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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 Six—Intensity

            “I don’t know, Malfoy.” Harry had felt a bit uneasy since the end of the dinner, though he didn’t know why. Perhaps it was just the piercing way that Malfoy looked at him, as though he knew Harry hadn’t been completely persuaded away from Ron’s argument. “I’m tired.” He faked a yawn. “Why don’t we speak tomorrow?”

            Malfoy only gave him a bright, narrow smile—the kind of smile a snake would use if it had lips, Harry thought uneasily. “Of course,” he said. “I forgot that you aren’t really eager to have your magic tamed after all, Potter.”

            Harry took a step forwards. They stood at the top of the Manor’s grand, sweeping staircase, with corridors opening into separate wings. Harry had turned down the eastern one Malfoy told him led to his borrowed room, but now he came back towards the western one. “Don’t joke about that,” he said.

            The poncy bastard raised his eyebrows slightly. “I wouldn’t joke. I did study the Dark Arts books I own, and I think I recognize the curse that the Dark Lord cast on you.” He gave a careless shrug and turned towards the western wing. “But it can always wait for the morning.”

            Harry bit his lip in vexation. He did want to control his magic, and he had no good excuse to get out of Malfoy’s presence. “All right,” he said. “I suppose we can retire to your library for a few minutes and discuss this.”

            “So gracious,” Malfoy murmured, and led the way. Harry followed him grumbling, but only under his breath.

            The corridor was large and dim, with so many doors opening off it that Harry wondered how it was the house-elves didn’t work themselves half to death trying to clean the house. Malfoy finally halted in front of a heavy oak door no different from the others, except for the tendrils of gold clustered around the thick padlock—and the wards that hummed on it. Harry shifted uneasily, feeling the magic prickling across his skin, while Malfoy unlocked the door.

            He had tried to memorize the layout of the house, but he supposed it didn’t matter, if the only rooms he might have been tempted to wander into were kept locked. He had no interest whatsoever in Malfoy’s bedroom, he told himself firmly, and the house-elf had led Narcissa away towards a northern corridor on the ground floor after Harry had finished talking to her. He had no desire to seek out the poor madwoman, either, though he could speak politely enough to her when he had no choice. She reminded him a bit too much of many of his comrades from the war.

            “Here we are, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice startled him, and Harry hurried after him into the library.

            It was as large and high as the way they’d traversed to get here, it seemed, but far brighter. Lamps flickered in alcoves in the walls, lighting up nooks with chairs, nooks with couches, and shelf after shelf of books, and scrolls on pedestals, and glass cases with artifacts that Harry wanted to refrain from examining too closely, but which glowed with the gleam of gold and silver. Malfoy led him directly towards an island in the sea of books large enough to contain two chairs, and made him sit down. The chair was comfortable, Harry had to admit grudgingly.

            Malfoy clapped his hands, and a house-elf appeared with a carafe of wine and two glasses.

            “I’m not thirsty,” Harry said quickly. He couldn’t have explained why, even to himself—no more than he could have explained the odd feeling driving him to get away from Malfoy as soon as possible—but he didn’t think consuming more wine in Malfoy’s presence than he’d had at dinner would be a good idea.

            The house-elf frowned at him and Malfoy, his back still turned while he hunted along the row of books, laughed softly. “Don’t be a poor guest, Potter,” he said. “You were doing so well until now.”

            “Malfoy—“

            “Have a drink.” Malfoy glanced over his shoulder, and the light of the lamps made his face look like a marble statue’s, with pieces of hematite for the eyes. “I insist.”

            Harry caught his breath at the look of that face, and found himself licking his lips and nodding. The house-elf lost its scowl and poured a carefully precise glass of wine, the line of red just lapping the top of the crystal. Harry took a sip and nearly choked, not at the strength, but at the sweetness. He had never tasted anything so good. Only manners kept him from gulping the rest.

            Malfoy turned around from the shelf with a faint smile and a book in his hand. A moment later, he’d seated himself in the chair across from Harry and picked up the glass the house-elf had left for him. He sipped, never taking his eyes from Harry’s.

            “You said you had some insight into the curse?” Harry prompted him.

            “Hmmm?” Malfoy came back to himself, then, and shook his head as if he’d been dozing. He turned his gaze back to the book in his hands, to Harry’s secret relief. “Yes. The curse you have on you doesn’t completely match the description of any spell I could find, but that’s not surprising. I have a feeling the Dark Lord was rather—distracted—when he cast it, and that means he couldn’t concentrate well enough to finish the incantation.” He lifted the book. “This describes a side-effect of the curse if it’s interrupted in mid-casting, and that’s what you have. Magic that rises whenever you’re angry, and destroys objects in its way, or attacks the people you’re irritated at.”

            Harry nodded quickly. “And what do I have to do to cure it?” He took a sip of wine to calm his nerves, and then wondered if he should have. The wine swirled through the middle of his head, dizzying him, and Malfoy’s face swirled in front of him, too. But then it steadied again. Harry carefully set down the glass of wine on the arm of his chair, out of easy reach. “I’ve tried to remain as quiet as possible, these last few years, and not get angry. That’s one reason I didn’t take a job.”

            Malfoy snorted inelegantly. “And that’s the exact thing you shouldn’t have done, Potter,” he retorted. “If the curse had worked, it would have driven you away from other people; it would have made your magic toxic to them, and theirs to you. By remaining so quiet, and with so few friends and visitors, you mimicked the effect of the curse. That’s one reason your magic has never calmed down. The curse still senses the Dark Lord’s intent, and works to complete it. You unwittingly provided it with an environment it could work in.”

            “But I couldn’t chance getting angry.”

            “Couldn’t you?” Malfoy’s eyes shone with a light that made Harry uneasy, and they never moved from his face, either. “You could have taken advantage of your fame. Exceptions would be made. You’re Harry Potter. Don’t tell me no one would have welcomed you, even in the face of the danger. You could have done something, but you preferred to retreat.”

            “I was tired, all right?” Harry looked away from that piercing gaze, wishing, now, that he knew more about Malfoy. He would have liked to have something equally as damaging to fling into that smug face. He hated the fact that Malfoy could make him feel guilty, when he’d long since ceased to let Ginny’s entreaties make him feel that way. “I didn’t want to fight anymore.”

            “And who said that you have to be an Auror?” Malfoy breathed.

            “I couldn’t play Quidditch, either.”

            “And the thought of doing something else never occurred to you?”

            “Defense Against the Dark Arts and Quidditch were all I was good at!” Harry yelled, leaning forwards. Several of the shelves quaked, and Harry felt his magic stretch itself around him, lazily. He winced and leaned back again, breathing slowly to try and calm himself down.

            “That’s exactly what you shouldn’t do, Potter.” Malfoy’s voice struck home like a whip. “I told you, that curse would have made peace impossible for you, even as it would have driven you to seek it. And so your trying to find peace in the last few years only made things worse.”

            “I had no other choice,” Harry groaned, bringing his hands up to rub the front of his face. He knew he shouldn’t have accepted Malfoy’s invitation to the library.

            “You did,” said Malfoy. “What you need is intensity. Passion. You need to live as much as you can. You need excitement, happiness, joy, freedom. That will distract you from your brooding and give your magic something else to react to.”

            “And what happens if someone else gets hurt in the meantime?” Harry lifted his head from his hands, fretfully. “You saw what I did to Ginny in that courtroom, and a few days ago I would have said I could never hurt her.”

            “She angered you,” said Malfoy carelessly. “Stupid of her. But you aren’t going to be angry at most of the people you see around you in public every day, are you? Go to a Quidditch game. Go mountain-climbing. Venture into Muggle London and do something wild and mad. How you choose to solve this is up to you.” From the shadows in the back of his eyes, Harry thought Malfoy already knew how he would choose for him to solve this. “But cool dark rooms and meditation won’t do it. You should have known that when you saw how badly they were failing you.”

            “I can’t do this now,” Harry said. “With the trial—“

            “We have six days until the next phase of that,” Malfoy reminded him, sipping delicately at his own wine again. “That’s how long Judge Witherbone gave Blaise to organize himself and learn how to file accusations against you.”

            “But I also moved into the Manor so I would be safe from Zabini and Ginny’s assassination attempts,” Harry pointed out. “Venturing out would strip me of that protection.”

            Malfoy gave him a dark smile, and took one more pointed sip of wine. Then he set the glass aside and said, “Well. I suppose you’ll have to find something within the wards of the Manor to occupy you, then.”

            Harry clutched the arms of his chair. He knew Malfoy wouldn’t hurt him, but at the moment, he looked poised to lunge. “And what would you suggest?” he croaked. His throat felt dry. Resolutely, he ignored the temptation of the wine near at hand.

            “Oh, learning,” said Malfoy.

            Harry blinked. That hadn’t at all been the reply he thought he would get. “What?”

            “Yes.” Malfoy gave a serene nod, although the dark smile remained in place, flitting about his mouth. “Learning about a new subject, preferably a dangerous one. That would fill your head with dreams about that new subject instead of about your wife and your past.” He cocked his head to the side. “I think I would be safe in saying that you don’t sleep very well, Potter.”

            “These last few days—“

            “Oh, bollocks,” Malfoy snorted, and went on while Harry was still staring, amazed that any word so low-bred had ever emerged from Malfoy’s mouth. “I can tell when the marks of sleeplessness go deeper than a few days’ worth, you know. And yours do. Do you have nightmares?”

            “Not your business,” Harry said in a clipped voice, and started to stand. “I hired you to help me fight my wife, not to mock me.”

            Malfoy’s hand reached out and closed around Harry’s wrist. Harry stumbled to a stop, held by the surprisingly strong grip. He twisted back around again, knowing he had a frown etched between his brows, and feeling his magic pick up and dance in a vortex around him.

            “When I’m mocking you,” Malfoy said softly, “you’ll know.” And there was no trace of a smile in his expression, not even the dark one Harry had seen before. “I asked you a simple question, Potter. I understand that you may have become less used to manners than you used to be, holed up in your house and wallowing in your self-pity, but I know you haven’t forgotten them entirely; I saw you with my mother at dinner. Now, you will answer my question, and politely.”

            Harry stood still, enthralled in spite of himself by the force of Malfoy’s voice. He swallowed several times, then murmured, “I—“

            But he stopped. It had only really been in the last year that the nightmares had returned; before that, Ginny’s company had been enough to keep them away. And he hadn’t troubled her with them, because she needed her rest after she miscarried the baby. Could he really just spill them to Malfoy now, of all people?

            Malfoy leaned forwards, and his hand on Harry’s skin seemed to heat up. Harry closed his eyes and gave a convulsive shiver. The question, now, seemed less to be whether he should spill them and more whether he could keep them to himself.

*

            Draco watched with a hidden smile as Potter swayed towards him, his mouth slightly open. He had used a nonverbal spell to make his skin warmer and more tempting to the other man’s touch, but mostly he’d just called on the same commanding presence he used in the courtroom. Potter couldn’t help himself; he was responding.

            Draco shifted a bit, as the idea of Potter unable to control himself tugged on his arousal like a winch. He kept his voice soft, almost a companionable whisper, but with a firm undertone that ensured—or should ensure—that Potter would tell him the truth. “What are your nightmares about, Harry?”

            Not even the change in name seemed to startle Potter out of the half-trance he’d fallen into. He moved a few steps closer to Draco, following the pull of his hand. He sat down on the arm of the chair as Draco guided him to, his eyes still shut.

            “The final battle,” he whispered. “I killed Voldemort near Dumbledore’s tomb. And—and he made Dumbledore an Inferius before I killed him.”

            Draco felt the hair along the back of his neck stand up. He thought it was only partly from revulsion at Potter’s retelling. Potter’s magic had crowded close, too, biting lightly at Draco’s skin. He tightened his grip on Potter’s hand, and said conversationally, “I thought that was impossible. That a Dark wizard had to kill the Inferi he wanted to raise himself, so he would have complete control over them.”

            “Voldemort was different,” Potter whispered, and a bitter laugh slipped out of his mouth. “He made the corpse life-like, too, so it was like I murdered him all over again.”

            Draco frowned. “You never did kill him, Harry.” His free hand moved of its own volition, snaking up Potter’s neck into the wild black hair. God, it felt so good. He wanted to dig his fingers deep and yank, but he didn’t think it was time for that yet. “That was Snape.”

            “But I was coming back with him,” Potter said insistently. A light sheen of sweat had broken out along his brow. “I’d already fed him poison. He was dying when Snape killed him.”

            Draco licked his lips. He was not sure what surprised him more: that Potter had fed Dumbledore some sort of poison, or that he had witnessed Draco’s humiliation, his failure to kill. He pushed both thoughts aside for now in favor of asking, “And Ginny never did anything about these nightmares for you?”

            “I never told her about them. She was so distant—never wanted to hear. And I didn’t want to hurt her while she was recovering from the baby’s loss.”

            Draco nearly growled. Potter had the most infuriating concern for the Weasley bint. “I see,” he said.

            Then he tested his control by pulling sharply, so that Potter bent towards him. The green eyes fluttered open, startled, but still slightly glazed, as though reliving a memory he must never see except in dreams had taken him away from the everyday world.

            Draco kissed him.

            Potter let his eyes flutter closed for a moment, and then he moaned. Draco had access to that sweet mouth for the first time, and he took full advantage, tilting Potter’s head to the side, kissing him harshly and insistently. Potter’s hands rose, but hovered uncertainly above Draco’s, as though he wanted to tell him to stop but didn’t know how.

            Draco drew back from the kiss, licking his lips, and said softly, “Why shouldn’t your new intensity be a person, Harry? I’ll be inside the wards of the Manor with you, and I want to win this case as badly as you do.” He kept his hands moving, smoothing through Potter’s hair and up and down his arm, eroding the other man’s ability to think. “You’re not in danger from me; your magic would protect you if I tried anything wrong.” And it was all around Draco now, pushing his own breath to come short, warming his own skin and making his teeth ache. “There’s no harm in it,” he whispered.

            “Malfoy?” Potter’s voice sounded as if it were coming up a tunnel. “Why—“

            “I’m attracted to you,” Draco said easily. “And maybe teenage boys need to stare at each other and blush and look away before they can admit to a crush, but we’re grown men. We can admit attraction, can’t we? It’s simple.” He kissed Potter again, but made it only a light lipping this time, drawing back when Potter tried to follow him. “We probably shouldn’t sleep together until after the case, but there’s no harm in—playing—beforehand.” He drew in a delighted breath as the magic grew deeper, like condensed joy. “That’s what your wife did, after all.”

*

            Harry had almost, almost, been lost. He had never felt seduction aimed at him like this. The people who had demanded his presence and his attention after the war had all come on strongly, blaring, as if they imagined that was the only way he would recognize interest. And he had been the one required to seduce Ginny; she had played the coy, blushing virgin at first, and then adopted an attitude after they were married as if she were bored and he needed to actively hunt and capture her interest.

            Having someone try to charm him was different. Intoxicating.

            But then Malfoy had said the word “wife,” and it acted on Harry like a bucket of ice water.

            He jerked away. His mouth felt tender and swollen, and he was embarrassingly aware of his own arousal, though luckily there didn’t seem to be a visible sign of that yet—beyond his panting and his flushed cheeks and his slowly turning magic.

            Yes, you’ve done a marvelous job of hiding it, he told himself sarcastically, while he wiped at his mouth.

            He opened his eyes to see Malfoy staring at him with one eyebrow upraised. “And just when it was going so well, too,” he murmured. “Why, Harry?”

            A curl of warmth snaked through Harry’s belly at the sound of his name. He snarled and shook his head. “Don’t call me that.”

            Malfoy wasn’t deterred. “You want it as much as I do,” he said.

            “Yes,” said Harry. “And it’s a stupid thing to want. I’m still married, Malfoy.”

            The other man’s eyes widened, and for a long moment he sat still. Then he burst into incredulous laughter.

            Harry glared at the chair he’d sat in. He heard Malfoy struggling to regain control of his merriment behind him, but didn’t glance his way.

            “And she cheated on you,” Malfoy said, his voice thick with contempt. “You’re fighting to be free of her. You owe her nothing. What’s wrong with a bit of fun while you’re still technically married to the bitch?”

            “It’s wrong,” Harry insisted. “And it would probably ruin our case. And Zabini could use it against us, if he found out.” His hands were shaking. He jammed them into his robe pockets. “Besides,” he added, thinking to end it, “I’m drunk, and I’m not gay.”

            “I’ve never bothered with the abstract definitions of words when I’m not in the courtroom, you know,” Malfoy remarked. “Married is just a word, as I’ve seen time and time again. So is gay. I’m attracted to people, and their gender is irrelevant to me.”

            “It isn’t to me,” Harry said.

            “You liked it,” Malfoy said, and his voice dipped into the same soft register that he’d used to such good effect before, the tone that brought Harry’s body to startled attention, even though he didn’t want it to happen. “You want me to do it again. You can barely control your longing for me to touch you.”

            Harry felt his cock filling with blood, and turned away, stalking towards the door as sharply as he could.



            “Running away?” Malfoy called. “I thought Gryffindors were braver than that.”

            “You know a lot about Gryffindors,” Harry said over his shoulder, “but not much about me.” He shut the door to the library behind him.

            He stood where he was, still panting, and then abruptly realized something. His magic hummed around him, but it wasn’t attacking or lashing out, upset though Harry was. It seemed interested. What he’d done had contented it, in a weird way.

            He’s right. The intensity is what I need.

            But Harry would find it somewhere else than from Malfoy. It was wrong, professionally and personally, for him to be involved with the git.

            With some dignity, he managed to find his way to the bedroom prepared for him and don the night robes that he’d brought. Then he got into bed with his wand under his pillow, so Malfoy couldn’t sneak in and ravish him in his sleep.

            His body still ached. Harry resolutely ignored it. He might have a chance at a normal life, once the case was finished and he was free to find something that contented his magic. This was not it.
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Building With Worn-Out Tools

Chapter Six—Intensity