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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 Three—The Killing Ground

Harry ate his dinner thoughtfully, staring out the window of the parlor into his darkening gardens. The meeting with Malfoy hadn’t been as bad as he expected. Obviously, Malfoy still had a sharp tongue and thought a great deal too highly of himself, but just as obviously, he knew what he was about, and that was what Harry thought they really needed to win this case.

He started when his Floo connection blazed to life, and turned to look at the fireplace. He couldn’t prevent the scowl that slipped across his face when he realized Ginny was looking out at him from within the green flames.

“What do you want?” he asked curtly.

Ginny sighed and rolled her eyes. “I did hope we were past that childishness, Harry,” she said.

“Spit out what you want and leave me alone, Ginny.” Harry felt the same anger at her that he had when he woke up that morning, but mixed with it was an enormous weariness. He wished the case were already over, the trial won. He hated hating her, and it seemed likely he would, if Malfoy had described the process of wizarding divorce law at all accurately.

“I like that,” Ginny said, and sniffed. “I wanted to try a reconciliation, and you’re already snapping at me?”

Harry cocked his head. “A reconciliation?” He didn’t know whether he should hope for that or not. He certainly wouldn’t take Ginny back, not when she’d been sleeping with Zabini, and not when she was pregnant with the bastard’s child. But he could hope—

He might not need to employ Malfoy, and that would be a relief to his vault.

Sternly telling himself that was the only reason he had to feel hopeful, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“We agree, in private and quietly and without screaming at each other, how we’ll divide up the property.” Ginny gave him a smile full of pity. “I think it’s only fair that I should get more than half, since I’ll have children to bring up and you’re unlikely ever to have them.”

Harry ground his teeth. Too late. A picture hanging on the far wall of the parlor detached itself and plummeted to the ground. Ginny’s eyes darted towards it and then back to him.

“Blaise says you should have got help long since,” she murmured.

“I’m rejecting your offer of reconciliation,” Harry said. “I’m not going to forgive you.”

She blinked at him. “But—you’re a forgiving person, Harry. I know that.”

Harry tried to laugh, but both the sound and the bite of cheese sandwich he’d taken seemed to lodge in his throat. He laid down the sandwich and tried to find the words that would convey what he accurately felt. He wasn’t sure that he could. Finally he said, “It’s about the only thing you doknow about me. You insulted me and tried your best to make me angry enough to kill you. And then you talk to me about needing the money for a child that you conceived with some other man while you were still married to me. Do you really see nothingat all wrong with that?”

“All of what I said is true.”

Harry said nothing, but studied her in brooding silence. It wasn’t like Ginny to admit defeat like this. She was as stubborn as Ron, and as bad-tempered, too. Maybe she’d had the desire to tell him the truth about Zabini as gently as she could, but once she did explode into open warfare with him, he had no hope that she would take it back.

And then something occurred to him, and he laughed. His heart felt lighter. He was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before.

Ginny blinked at him again.

“It’s because you can’t hire Malfoy, isn’t it?” Harry asked, leaning forwards. “Zabini probably thought he’d work cheaply because they’re best friends. But I’d already got him, and that means you can’t have the best Arguer, the one who’d never lost a case, and that means—“ He couldn’t keep speaking for the laughter, and he bent over in his chair. Finally, he gasped out, “That means you’re going to lose!”

“You know nothing about wizarding divorce law,” Ginny said, her voice low. “Youare going to lose, Harry, because what happens inside the courtroom isn’t the only part that matters.”

Harry lifted his head and smiled at her. “If you were as confident as all that, you wouldn’t have tried this stupid tactic now, Ginny.” He flicked his fingers at her. “I don’t intend to give you any money freely, whether it’s to raise someone else’s child or buy the best dress robes you can afford. Go away now.”

She drew her head out of the flames with an angry huffing sound. Harry spent a few minutes making sure his Floo connection wouldn’t admit her anymore, and then returned to his dinner with great enjoyment.

She’s frightened. She’s thinking she won’t win. And maybe she will and maybe I will, but to have her afraid is…wonderful.

And that made him wonder, again, when he’d fallen out of love with her. Surely it wasn’t naturalto relish the fear of a woman he really cared for.

*

“Draco?”

She’s having a good day, then. On a bad day, his mother wasn’t capable of remembering his name. Draco pushed open the door of the drawing room gently, and smiled when he saw his mother seated at a table at the far end, in a flood of sunlight from an enchanted window. “What are you doing, Mother?” he asked, crossing the floor to kiss her.

Narcissa smiled up at him, mistily. “Arranging flowers.” Petals were spread out on the table around her. Draco smelled rose, lavender, violets, and several he didn’t recognize. “I’ll make a bouquet,” said Narcissa dreamily, combing her fingers through the flowers. “And I’ll take it to St. Mungo’s and give it to the victims of the war.”

Draco kept himself from shuddering with an effort. If Malfoys had been less proud, he would have taken Narcissa to St. Mungo’s himself, and not to visit. But she would not receive the best care there; in fact, there were Healers who would abuse her for being the wife of a Death Eater and, as far as most of the rest of the world knew, the mother of another. He stroked her arm. “That’s good of you,” he said. “Let me know when you want to go.”

Narcissa gave him another smile and briefly pressed his hand. “Of course I should be good myself,” she said, “when I have such a marvel of a son.”

Draco concealed a sigh. There were times he was glad that Potter had killed his aunt Bellatrix during the war, and times he wished she was still alive, so he could destroy her for torturing Narcissa with the Cruciatus Curse until her mind snapped. She wasn’t quite as far down the well as the mad Longbottoms, thank God, but she was close enough to it on the bad days that his hand itched with the urge for revenge.

“What did you do today, Draco?”

He sat down across the table from her and told her the mild, harmless things he remembered: a stupid sparrow who had tried repeatedly to fly through his window, which was warded against all birds but owls; his secretary trying to alphabetize his files in a new order that he had patiently corrected; and his research into subjects that had nothing to do with the Dark Arts. Even hearing the names of some Dark Arts spells made Narcissa scream. Whenever he hadto talk to her about them, Draco called a house-elf into the room and kept it ready at all times.

“And then I saw Harry Potter,” he finished, looking narrowly into Narcissa’s face. Potter was a touchy subject. Sometimes she screamed at the sight of his face in the Daily Prophet, too, but other times she seemed almost grateful when she heard his name, as if she dimly remembered that he had killed the woman who tortured her.

“Did you?” Narcissa’s face expressed nothing but warm interest now, and Draco felt his stomach clench in delight. This really is a good day. “And what did he want? Some idea on how to live a productive life, perhaps?” She smiled at her own joke, and Draco felt a surge of triumph. Even his mother had heard of Potter’s unproductive lifestyle, but the days when she could express humor were even rarer than the days when she seemed this sane.

“He’s divorcing his wife, actually,” Draco said. “And he wants me to act as his Arguer.”

Narcissa stared at him blankly for a moment, and Draco feared his words had gone beyond her comprehension. But then she threw back her head and laughed, in a manner that was almost the old bell-like sound, and not the mad cackle he’d come to fear. “Noone wants to stay with a Weasley, it seems,” she whispered, choking on her own amusement. “Unless she’s French, or a Mudblood.”

Draco nodded smugly. “It took Potter some time, but he knows their kind at last.” He could feel an old tug of resentment at the back of his head. It took him more than long enough.

“I wish you good luck on the case, Draco.” Narcissa leaned forwards and kissed him on the cheek. “Now, will you leave me alone, please? The next part of the flower arrangement is private.”

Draco rose, touched her hair, and left the room, shutting the door softly behind him. As always, his determination to win the next case solidified. He had to make as much money as he did not only to keep his mother safe and well, but to prevent the newspapers from prying into her life, trying to talk about “the madwoman of Malfoy Manor.”

He turned, and one of the house-elves appeared in front of him, squeaking and bowing and begging his pardon.

When he made out what the elf wanted, Draco felt his jaw tighten. There was another reason that he had to make so many Galleons, as well, and it had just reminded him of its existence.

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll attend to it, Seeky.”

He strode from the room, already carefully composing the letter in his head. It had to be the right balance of deference—to prevent his father from Apparating back to England to punish him for “disrespect”—and intimidating—to remind Lucius exactlywhat Draco could do with a wand, even if he couldn’t kill.

Lucius had broken out of Azkaban in the middle of what would have normally been Draco’s seventh year, but his mind had snapped as thoroughly as Narcissa’s had, and far more dangerously. He’d fled to Sweden, and since demanded regular payments from Draco, so that he wouldn’t return to England, embarrass them all, and attack his wife.

Draco sat down and wrote the letter, all the while entertaining himself with visions of what would happen should Lucius encounter Potter and his uncontrolled magic. Of course, he couldn’t imagine a reason Potter might have to be angry at Lucius.

If I could get him interested in me, and then make him want to defend me…

Draco snorted under his breath and pushed the daydreams aside. Before he could even thinkof things like that, he had to win Potter’s case for him. And then maybe Potter would feel kindly towards him, and—who knew?—inclined to show that gratitude in any number of ways.

They werevery entertaining daydreams. Draco couldn’t deny that.

*

Draco felt his muscles loosen and his eyes light up as he strode into the courtroom. Though he’d come in rapidly, he found himself walking more slowly now, tilting back his head to stare approvingly in several different directions.

He’d been here for several other cases; the number of courtrooms in wizarding Britain capable of handling divorce trials was small. It had dark wooden walls shaped as an octagon, and carved with runes that would make it impossible for someone outside the room to eavesdrop. Draco supposed the ceiling, which had striations across it mimicking the inside of a cave, could have made some people feel like they were underground, but it never had that effect on him.

This was the killing ground. This was the place that he hunted stupid excuses to slaughter, argued people who thought they knew their own histories out of their heads, and made his reputation.

He was a good Arguer. He was more than that; he was the very best. And this was the place he proved it.

“I don’t like this,” Potter’s voice said behind him, predictably.

Draco rolled his eyes. Of course. No matter what I love, he must dislike it. “No one is asking you to, Potter,” he drawled, without turning around. “But don’t let the room have a negative psychological impact on you, or we don’t stand a good chance of winning this case against your wife.”

“I won’t,” Potter muttered, and, from the sound of it—the room’s acoustics were excellent—walked towards the right side of the courtroom, the one Draco had already told him would be theirs. Draco turned around then, and watched him go.

His magic was even more impressive in this relatively confined space without a window. Draco fancied he could hear it now, like a swam of buzzing insects. He shook his head in wonder. That the Weasley could ever have wanted to leave him was a wonder.

Potter caught his look. “What?”

He must have lived in the midst of it so long that he doesn’t notice it any more. “I was contemplating the weapons that Weasley and Zabini will use against you,” said Draco, which was at least partially true. “The accusation that you’re violent and angry all the time, that you can’t sire a living child, that you’ve never done anything with your life, that you treated her poorly. What else? Is there anything about your marriage that you forgot to tell me?”

Potter laughed wearily and sat down in one of the padded chairs that waited on the right side of the room for the client and his Arguer. “You know more about it than Ron and Hermione, Malfoy. You know more than I realize Iknew.”

“Anything at all that might be important,” Draco urged, taking a step forwards. “I won’tlose this case because we’re unprepared.”

A sigh, and then Potter shook his head. “All right. A few times, Ginny accused me of not being interested in her. Sexually, I mean.” A flush had risen to his face, but he forged valiantly on. “She also accused me of adultery several times before shestarted. None of the accusations were true, I promise, but she might still think they were.”

Draco felt like purring. Not interested in women, is he? I wonder—

And then he caught and shook himself sternly for having such thoughts. It was all the fault of Potter’s evil, evil magic, for making him think nearly as much of fucking his client as winning the case.

“Then she’ll use that, believe me,” he murmured. He glanced once at the high bench, about ten feet above the floor, where the judge would sit, and then to the left side. There were only two chairs there, which he had noted when he and Potter first came into the room. It didn’t make sense, since Blaise, Weasley, and their Arguer would make three, but perhaps the house-elves who had prepared the courtroom for them had simply forgotten to bring another.

The judge arrived before their enemies did, stepping quietly through a door on the far side of the room that Draco had never passed. She was an older witch with white hair and blue eyes that reminded Draco, for a fleeting, irresponsible moment, of Dumbledore. Then he told himself he had no rightto be thinking of old memories right now, and came forwards with his hand out. “Judge Witherbone?” he asked.

The woman nodded and touched his hand, her eyes distant. She had already cast the spell that attuned her to the wizarding world, but she must have just cast it, because her head turned back and forth as if her eyes were tracing the passage of invisible birds.

Then she fixed her gaze on Potter, and smiled. “Mr. Potter,” she greeted him. “We all owe you a great debt for freeing us from You-Know-Who.”

Draco grinned, but made sure to hide it in the next instant. The spell was working, then, and Witherbone’s words told him that, so far, the wizarding world held a generally good opinion of Potter. That would undoubtedly change several times in the next few weeks—Draco himself remembered all too well how quickly the people had turned on their “savior” when Potter was a student at Hogwarts—but for now, Weasley was struggling uphill against the full weight of Potter’s heroic reputation.

“Uh, thanks,” Potter muttered. Draco kept himself from rolling his eyes, but only barely. You’d think, after five years of it, that Potter would be more graceful at accepting thanks.

The judge nodded again, and climbed towards her bench. Then the door behind them opened, and Draco turned to see Weasley, Blaise, and their Arguer.

But it was only Weasley and Blaise. They held hands, and behind them floated a number of trunks, papers, and cabinets. Draco raised his eyebrows, displeased. He didn’t know whom they’d chosen as Arguer, but he wasn’t very impressed with his or her professionalism, whoever it was.

“Zabini, Mrs. Potter,” he greeted them, remembering Weasley’s proper name just in time. He still thought of her as she’d been in school, and the red hair and ugly freckles only helped. But it was worth addressing her the right way, both to show Judge Witherbone that he knew the proper procedures and to watch her grimace in distaste, as if bearing Potter’s name had become personally offensive to her now. “Where is your Arguer? It is almost time to begin.”

“I’m acting as Arguer, Malfoy,” Blaise said, glaring at him with a loathing Draco had only seen on his face a time or two before, such as when they’d had long arguments in the middle of their third and fifth years at Hogwarts.

Draco caught himself before his eyes widened. “Was the notice too short?” he asked, and forced concern into his voice. “I’m sure that both Mr. Potter and myself would be willing to wait long enough for you to find a competent Arguer.”

“I’m acting on my own, by my own choice,” Blaise said.

“By ourchoice,” said Weasley, laying one hand on Blaise’s arm and the other on her belly, as if by some miracle their unborn child was included in the decision.

Draco bit his lip, hard, so he wouldn’t laugh out loud. He just nodded, and told himself not to get overconfident. Blaise could have studied wizarding divorce law very hard in the past week, perhaps with a Time-Turner, and made himself into a competent Arguer.

And the winged pigs have got loose from their breeding grounds again and are swooping about over Muggle houses.

“I see,” he said, and made sure to keep his voice smooth, even as it slid closer and closer to what he privately called his killing edge—the state of mind in which he wreaked his most devastating victories on his opponents. “Shall we begin, then?”

*

Draco Malfoy, Harry had to admit, was amazing.

At every point in his life before this, the mere thought of admitting such a thing would have made him laugh himself sick, and then cast Obliviateon his own memories when he realized he was being serious.

But now he had no choice. It wasn’t just the way that Malfoy’s voice unfolded smoothly through complicated legal terminology Harry could have stayed alone with in a library for six months and stillnot understood. Nor was it the perfectly scornful look that he gave Zabini and Ginny, as practiced as though he regularly used it in an enchanted mirror. Nor was it the way he paced back and forth like a lion newly freed from a cage, his hands rising and falling in graceful patterns.

It was all those things, and more. For Harry, it was mostly the light of joy in Malfoy’s eyes he could see whenever the other man turned around. He wantedto do this. Nothing mattered more to him than being an Arguer, that was clear.

And Harry found it incredibly compelling.

He sat back, narrowing his eyes, as he realized the trend his thoughts were taking.

Just compelling, he decided after a moment. Not attractive in any way at all. No. Definitely not.

The last thing he needed now was for Ginny to start up some rumor that he was sleeping with Malfoy, or that he was gay. He shuddered at the thought, and then turned and focused on Ginny’s side of the room as Malfoy finished and dropped easily into the chair next to him. Zabini was struggling to his feet, the papers floating around him in a constellation of parchment.

“Uh, yes,” he said, while several papers whirled out of control and dashed around his head. “Yes. Judge Witherbone, Madam. I am acting as Arguer for myself and Mrs. Potter, as I stated before. These papers contain the substance of our accusations against Harry Potter, and what we demand from him.” He snapped his fingers and waved his wand, and the paper gathered itself together and soared across the room, landing on the podium in front of Witherbone’s seat.

She leaned forwards to peer at it. Harry saw the moment when her calm, blank face transformed itself into an angry mask.

Malfoy chuckled next to him. Harry glanced at him. “What?” he mouthed, but Malfoy only shook his head.

“None of these accusations have been filed correctly, Mr. Zabini,” said Witherbone stiffly. “There are certain ways that polite Arguers do not write.” She pointed her wand at the top few pieces of parchment, and incinerated them.

Zabini stared with his mouth open. Then he swallowed and said, “Forgive me, Madam. I, ah, thought you needed to know what we were accusing Potter of right away.” His eyes darted across the room to Harry, and they were full of pure hatred. Harry just shrugged at him. If Zabini wouldn’t hire an Arguer—and surely there were some available that weren’t Malfoy—then that wasn’t Harry’s fault.

“I need to know them,” Witherbone said in a voice that could have frosted rock, “but the terminology is not correct in anyof them.” She leafed through the rest of the parchment, now and then pausing to incinerate another. “In fact, the other claims are barely passable,” she concluded, and waved her wand again. What remained of the parchment flew back to Zabini, most of it hitting him in the face. “I expect to see better work from you in a week. Until then, I will consider the first part of the case still unsettled.” She stood up and strode down the miniature staircase from her high seat before anyone could object.

Malfoy, when Harry glanced at him, was concealing an obviously vicious laugh. His eyes shone like ice, and Harry felt that stir of compulsion again.

Well, I can just stop feeling it, he decided, and whispered, since the Judge was gone but he still didn’t want Zabini and Ginny to hear, “What happens now?”

“The first part of the case isn’t complete until Blaise files correctly.” Malfoy stretched his arms above his head, and thistime, the movement was one of a lion relaxing after his justly caught meal. “We have a week to study further and ready our next tactics in the war.” He winked at Harry, then seemed to realize what he was doing and smoothed his face out. “This doesn’t mean all our victories will be as easy, Potter. Blaise and his little concubine will be busy in this next week, too.”

Harry bristled a bit to hear Ginny described that way, but nodded. “I know.”

“Good.” Malfoy extended a hand, and Harry found himself clasping it, even though he didn’t need help to rise from his seat. It felt a bit like being back at Hogwarts, shaking hands before a Quidditch game. Malfoy’s eyes gleamed; the same thing seemed to have suggested itself to him.

“It’ll be fun Arguing for you, Potter,” he muttered.

Harry felt a frisson of something move through him—excitement? Wonder?—and opened his mouth to speak. He didn’t get the chance, however, as a spell careened through the air and slammed into his face, creating the sensation of an icy slap across his cheek.

He whipped his head around. Ginny stood on the other side of the room, still, but with her wand out this time. Her eyes were dark with fury and what looked like pain and panic.

Harry narrowed his eyes.

He felt his magic spring out of him like a second being, and before he could even thinkto call it back, Ginny had dropped her wand and was clawing at her throat. Her face had already turned blue. It was obvious she couldn’t breathe.

Zabini grabbed her elbow and shouted something at Harry, but Harry couldn’t make it out through the roaring in his ears.

He did know that he couldn’t kill Ginny, though, no matter how angry she made him. He clenched his hand, and counted to ten at the same time he concentrated on calling the magic back to him—something he’d had plenty of practice at, in the last few years. He heard his heartbeat fade, and then he heard Ginny gasping desperately for air. At least she couldgasp.

Malfoy leaned closer to him. “It’s tempting, I know,” he whispered. “But don’t murder her.”

Harry nodded shortly, and then took a deep breath, hoping he’d released the last of the anger with it.

“Do you want to return to my office?” Malfoy asked him. “We should talk, I think, about our next maneuver.”

Harry shook his head slightly. “I’ll come by tomorrow. I—need some time alone.” He didn’t trust himself with Malfoy right now, especially with his anger so recently up and his emotions changing so rapidly.

I’m probably just feeling this compulsion towards him because I haven’t had sex in eight months. I’ll go home and have a good wank, and that ought to take care of matters.

“If you wish.” Malfoy’s voice held a studied neutrality that Harry didn’t dare interpret, since it probably covered offense of some kind.

“You were amazing,” Harry said, still not looking at him, but wanting to keep matters friendly between them.

Malfoy paused. Then he laughed, lowly, almost into Harry’s ear. “Why, Potter,” he said. “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that, but the context is usually rather different.”

Harry knew he’d flushed crimson, but he still didn’t look up, instead making his way out of the room as fast as possible.

*

Draco made sure to keep his face turned away from Blaise and Weasley as he looked after Potter. He knew his smile was almost fond, and Blaise would have noticed it and drawn certain conclusions, probably correct ones.

Yes, after the trial was done, he was definitely pursuing Potter. Not only did he squirm in the most delicious discomfort at compliments and innuendo, not only was he so sickeningly Gryffindor that he would be unable to defend himself against seduction, but his use of magic against his wife had made Draco almost salivate.

Imagine someone able to kill anyone he wanted, from a distance and with so little effort!

Entertaining wistful thoughts of Lucius dying like that, Draco went back to his office. He’d already chosen the first tactic he wanted to use in this war, and he needed to set it in motion.
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