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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.

Chapter List
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Chapter Eight—Arguing

            “Ready?” Draco asked the instant he saw Potter stride into the middle of the dining room.

            Potter grinned at him, and Draco wondered if it was a full night’s sleep or the activities of the past week that had put him into a good mood. He hoped it wasn’t the prospect of seeing his wife again. “The question is, are you ready, Malfoy?” He picked up a piece of toast from his plate and bit into it with what seemed to be deliberate bad manners, scattering crumbs in several directions. His eyes were steady and scornful, proud. “You’re the one this case depends on, after all.”

            “Did you not know that Weasley and Blaise can call on you to speak?” Draco asked levelly, picking up a forkful of scrambled eggs. “If they do, then you have to answer truthfully and yet in a manner that will impress the judge and the rest of the wizarding world.”

            Potter kept on grinning. “Then I’ll take truth,” he said. “I’m a bad judge of what impresses people. Ask any one of my friends.” He started eating in earnest.

            “The friends who’ve abandoned you in the wake of this divorce?”

            “Ron and Hermione are still on my side, as far as that goes,” said Potter, with a shrug. It seemed Draco couldn’t dent his cheer this morning. “And I was thinking more of my friends at Hogwarts. Those were the days I was happiest, you know, and felt as if I had people who really were on my side.”

            Draco put down his fork, frowning. “For God’s sake, Potter. That was years ago.”

            “I know,” said Potter, who had a wistful sheen in his eyes.

            “You’d think you would have lived since then.”

            “Well, I haven’t.” Potter just shrugged at him amiably again and took a swallow of milk, not commenting on the texture and taste of it, though Draco was sure that it was better than anything he’d had in that hideously small house of his. He hadn’t believed the document he read detailing the size of the house in Benjamin’s office at first.

            “Why, Potter?” Tempting Potter with sex hadn’t worked, so Draco had decided to try pushing in a different way. Maybe he could afford this sort of blunt honesty in the safety of his own house, with no one around to hear him. “Why haven’t you lived in the last five years?”

            “The war—“

            “I haven’t seen a sign that the war affected you except for that curse and that limp you affect some of the time.” Draco leaned forwards, not caring for once that his elbows were on the table; if his mother came in and was well enough to scold him for bad manners, she would be having one of her best days. “Tell me the truth.”

            “I don’t affect that limp,” Potter said mildly. “It happens when I’m tired.” He ate a few more bites while Draco waited impatiently. Then he sighed, and his eyes lost a bit of their brightness for the first time.

“You spend five years trying to suppress every ounce of anger that escapes you,” he said, “and every other strong emotion, too, because your magic can’t tell the difference between extreme sorrow and rage. You don’t work in a job because someone might say something that angers you. You stay away from most people because the ones who don’t want to accost you for a photo and a signature are the ones who want to take advantage of your fame to sell their own produces. You lose a baby, and believe that’s bonded you to your spouse forever, and then you find out it hasn’t.” He shrugged a bit and looked across the table at Draco. “You do all that, and then tell me that you’ll still be as brilliant and cutting as you are right now.”

Draco tried to comprehend the idea, but he and Potter were just too different. Potter had bent to the world. What Draco had wanted, from the moment he understood that not everyone would give him what he desired just because he was his father’s son, was for the world to bend to him.

            “You have to change,” he announced briskly. “You can’t win this case like that.”

            Potter raised an eyebrow. “Really? And you think that nearly killing my wife in the middle of the courtroom counts as winning?”

            “She’d just slapped you with a hex,” Draco said incredulously. “You can’t think that counted against you with Judge Witherbone.”

            “I think we’ve already discussed my ability to tell what impresses people,” Potter said, giving him a tired smile. “Besides, it counted against me with myself, and that’s the important person.”

            Draco leaned across the table and caught Potter’s elbow. “I’m serious, Potter. A case like this takes a lot of passion. You can’t walk in there like an Inferius and expect to win it.”

            “The passion is all yours, Malfoy,” Potter said, and swirled one arm over his head as he made an elaborate bow. Then he left the room, presumably to put on the more formal robes he’d wear to the courtroom.

            Draco sat back with a little hiss. The week’s rest had done Potter good, but it seemed that it had given him an even keel long enough to get him a piece of his former self back. And it was the new self, the one who had grown upset over Blaise’s attempt on his life and responded to Draco in the library that night, that Draco needed beside him now.

            Then a small smile widened over his face. He could feel it growing bigger and bigger as he sat there.

            Well. I suppose that I’ll just have to make sure he puts his new self on display, then.

*

            Harry strolled casually into the middle of the courtroom. He wasn’t worried—nothing at all like the fear and anger he’d experienced a week ago. Malfoy would do most of the arguing, and work out the complicated legal terminology that Harry had no chance of understanding. He would sit on the other side of the room, and answer questions as he needed to, and bear Ginny’s glare with equanimity.

            He still wanted a quiet life. It seemed to him that he could have it. All it would cost him was money and time. Not a great price to pay for ensuring that he wouldn’t get angry and kill someone, or become involved in a feud that would cost him the only remaining family he had.

            Malfoy had been giving him narrow looks ever since they arrived. Harry didn’t care. He probably needed the practice in sneering.

            He sat back in his chair and looked towards Ginny’s side of the room. Still only two chairs there. Harry shook his head. It seemed that Zabini hadn’t dug up enough money to hire an Arguer.

            He could pity them, now, the way Ron probably had wanted him to when Harry last spoke with him. Not having enough money to bring up a child was a terrible thing. And Ginny…

            Harry shifted uneasily in his chair. He still didn’t likewhat she’d done. But he hadn’t wanted to hurt her, either, and he could have done it, either the night she told him or here in the courtroom.

            He didn’t want to do that.

            So maybe it was better to soften his own demands a little. After all, the solicitor had successfully helped him to change the documents in time, so that Ginny couldn’t sell the house and she’d taken no money from the Black vault. She still had the key with her, apparently, as it had never reached Gringotts, but the moment she tried to take out any Galleons, they would know and send the key back to Harry, so that part of her attempt to secure funds for herself hadn’t worked, either.

            He could let them have somemoney, couldn’t he? He would be a single man living on his own after this, and he didn’t need thatmuch. He certainly had more practice at living within his means than anyone ever needed, after his childhood with the Dursleys.

            Maybe it wasn’t right, but it was the way he was inclined to think right now.

            Then he realized that, if he had changed his mind about this, it would definitely affect what Malfoy talked about in the next set of arguments. He shot a glance around the room. Still no sign of Zabini, Ginny, or the judge. Relaxing a bit, he tapped his fingers on the chair arm to catch Malfoy’s attention.

            When the Arguer looked up, he said, “I’ve changed my mind about how much money I want them to have. Maybe a number of Galleons, each, instead of nothing? That would soften things somewhat, wouldn’t it? I…”

            And then he trailed off, because not even Ginny had looked at him as angrily as Malfoy was right now. Harry wasn’t sure that Voldemortcould have matched his death glare. He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.

*

            Draco tried to remember the last time he’d been this furious. Maybe the Weatherby case, where his client had, in fact, committed adulteryand then forgot to mention it to him. But, no, at least Weatherby had understood why changes to their initial claims were impossible to make at this period.

            “Potter,” he said. “I told you not to feel sorry for her. And now you’re sitting there and feeling sorry for her. Aren’t you.” No need to make thata question.

            Potter flushed and looked away. Humiliation poured off him like heat off a paving stone in the middle of summer. Draco didn’t care. Potter seemed to roll over like a dog for everyone else, so why shouldn’t he do the same for Draco?

            “I just—I was just envisioning the amount of money I need to live on,” Potter said evasively. “It’s not much. And she’ll need more for her child—“

            “Who is not yours.” Draco hoped the sound of grinding rocks in his voice would put Potter off this course, but alas, Gryffindors were not that smart.

            “Well, of course not. But I have more than I could ever need. I had enough to hire you, didn’t I? And Zabini didn’t have enough even for an Arguer, the most important person they could have right now.” Potter gave his head a restless little shake. “And I don’t want to lose the Weasleys over this.”

            Draco reached out and clamped his hand down on Potter’s wrist, grinding until his face went white. When he looked at Draco, the first traces of anger were visible in the wrinkles around his eyes. Good. They would never win this case if Potter went through the trial a passionless, limp fish. And God forbid that the rest of the wizarding world ever hear that he was ready to forgive his wife.

            “Listen to me,” Draco said gently, “because I will say this only once.”

            Potter nodded, and tried unsubtly to yank his hand away. Draco only firmed his grasp on it, until he knew he must be pressing tendon to bone.

            “We cannot change our demands now,” Draco said, making sure his voice was as calm and clear as still water. “They’ve been filed. The bargaining process comes later, in the middle of the trial.”

            “Oh.” Potter fidgeted a moment, then shrugged. “You could have said—“

            “And meanwhile,” Draco went on, and sweetened his voice and tightened his hold until it looked as if Potter might faint, “you are the one who was wronged. Repeat that to yourself. Hold it in your head until you get the sense of it. Your pretty, silly little wife is not the victim here. You are.”

            Potter turned his head away.

            “You don’t want to think about that,” Draco breathed. He had never been gladder for a judge being late to the courtroom. “Why not?”

            “I’ll get angry,” Potter said.

            “So get angry.” Draco leaned nearer, until he could smell the git’s hair. Even that excited him, though he didn’t know why. Not when he had to drop hints like anvils to make Potter even understand that he was interested in him. “With all the studying you’ve done this week, your magic shouldn’t explode. And if it does, you can tame it in time. You’ve had five years of practice. I trust you, Potter.”

            “I don’t trust myself.”

            “You’ll have to.” Draco raised his free hand and ran it along Potter’s neck, letting the gentle touch contrast with the painful one on his wrist. “You need passion to win this. I knowyou have it. I knew you at Hogwarts, remember? I saw you on the Quidditch field and fighting back against the Slytherins—against me.” He realized now that it was probably those memories that made Potter’s change seem so unnatural to him. No matter the impetus, it was wrongfor Potter to suppress the anger he carried around like a fire inside him. “Bring it back.”

            “I could hurt—“

            “Me? I don’t think so. Judge Witherbone? You have no reason to.” Draco released Potter’s wrist and stroked his neck with both hands now, ignoring the idiot’s gasp of relief that his arm had been freed. “Yourself? I’ll prevent that from happening. Weasley and Blaise?” He bent down, bringing his lips within a few inches of Potter’s ear. “They deserve it.”

            “Malfoy—“

            “Hurtthem. I want you to.”

            Potter’s hands spread out, flat and tense, on the arms of his chair. “I don’t want to,” he murmured.

            Draco sat back with a laugh, and saw Potter blinking at him, dazed. “Well, maybe you won’t have to,” he conceded. He waved a hand at him. “But you have to be willing to defend yourself. This? This isn’t willing. Regardless of how much money you need to live on, do you really want to have spent a thousand Galleons for nothing?”

            “I—“

            “Yes?” Draco had the feeling that it was best not to let Potter get too many words in edgewise, or have too much time to make up his mind.

            “No, I don’t want to have spent them for nothing,” Potter said, his jaw firming in a motion Draco knew well. And there was a trace of that familiar fire in his eyes when he lifted them again, thank God. “But I thought youwere the Arguer and the one who’s supposed to win the case, Malfoy.”

            “I win them,” Draco agreed, seeing no reason to lie. “But I have support from my clients, because they’re the ones who answer questions, the ones who answer to the newspapers, and the ones whose conduct in the eyes of the wizarding world affects the outcome of the trial.” He pressed a hand down on Potter’s shoulder, making it a demand for attention. “Will I have that from you?”

            It seemed to take Potter only a moment to decide. Then he looked up and nodded. “Yes.”

            Draco smiled slowly. He’d planned to cast small spells that would play with Potter’s emotions, slinging them up and down until he came out of his grinning idiot shell, but this was better. When Potter said something with that look on his face, he meant it.

            “Excellent,” he said, and couldn’t resist one more brush of his hand against Potter’s neck as he moved away. He might have tried for a quick kiss, but Potter didn’t look in the mood for it and Judge Witherbone had already entered by her door, Blaise and Weasley by theirs. Draco smiled at them all.

            He still had some work to do that would include dragging Potter uphill, he knew, but at least he had a promise of cooperation now, too.

*

            Harry licked his lips. He felt—different. Almost as though he’d been under icy water and the surface had cracked to let sunlight through.

            I—I can be angry. Really, Malfoy’s right. If the cure to the curse is to focus my attention elsewhere, I’ve made a good start.

            And I—

            Harry crossed his hands behind his head and flexed them there, so no one else would see how white his knuckles had turned.

            He wantedto be angry at Ginny. But he’d done the same thing he always did with his fury now, and stuffed it underground so that it wouldn’t inconvenience him, wouldn’t catch him unawares.

            Permission to be angry at her filled him with wonder, and now the tones of her voice when she’d proposed that “reconciliation” to him, and when she’d first told him the news about Zabini and the baby, filled his memory with roaring heat. Why shouldhe give her money? he asked himself. Why shouldhe do what she asked? Yes, he’d almost killed her, but then Zabini had done the same thing, and probably with Ginny’s knowledge and help. His attempt had been accidental, at least. There was no way Zabini could claim the same thing about his assassination attempt.

            He’d needed someone else to tell him it was all right. But now a torrent of anger poured through him, and it felt—

            Healthy. Clean.

            Good.

            He lifted his head, and locked his eyes on Ginny, who had just come in and sat down in the chair across from his. She was looking at him with an expression he understood now was composed of resentment and frustration. Before, he had just thought it long-suffering, tinged with the same shadow of loss he’d suffered over their dead child.

            He was not sure exactlywhat his face looked like, but he knew her eyes widened and she pressed back in her chair.

            He waited, tensely, for something to happen—for one of the chairs to explode or shards of ice to tear Ginny’s face open.

            Nothing happened.

            Harry closed his eyes. He knew he was breathing too deeply, in sharp, abrupt gasps, but he also knew Malfoy was on his feet and reciting words that kept the judge’s attention on him, and he hoped that meant this was all right.

            It was all right.

            He couldn’t describe how this felt. Malfoy was the first person in yearswho’d told him it didn’t matter if he got angry. He couldn’t have done more if he’d stripped off some blindfold from Harry’s eyes that had kept him from seeing the real world.

            Yes, that’s it, Harry thought, while his mood improved, and grew fiercer and fiercer.I feel free.

*

            Draco could feel his insides warming up with contempt even when it turned out that Blaise had filed the accusations correctly this time, and so the trial could proceed. Blaise looked far too smug over that minor triumph.

            Arguing took more than that. It took patience, dedication, and predatory earnestness. A good Arguer planned as much as he could in advance, but also understood that things might shift and change at a moment’s notice, and he had to be readyto see changes like that, mark them, and act on them. A combination of intricate plotting and a light tread—that was the way Draco worked.

            That was why he was so successful.

            Judge Witherbone nodded to him to set the stage, since Harry was the one who sought not to offer any of his money to his wife. They would have used a slightly different procedure if both had brought equal amounts of Galleons to the marriage, and a far different one if Weasley had been a rich wife.

            Of course, that was laughable on the face of it; Weasleys were not meant to be rich. And Draco intended to ensure that thisWeasley wouldn’t see anything of Potter’s money.

            “Judge Witherbone,” he began, pacing up and down in front of the courtroom as if a much larger audience watched him than was actually the case, “the state of my client’s life until a week and a half ago was a quiet, retired one. He had no need for extravagant expenses. He never took a holiday. He visited his friends, his wife’s brother and hiswife, and his wife’s family, because they were the only ones he trusted.” He glanced briefly at Witherbone. “I am sure that you are aware of the circumstances of Mr. Potter’s life, and thus his critical need for people he could trust.”

            The judge nodded. Her eyes were warm and encouraging, which Draco knew to be a good sign.

            “Ha!” said Weasley, from behind him.

            Draco turned on one heel. He could feel glee rising up, flooding his mouth until it was hard to breathe. She could not have made such an elementary mistake so soon. Could she have?

            Blaise, at least, realized it was a mistake. He was trying to grasp Weasley’s arm, shaking his head the while. But she had risen to her feet and stood facing Draco, hands on her hips, face as red as her hair.

            Draco only raised one eyebrow, as though inviting her, courteously, to continue. She, of course, sneered at him and then turned and looked up at the judge.

            “Harry doesn’t need people he can trust,” she said, voice thick. “He’s always had that. He doesn’t deserve the friendship he’s had, been honoredwith. What did he do to earn it? Nothing! Dragged my family and Hermione Granger, my brother’s wife, into danger a few times, and in return won a few inconclusive victories. Then he fought and killed You-Know-Who.” Weasley snorted and shook her hair back. “That might have been worthy of the admiration he’s received—ifhe did something after that to earn the admiration. He’s done nothing.He just stays home, as Malfoy informed you, because he’s too frightenedto do anything else. He doesn’t take holidays because he has nothing to take a holiday from.And he’s treated me—well, not the way the wife of someone like Harry Potter should be treated, that’s for sure! I don’t really see how you can reach any conclusion but that I deserve at least three-quarters of his vaults for the pain and trouble he’s caused me.”

            Blaise finally grasped Weasley’s arm and made her sit down, but not before she added, “He has two vaults, the Potter and the Black one, because his parents died and left him their money, and then his godfather died and left him hismoney. He did nothingto earn those but be born. How is that fair?”

            The silence that followed Weasley’s words very quickly turned freezing. Draco enjoyed seeing her face turn pale as Blaise whispered frantically in her ear, no doubt explaining the mistake.

            The rules of the court dated from the days when wizarding families might still declare blood feuds and go after one another in the streets, down to the youngest relative one of the married partners had. Thus the rules had been laid down to express as much courtesy as possible.

            And Weasley had violated all but one or two of them by standing up and speaking before Draco was done.

            After long enough to be sure the point was made, Witherbone turned to Draco and inclined her head. “You said that Mr. Potter needs people he could trust. What else does he need?”

            Draco bowed his head to hide his smirk. He, himself, would probably have added something like, “I can see why,” after the line about trust, but it was more cutting for the judge to ignore Weasley’s existence completely.

            “An uninterrupted existence, Madam Witherbone,” he said. “This divorce has made an absolutely uninterrupted existence impossible, of course, but he should at least have peace.For a man who spent seventeen years of his life at war, it is the least we can do.” He stepped up and held a parchment towards the judge on her high podium; she Summoned it with a silent charm. It was a copy of the first claims they’d decided to file, stated in clearer terms. “He invokes, and I, his Arguer, invoke on his behalf, residential claims, vault claims, nonmaterial claims, and freedom claims.”

            That simply meant that Weasley wasn’t entitled to Potter’s house or anything in it, anything in his vaults, any of his time and attention, or anything he might earn or make in the future. For a long moment, Judge Witherbone scanned down the list of items that Potter owned, nodding slowly.

            Then she looked up. Draco braced himself for the first questions. Even with a judge strongly sympathetic to them, the spell she’d cast would tug her back in the direction of harshly asking them some things, because part of the wizarding world was, inevitably, against Potter.

            “How can you ask for any nonmaterial claims?” Witherbone began, reasonably enough. “Mr. Potter is a celebrity in our world. To say that no one can seek his time or attention would be tantamount to claiming that the Minister of Magic should lead an absolutely private life.”

            Draco had been ready for this one. He matched her solemn expression with a smile. “Easily enough answered, Madam,” he said. “Most of the celebrities in our world seektheir celebrity. The Minister stands for election. Singers and Quidditch players try to make their names. Even Rita Skeeter puts her name at the top of every article she writes, instead of modestly passing the story to someone else. But Potter did not seek his fame.” He nodded over his shoulder, to where Potter sat quietly watching everything they did. Draco was too far from him right now to make out whether the shine in his eyes was actually passionate or not. “He’s most comparable to those who are the children of famous families in our worlds—such as the Blacks, who may suffer because of the deeds of glory-hungry ancestors when they have done nothing noteworthy themselves.”

            He was aware precisely how ironic it was for him to stand there speaking those words. He loved every moment of it.

            “But even those who are children of famous families must simply suffer their celebrity,” Witherbone argued.

            “Not so.” Draco bowed his head a little. “Statutes exist to protect them. Have you heard of the Mouth-Binding Laws, Madam?”

            This time, her eyebrows went up and stayed there. Then she said, “The Mouth-Binding Laws have not been invoked in some time, Arguer Malfoy. Most of those in the wizarding world accept the freedom of the press and the common wizard or witch to say what they like, after all.”

            “I know that,” said Draco. “But occasionally, when the pressure, the slander, and the libel become too much, the laws havebeen invoked. In this case, I am not trying to prevent someone like Rita Skeeter, who makes her living by her words, from writing about or to my client. I seek it solely as it applies to his former wife. The claims we make include the claim that Ginny Potter shall not write to my client again, nor approach him, not speak about him or write about him to anyone else. Anyone else is free to do as he pleases, of course.”

            Potter let out a huffing breath at that. Draco ignored that. This was a standard claim for his clients. It was not Draco’s fault if Potter not had been paying attention.

            Again Witherbone nodded. Then she said, “And if Mr. and Mrs. Potter should choose to reconcile? Your claims make no provision for that.”

            Draco gave a shark’s smile. “Of course they do not. This divorce falls under the Impasse Decree of 1687, after all.”

            Witherbone leaned forwards, her hands folded on top of each other. “Remind me of the contents of that decree again, Arguer.”

            Draco nodded. “Gladly.” Now that he wasn’t pacing, the way he had done in their last courtroom session, he could feel all the energy he would have used building up in the center of his chest, and boiling out of his mouth to drive his words. He had to take many deep breaths to ensure the air got to its destination.

            Nothingexcited him like this—except sex with an excellent partner. Nothing.

            “The Impasse Decree of 1687,” he recited faultlessly, his smile and his gaze both burning into the judge, “states that no reconciliation is possible or desirable if one member of the married pair does something that doubly threatens legitimate continuation of the bloodline. For the man, this would include siring a bastard child and then trying to make it legitimate, or siring one and then preferring it in his will over his children with his legal wife. For a woman, it includes adultery producing a child andtrying to convince her husband to pay for its upkeep.”

            “And has Mrs. Potter done such a thing?” Witherbone asked, her tone polished ivory concern.

            Draco was sure the stare boring into the side of his head came from Mrs. Potter. Self-control long perfected kept him from turning and smiling at her. Just.

            “She has,” he replied, relaxing his stance a bit, as if he were sorrowful that such a thing had occurred. “I will grant that the original case, in which she was pregnant for several months while still playing the role of Mr. Potter’s wife, is a bit sketchy. But she has since contacted my client and asked that he pay at least half his money for this child—whenhe knew it was a bastard.”

            “That is not on the list of claims.”



            “It is, actually, Madam,” said Draco, in his most anxious and helpful tone. “On the last page, listed under ‘Reasons for Divorce.’”

            Witherbone flipped through the parchments for a moment, scanned the last page, then nodded. “Ah, yes, I see it.” She leaned forwards and looked at Draco for another moment. Draco produced his most charming smile yet, a little sorry that he couldn’t turn and use it on Potter.

            “One more question,” she said.

            “Of course, Madam.”

            “How would you say that your client has treated his wife?”

            Draco wondered briefly if Witherbone had decided to make up for every grievance against the Weasley clan he’d had in his life by handing him this opportunity to speak.

            “Much better than she deserves,” he said without hesitation. “You must understand—“ he leaned forwards confidingly “—poor Ginevra Potter grew up in an environment nothing like the one she shared with my client. Her family was incredibly poor, with the earnings of a single parent split among seven children. Ginevra was the youngest, and the only girl. It’s inevitable that she dreamed of marrying a rich husband and rising higher.”

            Weasley gave an outraged hiss behind him. Draco was actually relieved this time when Blaise managed to stifle her outburst. He would not have wanted anything to interrupt his speech.

            “But she set her sights a bit too high.” Draco sighed. “My client was never right for her. He has no celebrity he sought, as I said before. He did purely his duty in the war, and never more than that. During his time as a student at Hogwarts, he fought the Dark Lord because he hadto, and because there was no one else. One of those adventures resulted in the rescue of the girl who became his wife. Undoubtedly this is one of the reasons she spun so many romantic fantasies about him.”

            Draco’s voice hardened as he straightened again. “But she had many chances over the years to see that Mr. Potter was not likethe prince she needed—or wanted. They dated for a time before the war, and she was in the same House as he was, only a year younger. She should have learned his character, but she did not. Or perhaps she persuaded herself that she could change him, and thus succumbed to one of the delusions witches have yielded to from the beginning of time.

            “Either way, by the time she married him, she must have known that he was not the conquering hero she had wanted. And then he remained with her, and loved her for what shewas—or better than she was, because he never realized that her urgings for him to become a hero were selfish. He thought she wanted the best life possible for him, and they simply disagreed on what the best life possible was. He did not realize that she wanted to be the wife of a hero.”

            Draco tossed his head and made sure that he was looking up through soft strands of blond hair at Witherbone. “He treated her gently. He loved her. He bought her many gifts she does not deserve to take with her from the marriage. He was himself because he hadto be, and he showed that self to her every day, with no attempt to conceal or disguise it. Meanwhile, he shared the grief of a child’s loss with her, and assumed it would bring them closer. With any normal wife, that would have happened.

            “Alas, it seems that Mr. Potter is not fated to have a normal life no matter what happens.” Draco smiled for a moment, then let the smile drop and his voice grow hard. “But this time, it was not an evil madman who made the decision for him. It was a selfish, spoiled, vindictive little girl who dared to dream that her husband, if he was not a conquering hero, must be someone without a spine of his own—someone who would pay for her illegitimate children without blinking twice.

            “How very wrong she was.”

            Draco took a few steps back from the podium, and bowed, speaking a little louder so he could hear his words over his own heartbeat. “Any more questions, Madam?”

            Witherbone shook her head. Draco bowed once more and turned with a flourish to face Weasley and Blaise. It would be their turn to ask him questions now.

            He did manage, in his turning, to catch a glimpse of Potter’s face. He looked utterly transformed, as if hearing someone else speak the story of his life had revealed it anew to him. His eyes were pinned to Draco.

            And there was admiration and respect in them.

            That look healed old wounds in Draco, wounds from Hogwarts, he had not even realized he still carried. He knew that his smile as he faced his best friend and a woman he honestly hated now was poisonously confident.

            He was sure he had felt this good before, but he couldn’t remember when.

*

            smokey: I can certainly put you on an alert list if you’d like!

            Lady Lynn: Hopefully these questions were answered in this chapter itself!

            Claire2007: Thanks! I just can’t write quick relationships between Harry and Draco and make them believable for myself, though sometimes I enjoy reading about them.

            Soria: For right now the schedule will remain two updates a week. I have the other story as well as original work drawing on my attention, after all!

            Thank you so much for the reviews, everyone!
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Building With Worn-Out Tools

Chapter Eight—Arguing