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Building With Worn-Out Tools	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 54266 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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            Chapter Sixteen—Concerned Friends

            Draco was talking quietly with his mother the next morning when Seeky brought him a familiar black owl with glittering amber eyes, riding on his fist as if it had been born to do something so silly and make it look dignified. Draco raised an eyebrow as he took the letter the owl had been carrying. He had expected one of these eventually, but quite apart from the fact that he and his friends usually didn’t communicate when he was working on cases, Pansy and Theodore had been out of the country for a month.

            “Who is that from, Draco?” Narcissa asked, with a soft edge in her voice that could easily become screams if she didn’t like the answer.

            Luckily, she had never shown any bad reaction to the sound of Pansy’s name. “Pansy,” he murmured, and opened the envelope. There was only a single sheet of parchment inside, which surprised him again. He would have thought Pansy would write him a long letter detailing all her adventures on their travels, as well as all the horrible hotel service in the backwards wizarding communities of unenlightened Europe.

            The letter was very simple. It didn’t even contain a salutation. Of course, Pansy could count on no one else in the Manor opening Draco’s post.

            You chose Potter over Blaise. Something interesting must have happened. I’ll be visiting you at ten on the morning you receive this.

            Pansy Parkinson-Nott.

            It was half-past nine now. Draco narrowed his eyes and thought for a moment. It was useless to forbid Pansy from coming, of course; she would only appear anyway, all the more filled with ravening curiosity for being temporarily put off.

            No, the main question was whether he should have her meet Harry at this time or not. The git was still sleeping, as though the elementary snogging and wanking he’d shared with Draco yesterday had exhausted him. If he showed up in front of Pansy, of course he couldn’t keep it to himself. He’d probably start to blush the moment he saw her.

            Draco didn’t really think Pansy would betray the fact of their affair to Blaise.

            Probably.

            There was always the possibility that the identity of his lover would overrule her confidence that Draco himself knew what was best for him.

            “I’d like to have fish for breakfast,” Narcissa said decisively. “Arrange it, Draco.”

            Draco kissed her brow, stood, and nodded to Seeky. “See to it,” he murmured as he walked out of the room. “Oh, and Seeky?” The house-elf gazed up at him solemnly, eyes shining like green jewels. “Make sure that Mr. Potter stays in his room for now, and away from Pansy. Arrange entertainment for him if you must.”

            “Seeky understands,” Seeky said in a hushed voice, and vanished.

            The elf really might, at that, Draco reflected as he quickened his strides towards the reception room and the Floo connection that Pansy always used. After all, the house-elves had been about that time Pansy thought Draco was using experimental potions to console himself for a temporary setback in a case. They’d all come to Draco’s hoarse shout just as Pansy tried to cast a Body-Bind on him so she could take him to St. Mungo’s. She was—well, just a bit overprotective where Draco’s health and reputation were concerned.

            And no matter how much good Harry might do for one of those things, there was no doubt that he would affect the other among Draco’s social circles, and not necessarily in a positive way. Draco just had to persuade Pansy to see the good side.

            Somehow.

*

            Harry had already tried to leave his room, and found a squeaking, apologetic, but oddly determined house-elf in his way. He had shrugged and decided that he might as well read the bundle of papers that Hedwig had brought back from Hermione. Her letter chided him for using her for research, asked a few probing questions about Malfoy that Harry didn’t even want to think of the answers to, and categorized the parchments she’d sent him in order by date, relevance, and size.

            How can I help asking her for help with research, when she does it anyway, and so well? Harry wondered, as he sat back to eat, alternating reading with bites from the breakfast that Seeky had agreed to bring him.

            The newspaper clips were at least illuminating. Lucius Malfoy had broken out of Azkaban due to weakened defenses and led the Aurors on a merry chase; they’d nearly cornered him once in Scotland, where he’d seemingly run to try and attack Hogwarts, but then he’d eluded them for a month altogether. When they finally caught up with news of his whereabouts again, he was firmly ensconced in Sweden.

            Why Sweden? Harry wondered, but other newspaper articles gave him the answer. Apparently a few of the Death Eaters who had followed Voldemort in his first rising had been too old—or too wise—to help him directly in battle when he rose for the second time, but they’d aided him financially and at a distance, and established a small “sanctuary” in Sweden. The wizarding governments of Sweden and Britain had apparently had a large argument sometime in the last century, and in retaliation, Sweden had made the laws for retrieving British wizards who fled to its community as exiles or criminals particularly labyrinthine. Since no one really cared to have the obviously insane Lucius Malfoy back among them, no serious attempt had been made to extradite him.

            And there solid information ended. The Daily Prophet had also printed interviews with various people who claimed to have seen Lucius on this day or that, torturing a small furry animal or threatening a family member, simply because they were the Daily Prophet, and thus the same people who regularly employed Rita Skeeter. But if he ever truly ventured back to Britain, there was no record of it.

            No record on the true causes of Lucius Malfoy’s madness, either, whether it was just Azkaban or something else, and therefore no founded speculation on how dangerous he was.

            One article did give Harry a very small clue as to the probable whereabouts of the Death Eater sanctuary: in the mountains, near a sanctuary for magical creatures. One of the Prophet’s interviewees had spoken about it, promising to give more concrete information the next day, and promptly been brutally murdered overnight. The Dark Mark had hovered above his house, the Prophet pronounced.

            Here Harry had to pause in his reading, because, unusually, he heard the sound of raised voices beyond his door. He rose to his feet in concern. His first thought was that Lucius had returned, his second that perhaps Narcissa had gone into one of her bouts with madness and needed help.

            But Seeky appeared in the next instant, with a stern glare. “Master Harry Potter must not go beyond the door!”

            “All right,” said Harry slowly, sitting down, and listening again. This time, he could make out Malfoy’s voice shouting back, something he would definitely not have done at his mother, and probably not at his father, either, considering how he’d tried to make himself small and calm when Lucius appeared.

            In fact, he sounded rather like—

            Harry coughed, and hoped the house-elf would attach no significance to his blush. “Can you tell me who’s here, at least?” he asked.

            “Mistress Parkinson-Nott,” the elf said, ears standing up straight now that Harry showed no sign of venturing near the door.

            Harry winced, and the last traces of resentment that he’d been locked in here melted away. He hadn’t really known what he wanted to say to Malfoy anyway, after yesterday; now he could imagine excellent reasons to keep away from any argument that echoed like this one.

            I assume that Malfoy’s told her about—us.

*

            “I know you must have good reason for betraying one of your oldest friends. I just hope it wasn’t a pair of pretty green eyes.”

            Draco knew he didn’t choke, knew it. Pansy’s beady little gaze could stop scrutinizing him at any moment now. “Of course not,” he said coolly as he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “Potter offered me more money. And I don’t know where you got the impression that Blaise is one of my oldest friends. He only truly started paying attention to me in fifth year, remember? When he couldn’t ignore me any longer.”

            Pansy laughed at that, but she still watched him with much too much knowledge as she took a seat in front of the fire in his reception room. “I’ll have cognac,” she said to the house-elf who appeared, and glanced back at Draco. “Do you have any idea of the perfectly dreadful stuff they try to serve you abroad? No, of course you don’t, since you’re always too busy working to take a proper holiday. Well, trust me, it’s dreadful.” Her gaze sharpened again. “And so this had nothing to do with the way that you practically devoured Potter with your eyes during your sixth year in Hogwarts?”

            Draco relaxed slightly. Pansy wasn’t prescient; he tended to give too much credit to her right guesses and ignore the numerous times she’d been wrong, a habit he promised to stop himself from indulging in in the future. For example, she still thought he’d been nursing some enormous crush on Harry in sixth year, even though Draco had spent most of the time worrying about his family’s lives and his own. “Nothing at all,” he replied, sitting down. “I never expected perfect little happily married Harry Potter to divorce his wife, after all. But, tell me the truth, Pansy: if you were an Arguer, would you have turned down this case?”

            “I don’t think so, no,” Pansy said, leaning back in her chair and squinting thoughtfully at the ceiling. The house-elf brought her cognac, but she didn’t bother even glancing at it before she drank. “Of course, I wouldn’t refuse it because of the money and the prestige. You wouldn’t refuse it because you’ve always been much too attracted to powerful wizards for your own good.” She gave Draco a look from the corner of her eye that shouldn’t have been that knowing, when most of her face was simply in profile. “And I’ve run into Potter a few times in Diagon Alley since the war. I know perfectly well what he’s become, Draco.”

            Draco did have enough practice in controlling his emotions to roll his eyes and simply maintain a dignified silence.

            “I’ve read the papers, of course,” Pansy said, dipping two fingertips in the cognac and bringing them to her lips, then leaning back further as if she wanted to see the whole of the mural on the ceiling. Draco did have to admit it was rather fascinating, showing one of his ancestors fighting a dragon. “But they only tell me about the wizarding world’s perception of the case, and we know it’s likely to be wrong. Tell me, Draco, what do you think of it?”

            Perhaps they were on slightly steadier ground now. Draco liked to think so, even though he was probably wrong. “It’s been hard, of course, with Potter’s celebrity and his congenital unwillingness to take advantage of powers any Slytherin would know instinctively how to use,” he said in a tart voice. “But it’s improving at last, thank God.” He smirked a bit, thinking of the next strike he’d prepared against Blaise and his slut. “It should be even better in a few days.”

            Pansy tilted back down to face him so fast that she almost spilled her cognac. “Tell me.”

            “Tell you what?” Draco cocked his head and fluttered his eyelashes at her.

            “Tell me what strategy you have that makes you smirk that way.” Pansy impatiently tapped her fingers on her wrist. Her dress robes, a pale lavender that Draco could never convince her made her skin look pale and washed-out, rustled around her as she leaned forwards. “You know I won’t betray you to Blaise, Draco. He made his own choice, taking up with a blood traitor like that.”

            “Well…” Draco drawled.

            Pansy held her breath.

            “No,” Draco said, and gave her a sharp, sweet smile. “I think I’d prefer to leave this unspoken right now—unless Potter asks me, of course. I could hardly refuse him a little tidbit of knowledge like that.”

            Pansy abruptly stared at him. Draco glanced down at his robes and subtly picked at his teeth with his tongue, wondering if he’d somehow left a fragment of food where it shouldn’t be from breakfast this morning.

            “You’d never say something like that,” Pansy said, her voice shaking a bit, “not unless—you wouldn’t hide this plan from me and not him, unless—“ Her eyes widened and her face paled to the point that Draco was frightened for her. Then she slammed to her feet and crossed the floorboards between them, staring hard into Draco’s eyes all the while.

            “You’re shagging him,” she hissed. “You idiot!”

            “Pansy!” How the hell did she do that? Draco drew himself up and tilted his head with haughty, stubborn pride. “I have no idea where you get these vile ideas, but you were mistaken about any infatuation I had with Potter in school, and you’re mistaken about my attraction to powerful wizards, and you’re mistaken about this, too—“

            “I am not!” Pansy’s eyes and cheeks were bright with fury. “Are you insane, Draco? If anything could jeopardize your case, this could! You know that the spell cast on the judge responds most strongly to members of the Wizengamot and other wizards and witches holding important positions, and need I remind you that seven current members of the Wizengamot rather despise any wizard who sleeps with another wizard?” Her voice soared, to the point that Draco was quite sure she would have awakened Potter if he weren’t already awake. “This is the worst thing you could do, you prat!”

            “I know everything you’re saying, Pansy.” Draco did not allow any sign of either fear or anger into his voice or eyes. He wouldn’t admit he had made a mistake, the way she seemed to be waiting for him to do, because he hadn’t. “What I do with Potter behind closed doors is my business, and no one will find out before the end of the trial—“

            “You can’t know that!” Pansy’s voice dipped a bit, but only to become more venomous. “You utter and absolute dunderhead.”

            “I’ve been careful—“

            “It’s a risk no Slytherin in his right mind would take.” Pansy shook her head in disgust. “I would say that Potter must have tricked you into it, but the man couldn’t trick a baby. No, it was the magic, wasn’t it? You just saw Potter walk in clothed in that strength, and your tongue sagged out of your mouth and entangled your feet so that you fell and hit your head, and came back up convinced that fucking your very male, very famous, client is a good idea!”

            Pansy was annoying to the point of meriting an Unforgivable Curse sometimes, Draco thought, but she did come up with some rather arresting images.

            “It was nothing like that,” he said tightly. “He was rather reluctant at first, in fact—“

            “Who would have thought?” Pansy threw her hands up in a gesture of marveling. “Somewhere along the way, the consummate Gryffindor developed some sense!”

            “It was nothing like that,” Draco repeated. He had regained some of his calm, and raised an eyebrow at Pansy when she had the gall to actually stamp her foot at him. “It’s simply play, just another element of the excitement this trial is currently bringing to my life. That is all, Pansy, and I’d thank you not to make more of it than it is.”

            Pansy started to lower her head, and Draco rather expected a melodramatic movement, such as clapping her forehead into her palm. But she stopped halfway there, and her eyes rose and moved over Draco’s shoulder. Draco turned, expecting to see Potter there, but no one had appeared. He realized in a moment that Pansy had simply dropped into one of her trances, wherein she put pieces of a puzzle together in such a way that they made sense. At least, in such a way that they made sense to a witch with occasional flashes of intelligence in between the exaggerated emotional reactions.

            “Oh,” Pansy said at last, and this time she did strike her brow with her palm, but she was shaking her head and there was a broad smile on her face. “Oh, yes, of course. I really should have realized this sooner. What an idiot I am.”

            “What?” Draco demanded.

            Pansy gave him a bright smile, and then leaned forwards and kissed him on the cheek, cupping his chin at the same moment, a gesture she only gave him when she was feeling unexpectedly tender towards him. “Everything will work out for the best, you’ll see, Draco!” she chirped gaily, and then sailed towards the fireplace.

            “Pansy, for God’s sake—“ Draco chased her, trying to make it look as if that weren’t what he was doing. “What do you mean?” he demanded of her back, as she cast a handful of Floo powder into the flames.

            She smiled at him one more time, and her eyes were happier than he had seen them since the day when the Healers announced that she’d be able to have a baby after all, something that had been uncertain with some of the spell damage Theodore had taken during the war. “Nothing at all!” she said. “Do just as you’re doing, Draco. I’m the one who made the mistake, not you, and now I’m going to repair it as best as I can.” She winked at him, Summoned her cognac, and then vanished into the fire with a call of, “Nott’s Corner!”

            Draco was left to stare at the fireplace and shake his head. Then he went up to Harry’s room, because he had to command Seeky to let him go, and because he was anxious enough to be in the mood for sex.

*



            Harry sucked the tip of the quill, not least because Malfoy would say it was a disgusting habit, and contemplated the parchment in front of him. It had finally occurred to him that, with the exception of Hermione, he hadn’t really tried to make any of his friends or surrogate family understand what had happened between him and Ginny. It was no wonder they believed Ginny, when they saw her every day and could see her tears and hear her sob story. His hiding out in Malfoy Manor hadn’t helped, either. He’d sent letters to them, sure, but more in the nature of a demand that they tell him where they stood. It was time that he made his own standing clear, and tried to be a little more conciliatory—more active, in fact.

            So he dried the quill on his sleeve, then dipped it into ink and began to compose a letter to Ron.

            He made it as simple as he could, because, no matter what Malfoy said, Harry knew he wasn’t good with words.

            Dear Ron:

            I know you might not want to read this letter, but I hope you will. This is my side of the story of what happened between me and Ginny:

            I thought we were content. We hadn’t spoken nearly as much or been nearly as happy since last year when she lost the baby, but Hermione told me she needed space, and I agreed. I had no idea she’d chosen to go to Zabini, or that she wanted another baby so badly she would sleep with someone else, or that she blamed me for her losing the first one. She’s claimed she was afraid of me all along, but I saw no sign of that either. I knew she was disappointed that I didn’t choose to be a Quidditch player or an Auror, just like you and Hermione were, but I thought she’d accepted my decision to live quietly. I just didn’t know her very well, and that part of it is my fault.

            I chose to get a divorce from her because she told me that she intended to bring a divorce case against me first. That was the only reason. I chose Malfoy because he’s the best Arguer in Britain and Hermione recommended him. Those were the only reasons. I know that none of that changes the stress of the case on your family or that you hated Malfoy in school, but—well, I think we have to deal with what’s happening now, not what happened in Hogwarts. I thought Ginny and I were just like we were in Hogwarts, and look how much trouble that caused.

            I’m not in love with Ginny anymore.

            Here he paused and stared at the far wall.

            Finally, he had to write: I don’t know why I fell out of love with her. I’m still trying to figure that out. But, Ron, I’m not ever going to come back to her. That part of my life is over.

            I promise that I won’t let Malfoy turn me against you. But I won’t drop the case, and since Ginny is the one who wanted a divorce from me in the first place, then I consider it her fault we’re in the courtroom now. I’ve started to regain control of my anger and my magic and have some ambition again. Those are things I do owe Malfoy for, so try not to hate him, all right?

            Or me, mate. You’re my best friend, Ron, my first friend. I really don’t want you to hate me.

            Love,

            Harry.

            Harry folded the letter with a sense of satisfaction, then opened the window of his room and concentrated. Hedwig fluttered up in a few minutes, following the call of his magic—a wandless, wordless spell that Harry had perfected during the war, when he sometimes needed to send a message to someone else without being able to Summon or find another owl. It helped that Hedwig was far more intelligent than the average bird.

            He bound the letter to her leg, speaking soft words and petting her head. She nudged her beak against him, and he smiled. “Take this to Ron, girl,” he said, and she fluttered her wings as though complaining about the lack of a harder task, but did it.

            Harry had just closed the window when he heard the door open. He turned and glanced in surprise at Malfoy, leaning against it.

            “Ah,” Harry said. “I thought you’d decided to cage the dangerous beast up for a time.”

            “No,” Malfoy said, and then he was stalking towards him with a predatory movement that Harry knew well. “I have no interest in locking any part of you up.” His eyes dropped to Harry’s groin in obvious allusion.

            Harry felt the first stirrings of arousal, and decided that he might as well go along with them. Why not? He and Malfoy both seemed to enjoy this, it meant nothing lasting, and Harry was sick of conducting arguments with himself in which he had the support of neither his body or another human being.

            It’s rather comforting, that it all means nothing.

*

            Dezra: Admittedly, Harry is not being the most ethical person at the moment.

            Daft Fear: Harry is rather clueless, isn’t he? I think Draco’s emotionally wiser about what’s going on between him and Harry (though not wiser about everything, as this chapter shows. Pansy still puzzles him mightily).

            Mangacat: Another courtroom scene is not far away.

            LJ of the Royal Dark Throne: Thanks! Glad you enjoyed it. I’ve never written a story that includes smut in which it’s been put off for so long.
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