Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Thanks so much for the reviews on the last chapter! As you should see from this one, the case won’t be easy for anyone—including Ginny.

Chapter Two—The Meeting

Harry woke with a sigh. Strange, he thought as he rubbed his eyes, how it was easy to reach for his glasses instead of Ginny.

Of course, it had been months since they’d slept together. Perhaps that should have warned him in the first place. But he’d thought she was still depressed from losing the baby, and he hadn’t wanted to push.

That had been some of Hermione’s advice, too, he remembered. Don’t push. Give her some room.

Harry grimaced as he went to prepare breakfast. He could only hope that Hermione’s advice about hiring Malfoy as an Arguer to help him work through the tangle of the divorce laws would bear more fruit.

A barn owl came swooping in with the Daily Prophetjust as Harry was cracking his eggs into a skillet. He rolled his eyes. The headline, in letters three inches high, proclaimed: HARRY POTTER AND BRIDE ON THE BRINK OF A SHOCKING DIVORCE!

He knew he should probably read it. If Ginny had given the paper an interview already, and made claims that would be used against him when they went to court, he should know what they were.

But disgust overwhelmed him completely when he realized the photo on the front page showed Ginny kissing Blaise passionately, and then breaking away to grin at the camera, as if she had done it on purpose to show how happy she was. He dropped the paper on the floor just as it began to smolder. Sighing, he waved his wand and cast Aguamenti, turning the paper into a sodden mass of newsprint.

Hedwig hooted disapprovingly from her perch in the corner of the kitchen.

“I know, I know,” Harry said, and, after setting the eggs to cook with a mild charm that would prevent them from warming too quickly, walked across the room to ruffle her feathers. “I shouldn’t have done that. And won’t Malfoy be thrilled when he finds out,” he muttered under his breath, and glanced through the window. It was a gray day, but the hurrying clouds might break out into sunshine soon.

A flash of a camera cut through the window. Harry ducked back out of sight with a soft growl. That must be a new photographer, who didn’t know about the magical effects that tended to happen to intruding reporters on Harry’s property.

Sure enough, someone tried to knock at the door a moment later. Harry smirked and went back to his eggs. The wards hummed in his ears, roused by the knock from a stranger. If he left now, nothing would happen.

He didn’t. He knocked again.

A moment later, a distinct yelp cut through the air—the wards bringing the sound to Harry, so that he could enjoy it. He poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice and meandered into the front parlor, the windows of which looked out on his garden. The reporter hung upside-down by one ankle in front of the window, in a ward that used a variation of the Levicorpusspell. He’d dropped his camera, and now he swatted frantically at the nest of small, hungry black snakes that had appeared beneath him. They hissed and piled on each other, reaching up towards him like vines.

Harry opened the front door. “Were you going to bite him?” he asked in Parseltongue. “You know that I’ve asked you not to do that.”

The reporter let out a high whimper of fear. Harry snorted. He usually found it pathetic that most wizards were so afraid of a man who could talk like a snake, but on occasions like this, it came in useful.

The nearest snake turned her head towards him, tongue flicking rapidly. Nemesis had yellow eyes, and was the only snake Harry could reliably tell apart from the rest, unless they reminded him of their names. “He came to your door. The ones who do that are our lawful prey.”

“Yes, but you can’t eat them,” Harry pointed out. The reporter whimpered again. Harry had heard, from Ron, Hermione, and nearly everyone else, that it sounded as if he were hissing instructions for complicated, gruesome torture to the snakes when he was only having quite ordinary arguments. “You can’t actually manage anything larger than a rat, you know that.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

The poor man had actually wet himself, Harry saw with a sidelong glance. That was probably enough playing for now. “Well, you’ve done your terrifying. Back to your burrows with you now.”

Nemesis led her hatchlings away sullenly. She had dreams of todaybeing the day that Harry would cut intruders down into small, bite-sized chunks for her and her brood. She was the most optimistic snake Harry had ever met.

Relaxed—which was important—Harry directed his attention to the reporter, waving his wand so the ward set him back on his feet. “Really, is it so impossible to think that I just don’t want to talk to you right now?” he asked.

“But—but I wanted to ask you about the present state of your affairs with Mrs. Potter,” the reporter bubbled to him, retrieving his camera. He was young, with the freshness of face that said he hadn’t fought in the war. Most days, Harry envied people like that. Sometimes, as now, he detested them. Being on the same battlefield as a few Death Eaters might have taught him to control his bladder better.

Recognizing the rising signs of his own temper, Harry shook his head and attended to the matter at hand. “I suggest you ask Mrs. Potter about that,” he said, and stepped back towards his house.

“Is it really true that you refused to have sex with her, so she had to find someone who’d treat her like a real woman?” the reporter blurted.

Harry took a few deep breaths, staring at the façade of the house all the while. He’d fling the pumpkin juice at bestif he turned around right now. Then he said, “The Daily Prophetmust be desperate, to print that rubbish as truth,” and stepped in, shutting the door behind him.

The idiot started to come forwards again, incredibly, but Harry opened the window and hissed out of it. Nemesis came into view from behind a spectacular clump of roses. This time, the reporter saw the better part of valor and beat a hasty retreat.

His eggs weren’t ruined, by a miracle. Harry ate them for breakfast, along with a piece of toast and marmalade, and prepared himself to go over to Hermione and Ron’s house. He’d only asked Hermione about advice for dealing with the divorce case; he hadn’t faced her in person yet.

He had no idea what the Weasley family thought of the situation, either. He hadn’t received any Howlers, at least, and that mightbe a good sign.

On the other hand, maybe they’re all too fascinated with Ginny and her new lover and baby. He knew it had been a huge disappointment to Molly that they hadn’t been able to give her grandchildren.

He shook his head to rid himself of useless speculations like this and cast Floo powder into the fireplace, calling out, “Weasley-Granger residence!”

*

Draco wondered who he’d pleased to get this unprecedented run of good luck. Potter’s letter had come yesterday, and now he had Blaise’s head floating in his fireplace. Blaise had just asked Draco to be his Arguer, defending his Weasley bint from “unjustified accusations,” and ensuring that she “received her fair share of that bastard Potter’s money.”

Life really wastoo good.

“You really should have acted faster, Blaise,” Draco drawled, pretending to be intensely interested in the section of the Daily Prophetthat reported yet another disastrous failure for the Chudley Cannons, rather than the photograph on the front page that showed Weasley kissing his best friend. She had ugly teeth. Draco didn’t blame Potter at all for not wanting to live with that any longer. “Potter’s already asked me, and we’re meeting today to discuss it.”

Though peering at Blaise’s face was extremely tempting, Draco knew he couldn’t risk it or he’d start laughing hysterically. Besides, the outraged silence was almost as good.

“He did what?” Blaise finally shouted.

“He asked me, and I agreed.” Draco felt ready to lay the paper down now, and peer severely at Blaise over the top of his table. His best friend had called at an hour when anyone with a conscience—and some familiarity with his habits—would have known Draco was still at breakfast, in casual robes. A house-elf popped in with his third pot of tea and poured a cup for him, then carefully laid down an exquisite set of chocolate-dipped strawberries on his plate. Draco began to eat, continuing to frown. “I didn’t think you were deaf,” he added, when he’d finished the first strawberry and Blaise had so far said nothing amusing.

“I thought you would agree to defend me,” Blaise said, voice low and ugly. Oh, dear, Draco thought, with a glee that he attempted to keep hidden. He’s about to be like this. “After all, I’m only your best friend. Generally, best friends did favors for each other, I thought.”

“And generally, I thought best friends had better taste than to take up with blood traitors,” Draco said, rolling one shoulder while he took another strawberry. “It seems that both our expectations could use some adjusting. Perhaps it’s part of a general epidemic of snapped expectations in wizarding Britain, since I know many people who thought Potter and his perfect little bride would never divorce. I’ll write to the Daily Prophetabout it.”

“You have no idea how horribly Potter was treating her—“ Blaise began.

“Oh, please,” Draco sneered, nodding to the house-elf who had once again appeared, this time with a plate of wonderfully fluffy toast. Its disappearance was soundless. “She had more than she could ever have expected when she was born a Weasley, Blaise. Five years of the best life money could buy with the Hero of the Wizarding World, and Potter didn’t fuck around behind herback, I’d bet. He’s too sickeningly noble for that.”

“He doesn’t doanything!” Blaise burst out. “That part of the rumors is true. He just lies around the house all day, and talks to his owl, and maybe Flooes to a friend’s house if he’s feeling reallyadventurous. He should have fought for Ginny if he wanted to keep her.” He lowered his voice as if sharing a great secret. “He doesn’t love her, Draco.”

“It is,” said Draco, after a carefully judged bite of toast, “extremely hard to blame him for that one, don’t you think?”

“Ilove her.”

“Please. You love the thrill of fucking the wife of someone powerful enough to kill you without blinking.” Draco sipped at his tea. “The moment the divorce is final and she isn’t in any danger from Potter anymore, you’ll lose interest in her.”

“Not this time.” Blaise’s eyes glowed with what he probably believed was devotion. “It’s different, this time, Draco. It’s real.” He lowered his voice even further. “We’re going to have a baby.”

Draco stared at his best friend for a long time. Then he rolled his eyes and put his tea down. “Even if I weren’t already representing Potter,” he said, “I’d drop you just for that, Blaise. Have you any idea how stupidthat is, to have got her pregnant, and have the proof of her infidelity on display for all to see?”

“We weren’t going to hide it,” Blaise said. “We love each other, Draco. We want to show that off.”

Draco snapped his teeth together. “Fucking the Weasley bint has lost you brain cells, Blaise. I distinctly remember your not being this stupid when we were at Hogwarts.”

“Are you going to be our Arguer or not?”

“Isn’t it obvious by now?”

Blaise vanished with a flash and a crack from Draco’s fireplace. Draco shook his head slowly, and sipped at his tea.

It was true that Potter’s stock had fallen somewhat in the wizarding world; there were people who thought he was lazy for not becoming an Auror, and others who thought he was lazy for not making a political career in the Ministry, and still others who had expected him to follow the defeat of the Dark Lord with one miracle after another. And a case like this was never easy.

But infidelity, and a bastard child out of it, and Blaise and Weasley both being hotheaded idiots who believed that their lovewould make a difference?

They were handing Draco weapons left and right. At this pace, he wouldn’t have enough room to put them all.

*

“Well, they’re not happy, Harry. You have to understand that.”

Harry had known there would be bad news. Hermione had welcomed him with loud and effusive words when he came through the fireplace, but had avoided his eyes, and after she handed him a cup of tea, she immediately retreated to the other side of their immense drawing room and started chewing on her hair.

“They’re not happy,” Harry said evenly, setting the cup of tea on the arm of the chair. “I’ll need a bit more than that, Hermione.”

Hermione sighed and stared at her hands. “Ron is on your side,” she murmured. “He says Ginny was within her rights to leave you, but not to act as if she were married to someone else at the same time.”

“And the other Weasleys?”

“Percy is on Ginny’s side—“

“No surprise,” Harry interrupted, trying to draw a smile out of his friend. “I think he still hasn’t quite forgiven me for proving Fudge wrong about Voldemort being back. I don’t think he’s quite forgiven Voldemort for comingback and ruining his nice neat Ministry career, to be honest.”

She smiled, but it was weak. “Bill and Fleur—they think that any problems in a marriage can and should be worked out, you know that.”

Harry clenched a fist, but told himself to calm down. “Just because they’ve done it doesn’t mean everyone can,” he muttered. “I mean, it’s nice that Fleur was able to accept the werewolf traits that Bill took on, but sometimes couples just aren’t meant to deal with problems like that.”

“I’m only telling you what they said, Harry.” Hermione raised her hands.

“I know,” Harry said. “Go on.”

“Charlie’s neutral about the whole thing.” Hermione brushed her hair back over her shoulder again. “Since he lives in Romania, he really doesn’t have to make a decision.” She sighed. “Fred and George—apparently Ginny’s been talking to them about how unhappy she is. They don’t think she should have taken Zabini into her bed, but they dothink you should have done more to give her what she wants.”

“I tried,” Harry whispered. “Honestly, Hermione, I thought it was working. I had no idea she was that upset with me until the night before last.” The memory of what he’d lost was shuddering through him now, like a delayed earthquake. “I certainly had no idea that she was—well, sleeping with someone else.”

“Arthur just wants to ignore the whole thing, and stay friends with both you and Ginny,” Hermione said. She hesitated.

“Go on,” Harry said.

“Molly’s very upset,” Hermione said, speaking so quickly that Harry could barely make out the words. “She apparently thinks you and Ginny got married too young, and you should have waited, and if you had children this wouldn’t be happening at all, but you don’t, and—“ She stopped herself. Then she took a deep breath and said, “Ginny told her about the baby, Harry. That trumps everything else for her, her first grandchild.”

Harry rubbed his face. “Yeah,” he whispered.

“I know you did the best you could,” said Hermione, and her expression was wistful when he looked again. “But—well, you really haven’t had much of a life since the war, Harry. Either one of you. I don’t think you and Ginny were good for each other. I’ve always thought that.”

“Then why didn’t you say something?” Harry asked. A wind brushed against his hair. He bit his lip and did his best to calm down.

“You were so in love.” Hermione shook her head, a faint smile on her lips. “I thought I was being paranoid and it would work out in the end.” She dragged a hand through her hair and fixed Harry with a challenging stare. “I know this hurts, but maybe it’ll be better in the end, for both of you.”

“Maybe for Ginny,” Harry said. He tried to laugh, but it came out sounding funny. “She still has the majority of her family on her side and a lover and a baby,” he tried. “I have friends, but—my family’s gone, Hermione. Both parts of it.”

Hermione sighed. “I’m sorry, Harry.” She hesitated again, and then continued, “I’ve never really understood, though. Why didn’tyou apply for another job when you knew you couldn’t be an Auror or a professional Quidditch player?”

“I was tired of doingthings,” Harry pointed out, standing up. “I’d fought for more than a year, and hunted Horcruxes during the same time period, and got myself ready to commit murder. Besides, do you really think I could have held my temper in the middle of a job where people would probably gape at me because of this stupid scar?”

“But you could have—“

Harry turned away. “I’m going to be late for my appointment with Malfoy,” he said. It wasn’t for three more hours, but what he wanted was his calm house again, not a lecture from Hermione. She worked in the Ministry, attempting to pass laws for the better treatment of house-elves. She always had to be busy. But Harry didn’t. He’d conquered the addiction to that after forty hours of straight battle against Voldemort and his forces near Dumbledore’s tomb.

“All right, Harry,” Hermione said softly behind him. “But I still hope you can treat this as a new beginning.”

Harry growled out the name of his own residence without looking at her. When he stepped back into the kitchen, all the shutters flew off his windows at once and became pinwheels of splinters in the air.

Harry slammed a hand into the table, and tried to ignore his racing heart and his own anger. He hatednot having control of his magic.

*

Draco stood when he heard his secretary, one of Pansy’s cousins, announcing that Harry Potter was in the anteroom just outside his office. It wasn’t courtesy so much as that he didn’t want to meet Potter on anything other than an equal level.

When the door opened, Draco suffered a bit of shock.

He’d seen Potter countless times in the last five years—but always in photographs, often snapped on the sly through the windows of his house or as he turned away from the cameras in Diagon Alley. Somehow he had thought that would prepare him for the man’s actual presence.

Hardly.

Potter had picked up enough weight since their Hogwarts days to make himself look formidable, without running to fat. His black hair looked the same as ever, but his green eyes had deepened. Draco recognized the look in them that he’d seen inside his father’s eyes, and in Professor Snape’s: the look of a man who had killed. He limped slightly on his right leg, and Draco vaguely remembered hearing about a wound there that made it impossible for him to play Quidditch anymore.

But the thing that really made him different was the magic. It was nearly overwhelming. It hung around him in an aura that Draco couldn’t see, but could certainly feel. It pressed on his skin like a heat shimmer, and he half-believed that if he opened his mouth, he could catch it melting, sweet and sugar-like, on his tongue.

Draco wondered, in the half-moment he permitted himself before he controlled his own reactions, whether Potter knew that the reason he got mobbed in the rare times when he went into public might have less to do with that ridiculous scar on his forehead and more to do with his magic. Wizards and witches were drawn to power. It was one reason the Dark Lord had managed to collect so many followers in spite of being obviously insane, one reason that people had obeyed Dumbledore.

Not that Potter would have the first idea of what to use that power for, Draco thought, and with that he was grounded again. He leaned forwards to shake Potter’s hand, unable to restrain a slight sneer as he did so. “Come crawling for help at last?” he asked.

Potter took a deep breath, which seemed to banish any anger that might have accumulated at the taunt, and barely clasped Draco’s hand. The power sizzled under his nerves anyway, making Draco want to be closer. “Malfoy,” Potter said neutrally, and glanced at the chair in front of his desk.

Draco nodded. Potter sat down, fixing him with that dark glance in which far too much was visible.

It took a moment of shuffling with the paperwork on his desk before Draco could settle himself, but he’d done this more than a dozen times now. “I should warn you,” he said, glancing up, “that my services are veryexpensive.”

“I know,” said Potter.

“A thousand Galleons expensive,” Draco clarified.

Potter didn’t flinch. “I can pay.”

Obscurely disappointed that he hadn’t managed to evoke more of a reaction, Draco dug deeper. “Do you know the first thing about wizarding divorce law, or why you need an Arguer?”

Potter shook his head. “Only that it’s what Ginny called a labyrinth.” Wistfulness rang in his voice when he spoke of his wife. Draco barely kept himself from rolling his eyes. That was a weakness, and one Potter would need to get rid of soon. Luckily, the process of divorce using Arguers was nasty enough that it usually made enemies of the spouses in the end, when they didn’t begin that way.

“Quite,” said Draco, and dug out the first parchment he’d need Potter to sign. “The divorce process came about during a period when arranged marriage was common in the wizarding world, but so was the popularity of romantic love. Couples would separate from their arranged partners in a few minutes if it was easy, and ruin the plans of their parents.”

“How terrible,” Potter said in a monotone.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Yes, Potter, because yourlove match worked out so well.”

A gratifying flush crept up the other wizard’s cheeks, and the magic around him briefly increased. Draco chuckled.

“There’s something to be said for arranged marriage, even now,” he commented. “Not that I have the least desire to subject myself to it, but for some of my friends, it worked out nicely.” He smiled as he thought of Pansy and Theodore Nott, the one match among the Slytherins his own age that had been arranged, and the only one that seemed genuinely happy. “But this is about the endof marriage. So. We’ll spend most of our time with your former wife, her lover, and their Arguer in a room with a judge. The judge undergoes a spell that makes him as impartial as possible, and is supposed to enable true justice. Other people will enter only when they’re called—character witnesses and the like. A number of conditions have to be satisfied, such as the claims that parties on either side of the divide have to shared property, and whether the reasons they’re separating are the true ones.” Draco grinned. “And meanwhile, there’s what happens outside the courtroom, too.”

Potter frowned. “If the judge undergoes a spell that makes him impartial—“

“As impartial as possible, Potter.” Draco winked. “Besides, the spell only does that by reputation.People who actually study the process—“ he made an elegant, self-deprecating gesture towards himself “—know that the spell is connected to the larger wizarding world. That was done by wizards who imagined we would be one small and happy community, united by our fear of Muggles, well into the future.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. As often as this practice had helped him, he still thought those ancient wizards were incurable optimists. “Thus, the couple’s actions and their reputation make the judge’s opinion of them vary up and down as the wizarding world’s opinion varies, and influence what happens inside the courtroom. Just about anythingis permitted under wizarding divorce law, Potter. Smears, slander, Dark Arts, assassination attempts. You’ve essentially entered on an armed duel with your wife that will only be ended, probably months from now, by the judge’s decision.”

Draco sat back and waited for the results of his words.

Potter stared away, towards the wall of the office. Then he frowned and shook his head, as if he’d come to some strange conclusion, or had a thought he wanted to chase away.

Disappointing. Draco said softly, “What are you thinking, Potter?”

“I just realized that the prospect of dueling with Ginny doesn’t distress me that much,” Potter said reflectively. “At some point, I must have fallen out of love with her, and I didn’t even realize it.”

Well, that will make some things easier. Draco sat up and pushed the parchment towards Potter. “Sign there if you agree to this,” he said.

Potter took up a quill, but didn’t sign. “I’ve heard you’ve never taken on a case that you didn’t win,” he said.

“That’s right.” Draco inclined his head modestly.

Potter gave him one more searching glance, then nodded and bent over, affixing his signature to the parchment. Draco could feel the silent burst as the magic sealed Potter into the case. This time, it was strong enough to push him back into his chair, as the ancient code of laws struggled to encompass Potter’s power. Draco licked his lips, and dragged his mind away from certain images it was entertaining.

“Now,” he said, picking up another piece of paper, “I need to know as much as possible about your marriage, so that I know what kinds of truths and lies she’s likely to use.”

Finally, the humiliation Draco had been waiting for crossed Potter’s face. It deepened those green eyes, and in general made him look as attractive as ever. Draco raised an eyebrow.It was unusual for him to be attracted to a client, but then, it was also unusual for him to have a client as attractive as Potter. He didn’t intend to berate himself for it until and unless it made him act unprofessional.

“All right,” said Potter at last, speaking in a low, flat voice. “Ginny’s stated reason for tiring of me was that I hadn’t done anything, and had been too selfish. She wanted me to be an Auror or a professional Quidditch player.” He swallowed. “She wanted me to give her a living child. She had a miscarriage last year.”

“Did you know,” Draco asked the air in the office, “that witches can call on their innate magic to abort the children of men they really hate? It’s why there are so few cases of witches being raped and then becoming pregnant afterwards.”

Potter brought his head up like a startled deer. Then he shrugged. “The Healers at St. Mungo’s didn’t say it was magical in nature,” he muttered.

“It’s also hard to prove.” Draco wrote down a few words on the parchment to remind him of these revelations. “I understand from certain—other sources—that Weasley’s been sleeping with Zabini, and that she’s also carrying his child.”

“Yes,” Potter bit out. The aura of magic around him grew stronger.

“That was stupid of her,” Draco muttered, while scratching down the confirmation. “It’ll make it much easier to prove your case against her.” He paused and glanced at Potter. “Unless there’s a chance that that’s really your child, of course.”

Potter shook his head. “She told me that she’d been sleeping with Zabini for months.” He leaned back in his chair and blew a lock of hair away from his face. There was no reason for Draco to find that as fascinating as he did. “She didn’t specify a number, but we—“ He winced, then seemed to commit himself to the necessity and added, “We haven’t slept together since last year.”

Draco’s eyebrows went up and stayed there. Weasley must reallyhate Potter.

“She needed space after the miscarriage, I thought,” Potter muttered, and the flush deepened in his cheeks.

“And you haven’t slept with anyone else?” Draco asked. His last two cases had been like that. He’d still won them, but it made things infinitely more difficult when the client was the one who’d committed adultery. Some conservative factions in the wizarding world still disapproved of that verystrongly.

“No,” said Potter flatly, and the rest of the paperwork on their desk rose, revolved around their heads for a moment, and then landed again. “She was my wife, Malfoy. I never even considered cheating on her.”

Gryffindor nobility. How sickening. Draco made a neutral noise under his breath and wrote that down on his parchment. “Too bad she didn’t have the same code of honor,” he murmured.

Potter abruptly leaned forwards and clenched his hands on the edge of the desk. Draco looked up at him, and tilted his head to the side. “Yes, Potter?” He had powerful wards on the office that would freeze intruders and summon house-elves from the Manor at need. He wasn’t afraid, though the pressure of magic on his skin made it shudder and break out into delightful gooseflesh.

“You should know,” Potter hissed, “that the reason I washed out of Auror training was that my magic was too violent. I lost control whenever I was dueling and my temper rose. I nearly killed my partners, and tore the targets apart. I would have committed murder if they let me go after criminals.”

Draco breathed lightly. His fascination rose sharply. He had always preferred Potter angry at Hogwarts, if only because that made it easier to get away with plans around him. Maybe it was no more than that now. “And why haven’t you tried to get control of your magic?” he murmured. “That’s something your wife could hold against you; see if she doesn’t.”

Potter sat back in his chair. “I lost control of it after the final battle,” he said, running a hand through his hair and letting Draco have his first glimpse of the famous scar since Potter had walked into the office. “Woke up in St. Mungo’s and I was—like this. It’s magical. I’ve talked to Healer after Healer, and they think it must have been part of a curse that Voldemort put on me when I killed him. But a research into the best spellbooks doesn’t turn up anything. The only solution for me is to remain calm as possible.” He gave Draco a humorless smile. “I’ve become much better at controlling my temper than I used to be.”

Draco frowned slightly. “That sounds like Dark Arts, Potter.”

“I would never have guessed that, Malfoy, really.”

“I mean that it needs a Dark Arts cure.” Draco leaned forwards. “Did you ever consider that?”

“I talked about it with Ginny, once.” Potter shrugged. “She said that no husband of hers was going to dabble in Dark Arts. She was uneasy enough about my being a Parselmouth.”

Draco laughed.

“You don’t know what happened to her in our second year.” Potter stared at him, and, for the first time, seemed to see Draco as the boy he’d known at Hogwarts. “It would have been enough to scar youfor life with fear of Parseltongue, too.”

“You really have to give up defending her,” Draco said, and turned back to his parchment. “You realize this situation will hardly be calming and soothing, Potter?”

“Of course I do. I think Ginny’s counting on that fact to help her win.” Potter ran a hand over his face, and laughed unhappily. “This is sofucked-up.”

Studying him closely, Draco recognized someone near the end of his rope, and decided it was time to let him go. The most important paper had been signed, the first bond sealed. Potter would do best when he wasn’t running on too much stress and too little sleep.

“Go get some rest,” he said, tucking the list of notes away in his desk. “Nothing else will help right now.”

“You’re probably right,” Potter said, and stood up and nodded to him. “Thanks, Malfoy. You’ve been—a help. I’ll have the thousand Galleons transferred to your Gringotts vault in the morning.”

He left before Draco could say another word. Draco peered after his back for a moment, then turned and went to the warded bookshelf in the corner of his room. There, innocuous to any eyes but his, were some of the Dark Arts books he liked to read between cases.

If there was some way to strengthen Potter’s control over his temper but leave him with that incredibly attractive magic, Draco was all for it.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Building With Worn-Out Tools