Author: tigersilver
Title: HD 'Sparring'
Rating: PG
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Warnings/Summary: Happy Birthday, animaven* ! This is short and sorry I didn't wait, but the fic didn't want to wait! Without further ado, I give you Wizengamot Harry and Draco!
HD Sparring
"I hate it when you do that, Draco." Harry's voice is flat; he knows it, but can't quite summon the energy to inject life in it. It hurts and he's tired of it and Draco should just simply know what it does to him. "You only giving me a hard time because you secretly agree with me and you don't want to."
"Huh," Draco snorts softly, glancing away. "Hardly."
His narrow arse shifts on the uncomfortable bench seats Wizengamot members are provided. He and Harry had both cast charms to cushion the slab they shared; they did that every morning, but the spells had faded as the day wended on into eternal boredom. They're both tired and tetchy now…and primed for a fight.
"And I hate it when you choose to ignore me, Potter. I said it, didn't I? So I meant it, alright? And I am right here, you know. You don't have to pretend I'm not."
"I'm not pretending anything!" Harry hisses, painful ennui replaced instantly by hot-blooded fury…but then it subsides. Because of course Draco's right: he was pretending.
"I can see you," he adds, snarkily, "I just wish I wasn't forced to. Your face annoys me. Everything about you annoys me, in fact."
He feels more than hears the indrawn breath inflating the warm ribcage pressed up against him. For all they fight, they cannot be apart, at least not physically. Mentally and emotionally, though? Well, sometimes that's a different matter. Sometimes there's half a world between them.
"Oh." Draco's turn to be flat; he's gone rigid and Harry knows he's touched a sore spot.
"Sorry!"
Harry tacks it on, hoping against hope he's not done too much damage. Hoping, too, that Draco doesn't think his apology is a total afterthought…though it was, in a way. But he's sincere, too. They'll be returning to the same house and the same bed, after all. He's not wanting to take this little tiff—the latest amongst far too many—home with them.
"I should bloody well hope so," Draco growls, but Harry can see he's blinking rapidly. He's hurt him; he knows that because Draco, the King of the Comeback, never actually manages a good sharp one when his tender feelings are really bruised. Draco abruptly clears his throat, though softly, and assumes a 'holier-than thou' expression, nose in the air. "But you should still pay attention to the facts as presented, Potter. The man is guilty as a Hades-born demon. He struck her, before witnesses, including her own parents. There's no excuse for him. Open and shut. And it's too late now—the Wizengamot has voted."
"Everyone makes stupid errors, Draco."
Harry's calm and cold again, in contrast to the moment of frustration-filled ire he'd been feeling a moment before—and the utter flatline lack of any emotion the moment before that. The last was probably reaction to very little sleep and far too much pressure; Harry knows he's got issues with separating court cases from personal life. For that matter, so does the arse beside him. Draco takes everything seriously.
"You know that best, I think," he goes on, well aware it's a low blow and he's likely making things worse instead of better. But Draco's being a real hardarse on this one and Harry's been watching the young man in the box throughout he whole of the proceedings. The poor kid's suffering; he's only eighteen, after all. He's got his whole life ahead of him; going to Azkaban would sort of ruin it.
Draco clenches his jaw; Harry can see the grooves settling into that fair skin, but he's not regretting this riposte. Draco deserves the truth, as Harry sees it. They don't lie to one another—even when maybe they'd be better off doing so.
"We have to allow for people to be sorry when they do; give them another chance."
"There's only so many chances, Harry."
Draco's bent his head so they can mutter between themselves. The elder Witch chairing the day's schedule is sharp of hearing for all her hundred plus years; she frowns on the younger members gossiping. She especially frowns on Harry and Draco, who are known for the volatility of their interactions.
"And he's already convicted: Pensieves don't lie. He hit her, he hurt her; end of story. We're here to make sure he can't do it again."
Harry sends Madame a charming grin—though he's far from feeling charming—and ducks his ruffled head down, edging closer to Draco. They're practically glued at the hip when he's finally satisfied no one can possibly overhear them—and that action alone starts up the inevitable chemical action-reaction. He ignores it; it can wait a bit, but it'll erupt later.
Harry's not too happy at the moment; neither is his partner in all things, large and small.
Draco shifts from arse cheek to arse cheek beside him; his feather-light hair tickles Harry's earlobe.
"And some actions don't deserve forgiveness," Draco continues, sending Harry a narrow glance of disapproval. He's a stickler for making his case, whatever it may be; Harry thinks it's beating dead Thestrals sometimes the way he goes at it. "You have to make an example or people will think they can get away with it. That's what laws are for, Harry."
Draco's being reasonable—or rather, he thinks he is. Harry doesn't. They butt heads over plenty of cases, which makes for interesting make-up sessions after. But the one thing Harry hates is when Draco won't admit there's another side to every argument presented. And Draco's awfully rigid in his views, still. Harry's more elastic, maybe because he's had to be.
But it's a huge gap in attitude between them. There's a lot of things they have to go around, if only because they can't get over.
Well, he's had enough of remaining silent and allowing Draco to assume he's tacitly conceding.
"And there are some actions that people don't want to have done, after—things they never really meant to do, but felt forced to," Harry points out, gently. "Don't you think those people deserve a second chance?"
"You're a bleeding heart, Harry," Draco sniffs, but Harry can see a quick quirk of lips out of the corner of his eye. Draco's at least smiling, so perhaps his mood is better. Maybe he'll give Harry an inch, if that's the case. They could—potentially—agree to disagree on this one. But abuse of any sort is a hot spot for both of them. If Harry were a better person, he'd likely drop it—but he's not. And Draco knows that. He snorts, which only strengthens Harry's conviction Draco knows exactly what Harry's up to. "You always support the damned underdog, even when they clearly don't deserve it. You should curb that; it's a failing."
"I am not!" Harry protests, but he has to admit that maybe he is a sop when it comes to people trapped in too-tight corners. But that doesn't excuse Draco's obstinacy. "I do not. And you're one to talk, Draco! How many times have you defended the indefensible?"
If so, though, Draco's the other way round: all eye for eye and tooth for tooth. He's a broomstick-up-the-arse sort of bloke; Harry wonders sometimes how Draco manages to be so bendy where he's concerned.
"It's you who won't listen to reason, Draco!" He swallows, sending a quick glance darting around, ensuring they're not drawing undue attention. "People can be forgiven when they're genuinely sorry!"
"Not always, Harry." Draco sets his chin. He shakes his head slightly and keeps his eyes level and forward, for all the world as if the two of them weren't squabbling privately in a very public place.
Harry hates when he does that—it makes the quarrels seem not as valid and he doesn't like being made to feel as though he's a child, indulging in a tantrum. He's rather have it out—but Draco's also right. In a way. The problems they confront every day aren't theirs to take home with them.
There's a balance and it's a fine line sometimes. He's remembering that now; it adds to the urgency of his voice.
"Look, he hurt her, but he was jealous as fuckall and he wasn't thinking, okay?" Harry presses on, the latest case having made a huge impression on him. This was the sort of situation he understood all too well—and Draco knows that, too, the prick! "And she forgives him—it's just her parents are making a fuss over it. She has to press charges, Draco, even if she really doesn't want—"
"That's bull, Harry!" Draco's nostrils flare. He's angry again. "Her parents are only looking out for her best welfare and if that arsehole in the dock has hexed her once, he'll more than likely do it again! It's abuse, Harry—no matter what kind of nice face you try to stick on it! Don't you understand that's what we're here for? To prevent this sort of thing happening as well as punish it? You have to take a stand, Harry! Some actions are unforgiveable!"
"It was not abuse, Draco—it was an accident! His emotions got away from him, alright? He's only a kid!"
"Kid or not, you don't go round hitting people because you love them, Harry. That's so wrong I don't even have enough words to say how wrong it is!"
Draco's all het up, but Harry can't agree. How many times has he been hurt and yet the last thing he wanted was the see the person who injured him punished permanently? Ron comes instantly to mind—so does Draco.
Harry doesn't want to pull out the big guns, as they say, but maybe it's time. Draco's always so bloody sure he's the one in the right, it's infuriating. Harry's got his opinion, too, and it's perfectly valid!
"Well, then!" he huffs quietly, crossing his arms over his chest and nudging Draco with a sharp elbow, "what about what you've done to me, arse? Was that all unforgivable, then? You said half the time you didn't mean to, but then you went and did it again anyway. What's the story with that? Should I have condemned you? Should I now, maybe? D'you want me to ship you off to Azkaban for a rap on the wrist and thirty days holding cell with no magic? 'Cause I can, if you insist. It's only right."
Draco turns his head and glares at Harry—really glares at him, as if for a moment he truly hates him a thousand degrees more than he's ever loved him. It's that strong in his eyes and Harry shivers.
"Tsk, Potter," he bites out, and Harry can feel those white teeth ripping chunks out indiscriminately. "As if you've not done the exact same to me, time after time. Should we room at Azkaban together, then? Because it would only be fair."
It leaves him cold, Draco's sudden bitterness. This is exactly why Harry hates it when they disagree: he's afraid it'll be the last time and Draco will throw up his hands and simply walk away.
Not that he's not felt the same. Has definitely entertained visions of how good it would feel to really wound the sometimes utterly asinine chap he shares bed and board with. Cut him to the quick—hurt him badly, as much as he possibly can. He wants Draco to squirm; he wants him to suffer…but not much and not for long.
Conversely, he couldn't bear it at all, having Draco in pain—or being the cause of it. The truth of that swamps him; douses all the fire within.
Harry's anger is fast-moving. It's gone almost before it begins. What he really is, to tell the gods honest truth, is tired and hungry and it's another hour before they break for the day. He only wants to stagger home. Order takeaway and fall into bed with the blond idiot beside him.
So…he sighs, a great heaving exhalation. The blond idiot is his rock and his world and at times the landscape isn't as pretty as it could be, true…but there are benefits.
Draco slides an arm around him discreetly, pulling him closer even they are already.
"You're a git and you don't know when to stop arguing," he murmurs. He's grinning and his eyes are so, so fond again. It's over. Harry knows that's it; they're done discussing the poor teenager and his equally unfortunate teenage girlfriend. Vote's already been cast, anyway; its time for sentencing and Madame Chairman will do that part.
"Lean on me, alright?" Draco's a cozy bulk to lounge against, for all he's whipcord thin and has boney hips. "It's almost over, Harry. We can go home soon."
Harry adores Draco for many reasons, but not the least is because he knows when to turn it off, too. When precisely they should stop with the pointless stuff and concentrate on the comfort only they can provide one another. There's no one else in the world who understands Harry like Draco does—and vice versa.
"I'm not a git," he grumbles, dogged to the last, exhausted but not quite ready to be fully quiescent. "You are, and alright, yes, it is…only another hour, thank bloody Merlin. I can't wait."
"Me, neither."
Harry sighs again and hopes not too many eyes alight upon the two of them, snuggling like children in their high dark tucked-away corner of the tiered benches. He blinks, needing something...something, and not the continuation of the pointless argument.
"Hmm. Any chance of tea?"
A flick of Draco's wand summons a cuppa. It appears on Draco's other side, in the clear space between Draco and the next Wizard down, the vastly elderly Master Augustine Smythley-Wickford. He's asleep and snoring, the grumpy old git, and doesn't notice. Not that he'd care, either.
It's steaming, the cup of tea—far too hot to drink yet. Draco catches it up with his free hand after he tucks his wand neatly away up its wrist holster, never once leaving go of Harry, slumped against him, though it would probably be easier. He blows on the surface to cool it, waits barely two seconds, eyes intent on the milky brown-red (two sugars, three creams) and sips, doubtless to check if the Ministry elves got it right. Satisfied, he passes it deftly over to Harry, not spilling a drop.
Harry accepts with a tired smile and a nod. He cradles the cup between both hands and makes no objection when Draco yanks him carefully atop his spread thighs, settling him just so. When Draco grins back, all's right as rain between them—but it's never stopped being so and he knows it.
"Thanks."
It's only the one word, but Draco's eyes are alight with something wonderful. The grey's brilliant to stare deeply into, a molten ice ocean, and Harry loves him, oh, so much so, even when he hates him. Loves him, and knows they'll be back again tomorrow, doing their duties and passing judgment.
It's not easy, being old, but he's glad he's managed it. As long as there's Draco, it's all worthwhile.
Finite.