Knots In Our Heartstrings [Dramione]

Pinky Promise Kisses

Wind rippled around them furiously as they landed, and no sooner than his cheeks finally adjusted to the prickling cold air, was he assaulted by the dense smog of the bar as Blaise ushered him on through.

He was sure to have turned around, spun on his heel and left as soon as he caught sight of the crowd if it weren't for the heavy hands planted on his shoulders. They held him there, safe and secure, squeezing with a gentle reassurance as hot breath graze his neck.

"You'll let me sneak one more guest in right, Darla?" Blaise cooed, shouting just above the gentle raucous that echoed from beyond the glass doors.

Darla, he presumed, slumped over the counter with a sigh, pressing her fingers into the wood grain as her hands slipped forwards.

"You going to stiff me at midnight again, Zabini?" she hummed, tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth.

"You know I would never."

"And yet," she grinned, "You always do."

Blaise huffed a hurtful scoff from behind him, leaning in closer still over his shoulder.

"Please," he begged, "I'm doing charity work, here."

"Charity?" Darla laughed and pulled out an ink pad and rubber stamp. "Most Charity's I meet are prettier." She hummed, eyes squinting tight as she looked him over, jutting her chin up slightly as a loose strand of slicked black hair fell into her face.

Draco smiled. Weakly.

Waved a pitiful little hand.

"Hi."

Darla scoffed, her gaze flitting back over his shoulder to Blaise.

"Wands."

Blaise quickly plucked Draco's wand from his back pocket, and slipped his own from his sleeve as he handed them over to Darla, palm up and ready on the desk, waiting to receive them.

It felt strange, to have his wand plucked so casually from him like that. He thought, perhaps, it reminded him of being pickpocketed on the underground. Or the way Harry would pluck and leave notes from there.

He'd stuffed it there as a lousy afterthought when Blaise had insisted vehemently that he take it with him. As they walked through the manor gates and prepared to disapparate, he realised, that he was afraid of dropping it, and losing it to some unbeknownst place forever. So he'd pocketed it, because it felt safer there than in his grasp.

Darla spun both wands delicately between her fingers, before tapping them twice on the desk. Two long thin drawers flew open, and she dropped them in quickly before they closed once more.

Blaise's hand shot out from over his shoulder, the other still planted firmly. Drala held it loosely with her free hand as she planted a quick ink stamp on the back of it. Blaise planted his hand back quickly on Draco's shoulder. He still believed him to be a flight risk.

Impatiently, Darla flexed her fingers in her open palm.

"Your hand?"

"Sorry," Draco mumbled, refusing to move. "Sorry, what have you done with my wand?"

"Put it in a drawer," Darla drawled like it was the most obvious answer in the world.

"No," Draco winced, "No, I can see that. I saw that. But... Why?"

She scoffed, a tiny little laugh.

"Oh, Charity, Blaise really is holding you, hostage, isn't he?"

"Well–"

"It's charity work ," Blaise insisted, "I'm not holding him hostage."

"Right," she tutted, "'Course you're not."