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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
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Chapter Twenty-Two—Draco’s Performance

            Harry studied the ritual described in the book, narrow-eyed. He had not known it was this complicated before, but then, Hermione had been the one to perform it last time, and she could make the hardest spell look effortless.

            He would need Draco’s blood, but he would also need some of his own. They would need to be mixed together in a pewter cup with a stirring rod of either veined glass or crystal for at least five minutes, and then Harry would pass his wand above the blood and speak the first incantation. Then Draco would join in with a supporting chant, and then Harry would cast the second incantation, and then he would have to manage the third incantation nonverbally while he moved his wand in a complicated fourfold pattern.

            Other parts of the book explained the magical theory behind the spell. Harry didn’t care to know that, however. He was sure that things made sense, and as long as only human error and not some distant metaphysical possibility could damage the spell, then he would trust to the magic working just as he trusted to the magic of his Firebolt when he flew.

            He closed the book and set it aside after about an hour, gently massaging his temples with the tips of his fingers. A headache was growing behind his eyes, in the exact same place it had when Ron was wounded during the war, or when it hadn’t seemed likely that Hermione would gain permission from the Ministry to open her office, war heroine or not, after six months of work.

            He called it his “a friend is in trouble” headache. It was strange that he should be having it now, he knew, unless the thought of all the trouble Ginny had just incurred should make him wince.

            But he knew better than that. It was for Malfoy.

            He snorted to himself. As if it should be! He had said that he trusted him to Argue well in the courtroom, not to do anything else. He was sorry for him as someone who had lost his mother, but that was no reason to produce a headache like this.

            And yet the pain was there behind his eyes, and he had not a qualm about following Draco into the meeting with Zabini and Ginny tonight, though he had no idea what the other wizard would do as yet.

            It looked as though he would have to face the unpleasant possibility that his feelings for Malfoy ran deeper than he had suspected.

            Yes, well, right now I’m just helping a friend in trouble, Harry decided firmly. I said that anything else can wait, and it can. What kind of friend am I, anyway, to be debating about this when Draco’s probably going out of his mind with plans to get his mother back?

            He firmly shook away any worries about himself—this was neither the time nor the place—and picked up the book again.

*

            By the time five-thirty had arrived, Draco had made up his mind. He had a number of plans hovering in his thoughts, inchoate possibilities that required only the presence of a reality to make them spring into focus. Since he could not know exactly how Blaise would open the meeting, he could not know which one would be needed as yet, but once he did…

            Then the rest of the evening is mine. I’ll play you just like a chess-player playing his pawns, Blaise, and let’s see you escape this one. Old friend.

            The last thought was entirely sarcastic, of course. Draco had no intention of calling what he felt for Blaise friendship ever again.

            He met Harry leaning on the wall outside the door of his bedroom. Harry straightened when he saw Draco, and his eyes were alert and wary. He raised his brows, but didn’t speak, as if any word from him would somehow break in on a sacred silence.

            Draco was grateful to see that, after all, Harry Potter could take orders.

            “Don’t say a word,” he said curtly, “unless I ask you to. No matter what the provocation, no matter what they imply about you, or me, or the both of us together.” It had occurred to him that Blaise might well try to hint that he and Harry were lovers. Why not? He had seized on wilder weapons to defend himself before, when he was in the middle of one of these grandiose plans—the ones Draco had sometimes helped him with. “Can you do that?”

            Harry nodded.

            Practicing early, I see, Draco thought, and then murmured, “You know that we might have to kill one or both of them.”



            Harry’s jaw tightened. He replied in the same clear, ringing tones that Draco had heard him use with Weasley. “If Zabini strikes, then yes, I’ll kill him. But I won’t kill Ginny.”

            Draco felt a bit of the ice coating and containing his emotions crack. He surged forwards a step. “Her death might save my mother’s life.”

            “And she’s pregnant.” Harry came up off the wall like a coiling snake. “I won’t destroy one innocent life to save another. Don’t ask me to make that choice, because you’ll lose my support if you do.”

            Draco narrowed his eyes, and told himself to think of this as practice for the no doubt nerve-wracking meeting with Blaise and Weasley coming up. “How strange,” he said. “I assumed that, when you said you’d help me, you meant it.”

            “Yes, well, if one of my best friends asked for my help with murder, I sure as hell wouldn’t just agree to it out of the blue.” Harry’s voice had roughened. He twisted his head to the side. “You can plan and plan, Malfoy, but you can’t control everything, or your mum would never have been kidnapped. Will you please set aside your stupid pride and concentrate on what’s actually likely to happen? I’ve told you what I’ll do, and what I’m capable of doing. Don’t press me beyond my capacity. It’s not good sense.” He paused a moment, then added quietly, “I’m not the one you want to bite just at this moment, am I?”

            Damn Gryffindors for being perceptive when I don’t want them to. Draco lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Very well. Since you consider yourself limited by conscience—“

            “I do.”

            “—we’ll work within those limits. Stand at my shoulder as silent strength. Don’t speak.” Draco waved his wand, and Harry winced but didn’t say anything as a charm flattened his hair and brightened his cheeks to a level of cleanliness he probably never achieved on his own. “If I need you to, strike hard and immediately. Can you do that?”

            “Yes.”



            Draco found himself believing the burn in the Gryffindor’s green eyes this time. “Good,” he said, and stifled the temptation to reach for Harry’s hand, or to lean on his shoulder and ask for comfort. That wouldn’t get his mother back.

            Time enough for that later.

            For now, we fight.

*

            The Three Broomsticks didn’t appear to have changed much since Draco’s student days. The exact same tables on which he had more than once carved his initials stood around the room. The same mirror gleamed from over the bar—though now he could recognize the subtle wards that hovered above the surface, protecting the glass from random hexes and flying spells. There were still booths where couples sat gazing into each other’s eyes and a few students toasted each other with foaming mugs of butterbeer.

            It was at one of those booths that Blaise and Weasley waited for them.

            Blaise rose to his feet the moment he saw them, his eyes slightly narrowed and his head lifted as if he were some beast who could spring across the tables and attack them. Draco met his gaze for a flash of a second, and saw the same mixture of excitement and fear that he had expected to see, the same mixture that always shone there when Blaise was in the middle of one of his plans.

            Someone else might not have found it so easy to see, but then, someone else would probably not have known Blaise this well.

            Draco had already dropped into his own performance. The mask he had to maintain was fragile. It must appear to be the same cold and calm expression he usually wore in social situations, but a parody of itself, trembling and about to crack at the edges. His eyes had to reflect controlled desperation, snapping there or badly hidden. He had to remember to keep his movements too controlled one moment, sharp and abrupt the next.

            Harry walked in silence at his shoulder. Draco could practically feel the little spasms of concern from him, and he knew Harry would be fighting the temptation to whisper, Are you all right? But so far he had kept his promise and remained quiet, whatever it cost him.

            “Zabini,” Draco said, and his voice did not quite crack halfway through the name. His nerves were taut and quivering, which, of course, had to be concealed under two facades—the one he showed to Blaise and the controlled one beneath which he had shown Harry earlier, to prove he knew what he was doing. He turned a murderous glance on Blaise, and then hesitated at the last moment and relaxed a bit, as if he had just remembered that they were in public and he didn’t want to betray anything so personal. “You said to be here at this time.”

            “I’m glad you’re prompt, Malfoy,” Blaise said, his words as soft as the sound of a snake’s scales on dry stone. “Sit down, please.” He gestured to the empty side of the booth, since Weasley shared the seat he’d risen from.

            Draco swept Weasley with a contemptuous look as he slid into place, using the moment to collect real information about her. She had looked up once when they came in, and then stared steadfastly at her drink. Now her head slowly rose, as if her eyes were moving against her will, and she stared only at Harry. This close, Draco could hear the loud, restless sound of her breathing.

            She doesn’t like this. It seems her note to Harry was true after all, and she doesn’t approve of Blaise’s latest—diversion.

            Not that Draco cared. She had been part of the reason that Blaise had done this, either for her sake or for the sake of getting his hands on Harry’s money, and so Draco held her equally to blame.

            Harry settled beside him. Draco would not have admitted it for a thousand more Galleons, but he found the other man’s presence comforting. This close, Draco could sense both the warmth and the coiled tension in his body, and of course the magic that had settled back into his skin but still hummed. Harry was ready to whip out his wand and fire off a spell any time it was needed.

            Draco leaned forwards across the table, his unborn plans spinning in his head. It remained to be seen what Blaise’s first move would be. He struggled with himself for a moment, at least on the surface, and then spat, “Where is she?”

            Blaise relaxed minutely, and a malicious spark entered his eyes. “All in good time, Malfoy,” he said softly. “Why not have a drink and enjoy this social occasion? It’ll be all over the Prophet tomorrow, you realize. Good publicity for the trial, and it’ll modify the public opinion of all of us, to show that we’re able to drink together without hexes flying.”

            Two of Draco’s plans that had depended on Blaise being tenser than this died, and, one decision made, he began to exercise the rest. “A drink, then,” he said, and this time exaggerated his movements as he leaned back against the wall and half-flipped his cloak over his shoulder. “To show the world that there’s no ill-will between us.” He audibly ground his teeth on the last words.

            Blaise laughed, and signaled Madam Rosmerta. She brought two butterbeers in short order, staring at them from the corner of her eye. Draco flicked his wand beneath the table, nonverbally incanting a ward that would keep her from listening to the conversation at the table no matter how hard she might try. He was confident that no one else would notice it, unless Lucius was nearby. It was a ward specific to members of the Malfoy family.

            Harry stiffened at his side. Draco welcomed the distraction, though he had to fight not to chuckle out loud. Potter, of course, may be an exception to the rules, if only because of his damn sensitivity to magic.

            Under the cover of the cloak, Draco delicately nudged Harry’s ribs to tell him he had nothing to worry about, and then leaned forwards across the table. “I’ve only come for one reason, Zabini,” he said, letting deadly iron purpose fill every word, “and you know what it is.”

            Blaise’s face reflected—to someone who knew him, and he never should have forgotten that Draco did—the struggle between greed and cunning. Greed won. He leaned back in the booth with a casual move of his own, and Draco thought he would have cross his legs, save that the table was too low to permit the gesture. “Let’s not be hasty,” he said genially. “After all, some of us are here for more than one reason, and to increase the number of them if they can.”

            Another path of probability closed in Draco’s thoughts; another opened. Blaise thought Draco fearful enough for his mother’s life that he could ask for any concession and have it granted. That would cost him more than he could imagine, in the end.

            “Name the reasons for which you’ve come,” Draco said, and lowered his eyes to the table. Just a moment, but it was enough.

            “Oh, thank you, Malfoy, your graciousness,” Blaise murmured. “Well. For starters, the price has changed. It’s three-quarters of both vaults now. And you’ll tell Witherbone that you’ve come to this decision on your own, Potter,” he added with a sudden harshness, spinning his head like an owl’s to face Harry. “Giving us the whole and not leaving yourself enough money to live on would be suspicious, but this amount will both satisfy our needs and punish you sufficiently.”

            Draco cocked his head and turned to Harry. He had been afraid Harry’s face would reflect mutinous outrage, but to his surprise, it was a mask, too, though in its own fashion. Harry showed absolutely nothing but calm determination—the way he had when he was battling Lucius. Draco supposed he wasn’t the only one who had done what he needed to maintain control in this obnoxious meeting.

            Now, Harry just raised his eyebrows and moved his chin in a little nod that could have meant everything or nothing. Blaise chuckled.

            With each moment, Draco could feel the balance of fortune and caution tipping more and more. Blaise was growing more secure, feeling he could demand more, which already told Draco several things. First, Blaise had fallen for his ruse. Second, Weasley’s visible discomfort with the situation and the fact that Blaise alone spoke for both of them might represent a crack in their unity, a weapon that could be exploited. Third, Blaise was likely to let his greed lead him too far and fall headlong into the abyss. Fourth, Blaise was confident that he could procure Narcissa at any moment; he either had some control over Lucius or no idea of how dangerous the man could be.

            In fact, Draco knew, the truth probably lay somewhere between those two extremes. Blaise had underestimated the danger from Lucius, but he was too much a Slytherin to simply seize on a weapon that would cut him. He had made a reckoning, then, and decided that the need for this particular threat outweighed the damage it might do him.

            But not the damage Lucius might do to my mother.

            Draco forced himself to think only of Blaise’s smug expression as he faced him again, and what it might tell him.

            “We also demand all houses Potter owns except Grimmauld Place,” Blaise told Draco. “You’re an expert Arguer. It’s up to you to make this sound convincing.” He smiled a bit, perhaps at something in Draco’s expression, though Draco himself was perfectly aware of what was there and knew it was nothing that would give his former friend cause for amusement. “Tell them Potter decided to keep the house that matched his mood most of the time, if you want.”

            “And how will you convince the judge of Potter’s change of heart?” Draco leaned further back in the booth, so that he could feel Harry’s thigh warm against his. He didn’t like how much better that made him feel, but it was better to take what he needed than argue with himself. ”Witherbone knows I’ll Argue what my client says; if he demands that we give up certain concessions, we’ll give them up. But she also knows that Potter rather had his heart set on keeping the vaults and the houses.” He introduced a slight tone of disgust into his voice, as if the mere thought of worldly wealth, and his own pride and reputation, meant nothing to him next to the threats to his mother, and a sneer welled in his heart when Blaise lapped it up.

            “That’s easy enough,” said Blaise, waving a hand. “You can announce the baby’s condition. That’s enough excuse for a soft-hearted Gryffindor. You know that Witherbone will buy that, especially when the papers carry the news of his noble sacrifice and everyone else melts.”

            The baby’s condition is apparently real, then. Draco filed the information away for remembrance, but not true consideration. Real or not, Blaise was using it as an excuse.

            “And we want the Invisibility Cloak and the Firebolt,” Blaise continued calmly. “For personal reasons, of course.” He turned and flashed Harry another smile.

            Because they’re personal to him. Draco felt another layer of ice build on top of the ones already encasing his emotions. Even if he had been the kind of Arguer he described himself as—willing to bend to the client’s will in all things—he would have argued against this. Harry shouldn’t have to surrender treasures of sentimental value to him merely to gratify his shrew of a wife. Blaise was asking for petty concessions now.

            Which meant he thought he’d won.

            Draco let the realization fall slowly into his mind like a rock into the sea, mattering to him, but not altering every current of his behavior.

            “If you must,” he said, and then lifted his head. “None of this, of course, tells me when you’ll have my father surrender my mother.”

            “We have another court date set tomorrow.” Blaise stretched his arms easily over his head, but his eyes were alert and full of menace. “Let’s hear you promise everything we demanded first, seal it before Witherbone with a blood oath, and, just to prove your good will, add one more concession, one more surrendered treasure or answer to a demand we’ve already made, that you choose.” His smile widened. “After that, we’ll contact you with instructions for getting her back.”

            Draco exhaled hard. That left them only an evening to find his mother. He knew that Harry, not because he trusted Blaise and Weasley but to save an innocent life, would sign away his properties in court tomorrow otherwise.

            “How do I know we can trust you?” he asked.

            Blaise shook his head a little. “What good would it do me to kill your mother?” he asked. “If she died, I wouldn’t live long enough to spend my newly acquired wealth in any case.” He met Draco’s eyes, saying that he still understood that danger well enough.

            Draco bared his teeth in an answering not-smile, the most honest gesture he had made all evening.

            Beside him, Harry abruptly stiffened. Then he began to cough, wild, racking sounds that tore up from the middle of his chest. Draco stared at him. He was leaning sideways in the seat, his hand slammed to his mouth, his shoulders heaving. A moment later, he started gagging, the noisy sort of gagging that Draco recognized as a prelude to vomiting.

            His first thought was that Weasley had arranged to poison Harry’s drink, out of personal hatred. He shoved, and Harry slid over and continued down to the floor, convulsing. Draco crouched over him, snarling, “What did you do?” at Blaise, while in his chest a void opened at the thought of continuing this hunt for Narcissa without Harry’s support.

            “Nothing!” Blaise cried, and his expression was, if anything, more panicked than Draco’s. “He has to live at least until the court session tomorrow!”

            Harry gasped, drawing their attention back to him. His eyes rolling, his face a vivid shade of green, he whispered to Draco, “I think I’ll be all right. L-loo now!”

            Draco nodded and scooped him up from the floor, running a cold gaze over Blaise and Weasley. Blaise still looked panicked, and Weasley nothing more than uncomfortable.

            “Be assured,” Draco said coldly, “I will be testing for poison.” And then he swept off to the loo in the back of the Three Broomsticks, hauling the limping, panting Harry along. People cleared a path for them at once, either because of Harry’s fame or because they also knew the signs of imminent sickness.

            Draco was not sure what was wrong, but he had never expected Harry to straighten and pull away from him the moment the loo’s door closed behind them, aiming his wand and flicking it. Draco recognized the humming of powerful wards a moment later, silencing and locking wards, and then another spell laid over them, to prevent anyone on the other side from feeling the presence of the magic.

            “Potter, what the fuck—“ Draco hissed at him.

            “Sorry, sorry,” Harry said. “Look. I was passed a note from Ginny, I read it, and this was the only diversion I could think of to get you away from the table so I could show it to you.” He turned and passed a tiny piece of crumpled parchment to Draco.

            “How did you—“ Draco began.

            “Fingers down the throat,” Harry said, and smiled faintly. “I was holding my hand so that it covered my mouth, and in any case, it’s rather hard to concentrate on the position of a bloke’s fingers when he’s screaming and thrashing about like that, don’t you think?”

            Draco flicked him a curt nod, not sure if he was more irritated at Harry for making him worry or at himself for not figuring out the trick immediately, and then stared down at the note.

            I know where Narcissa is. I want out.

            He looked up so fast his neck hurt. “And you’re sure Blaise didn’t see this?” he demanded.

            “He would have taken it from me if he had,” said Harry without preamble, leaning on the wall and staring at him with a blazing intensity. “And she passed it to me while I was sitting down. I spent the entire time there figuring out how to open it under the table and read it without anyone noticing. Did you notice?”

            Draco had to shake his head.

            “Then I doubt he did,” Harry finished.

            That made sense, Draco admitted to himself, and he stared at the note again. “This could be a trap,” he said slowly.

            “Even if it is,” Harry said, and now he leaned forwards and the fire had leaped up in his eyes as if they were about to go into battle, “we can turn it on them. Look, I know Ginny. Separate her from Zabini, and she’ll tell the truth—as much of it as she knows. If she doesn’t know anything, then at least we’ve got a bargaining chip of our own, or two chips, really. If she does know, we can hunt Lucius tonight.”

            Draco paused a long moment. Then he said, “You’re thinking like a Slytherin, Harry. It scares me, frankly.”

            Harry just shrugged off the praise, and said, “Do we capture Ginny and take her away from him or not?”

            Draco licked his lips. Weasley was the weak chink in Blaise’s armor. His cautious Slytherin instincts battled for a moment with his own logic, and then he bobbed his head once. He’d already learned as much from Blaise as he could, he thought, and this was a risk worth taking, given their sudden deadline.

            “We do,” he said.

            “Excellent,” said Harry, and his eyes flamed like a jaguar’s, and Draco felt, for the first time since his mother had been taken, that they really might reach her in time after all.

*

            darquiel: Essentially, Ginny and Blaise can target whoever they want. As Draco mentioned with discussing divorce with Harry back in Chapter 2, couples in the past went after each other’s families.

            Oo, brr: The limited reason divorce is so difficult: Without it, it would be far too easy to split arranged marriages up. Ancient wizards made it such a difficult and expensive process that most people would probably rather stay married.

            And yes, Ginny would be forbidden from contacting Harry in other ways as well.

            Darkless: Well, now you’ve seen—maybe—part of an explanation about what Ginny is feeling.
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