarded plan’s place, and by the time Potter turned back to Draco from issuing crisp orders to Mytherian and Crystal, Draco was deep enough into it to peer shyly up, then let his eyelids descend again.
            “I’m sorry you had to see that,” Potter said, shaking his head. “Not even a personal grudge should ever make an Auror behave like that in front of someone he’s supposed to protect.”
            “It’s all right,” Draco whispered, and glanced timidly up at Potter. “So long as someone as strong as you is here to protect me, I don’t care about the others.”
            Potter blinked and looked at him closely for a moment, as though he suspected Draco’s timid exterior hid something more. Since that was exactly what Draco wanted him to think, Draco gave him three more seconds of a bright smile, then wriggled back in his chair and looked at his feet. “What happens now?” he whispered.
            Potter paused for a second and looked keenly at Mytherian and Crystal. Draco expected him to dismiss Mytherian. Any fool could see that that one would cause some of the same problems for Potter as Greengrass-Rosier had, although his motive was hatred of and jealousy of Potter instead of hatred of Draco.
            But instead, Potter said, “Sarah, I’m going to send you back to the Ministry with the initial report, and to take Elian his wand. Someone should be there to give a fairly objective summary of what happened, and report to the Analysts about the magic on the owl.”
            Draco managed to hide a twitch. The Analysts were a relatively new branch of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, one that Potter’s friend Granger had founded. They specialized in tackling obscure spells, artifacts, and magical effects and tracking them to their origins, or at least comparing them with other spells and artifacts and magical effects they had encountered in the past.
            Crystal seemed to have some of the same reservations that Draco did. She looked straight at Potter, not letting her eyes pass to the side to touch Mytherian, and said, “But sir—”
            “I need Hermione to look at your memories of that owl,” Potter interrupted. “That’s the real reason I’m sending you. Can you do that?” He tossed Greengrass-Rosier’s wand to her as he was speaking, and Crystal caught it out of the air without trouble, although she still looked disturbed.
            But then she said, “Yes, sir,” in a colorless voice, and gave a single bow. When she straightened, it was to frown at Mytherian and Draco in turn before she spun and walked out of the Manor.
            “Good,” said Potter, turning back to Draco. “Let me explain to you how our schedule of guarding you will work.”
            “Whatever you come up with will be wonderful, I’m sure,” Draco said, and looked up at him with shining eyes.
            Potter twitched much the same way Draco had kept himself from doing a few minutes ago. “Of course,” he said, and then turned and beckoned Mytherian over, drawing his wand. A transparent map of the Manor flashed into existence between them. “This is where I’m going to position us.”
            Draco sat there and sneaked shy glances up now and then. From the way he kept twitching, Potter hadn’t the slightest idea of how to deal with them.
            Yes, actual physical flirting is the best way. Distracting for him, fun for me, and encouraging him to protect me even more.
            Who knows? There are certain situations where I might need someone competent and ready to sacrifice his life for me, and this could well be one of them.
*
BAFan: Thank you!
Tommy-Lane: Thank you! I hope this chapter also amused you.
SP777: Yes. Although Harry might not realize exactly what kind of game it is, yet.
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The Auror Method