Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
- 12
SUMMARY: Just when Harry needs a moment to sit and process the new developments in his life, the world owls him a complete set of limited-edition curve-balls. How will he handle the pressure?

WARNINGS: benign flirtation, Wizard Swears

CONSCIENCE:

EIGHT OF WANDS

Harry knew it was going to be a bad day. He'd gotten less than four hours of sleep in total, most of it filled with nightmares of the Department of Mysteries. He'd laid in bed for two hours after sneaking back with Malfoy: he'd spent those two hours staring at the canopy of his four poster with his arms behind his head, trying to decipher what exactly had happened with Heather. Her phone number was still stuffed in his pocket. He wondered if he would ever have the nerve to sneak out to a pay phone and call her—Grimmauld Place had no telephone and electricity in only one room, which was wired sometime in the 1920's by Harry's estimation. It was so behind building codes, he wouldn't advise plugging in a toaster. The house might go up in flames and then what?

Harry had sort of, maybe, kind of lost part of his virginity the night before. He wasn't exactly sure. And the only person he could talk to about it was Malfoy. And the Slytherin was probably blissfully asleep, dreaming of whatever the hell he'd done with Jack the muggle. That was something Harry really didn't need to dwell on.

He'd forced his aching body out of bed only to find he also suffered from his first hangover. His stomach hurt, his eyes were sensitive and dry, and the only thing he wanted was tea. Maybe some toast. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and nearly scared himself.

A long, hot shower had sounded like such a good idea. Tired beyond words, he cut his jaw shaving. After that, the steamy water just burned and he called it quits. He dabbed on a little Fast-Healing Potion from the medicine cabinet and dragged his sorry arse to the kitchen. In retrospect, he probably should have gone back to bed and died. The kitchen was where the day's troubles began.

Hermione and Ron sat across from one another, her nose in a book and his face in a plate of seconds. A large basket of various fruits, breads and biscuits sat on the buffet and Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen or heard.

“Morning,” Harry mumbled, making himself a cuppa while wishing he could do like Malfoy did—just wave his wand and watch everything make itself up. That was something to look into. “Post here yet?”

“No, mate,” Ron shrugged, tearing into a scone loaded with cream.

“Harry, you don't look well,” Hermione observed.

“I feel like shite. Didn't sleep at all last night. Old nightmares,” he put everything in simple terms bound to elicit sympathy and limit questions. He couldn't deal with much more talking. “Now I have this headache. It's like a mountain troll trying to get out of my head. Hermione, I believe those are your specialty?”

That got him a laugh around the table.

“I think Mrs. Weasley left some potions ingredients. I'll whip you up something soon as we're done here,” she patted his shoulder.

“I... thought I heard her early this morning,” Harry caught himself just in time. He'd almost run into Mrs. Weasley on the stairs, carting one shagged-out Slytherin Ice Prince to bed. “Should we expect her later?”

“I don't think so,” said Ron, licking cream off his lips and leaning in conspiratorially. Never mind that they were the only ones in the kitchen. “I think she's suspects we're planning something. You know, the Horcruxes. She wants to give us space to do what we need to do.”

“You think?” Harry asked, gingerly taking his tea.

“I sort of had a talk with her,” Ron scratched the back of his neck. “Told her that we love her but we're seventeen now and we're making our own decisions. She's not exactly happy, but she understands. She said she respects what you're trying to do, Harry.”

“And what's that?” he asked dryly.

“Givin' people hope, mate,” Ron said as though it should be obvious. “Your fightin' him.”

“Sitting in my Azkaban with my tail between my legs,” Harry muttered darkly. “Some hero I'm turning out to be.”

“You're sounding like that bloody git, Malfoy,” Ron scolded.

Maybe that bloody git Malfoy has a stonking great point, Harry thought.

“We just have to gather more information,” Hermione reassured him. “I have a few books coming in from the Restricted Section courtesy of Professor McGonagall, and we still need to check the books here. We're just in the planning stages, Harry. Don't be discouraged.”

Harry almost told her “d'accord.” Maybe he was spending too much time with Malfoy.

“Okay,” he said blandly. “Mrs. Weasley was bringing in food every week, though. So how're we eating?” The thought of food made his stomach turn at the moment but he hoped that would change as the day went on.

“Well,” Ron flinched and Hermione gave him a dirty look. “Kreacher will pick up our grocery order for now. Dad says the three of us are too high-profile to go ourselves. We shouldn't be going into major wizarding areas.”

“Makes sense,” Harry agreed. Much as he didn't like the idea of using Kreacher—the demented thing at least partly responsible for Sirius' death—it was a better option than inconveniencing Mrs. Weasley. And this way, Harry might have his house a little more to himself. “I guess I'm cooking.”

“Why would you say that?” Hermione said lightly but her face was firm. “I'm a great cook.”

When she settled back to her book, Ron discreetly pointed to the soggy remains of whatever she had attempted to prepare for breakfast now occupying the rubbish bin. Harry would be cooking, then.

He looked up when he heard the flutter of owls entering the kitchen. When the birds dropped their parchments and packages, Harry realized he had plenty to sort through. He started with an official-looking owl addressed to him from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. This could be very good or very bad. He broke the seal as Hermione pounced on a copy of Witch Weekly. She never liked those gossip rags... maybe she was on her period. Harry shrugged and quickly read his letter. It made him smile.

“What's up?” Ron asked.

“I've been named Malfoy's Official Ministry Liaison,” Harry couldn't stop smiling. He was happy to be able to do something and at the same time so beyond frustrated with the Ministry's antics. “Now that they know I was behind Malfoy's change of heart and the subsequent 'daring rescue,'” he and Ron snorted in unison, “they want the both of us to do a press conference as soon as possible. The old poster boy motif. Except now I'm supposed to convert people, too. Hermione, is Malfoy my Mary Magdalene?”

Hermione nearly laughed herself off the bench. Harry tried to explain why it was funny to Ron, who had grown up with almost no exposure to world religions, but comparing Malfoy to a female prostitute traipsing around in Harry's wake was enough for Ron and he started laughing too.

Harry found a muggle package addressed to Malfoy care of himself. It had already been scanned by Aurors so he knew it was clean. When he shook it, the insides swished around like they were soft.

“The last of Malfoy's clothes,” Hermione informed him as he eyed the package.

“This is French, right?” Harry asked, pointing to the white scroll on the front of the large black box.

“Yes, Dior is French,” she said. “Homme at the end just means 'for men.'”

Whatever made Malfoy happy, right? Harry set the package aside. He reached for a stack of his muggle post. It wasn't like he ever got much.

“Oh goodness!” Hermione gasped, flattening her magazine to the table and pointing. “Harry....” And then she was laughing. “Is that what happened?!”

Harry looked down at the stupid article. Witch Weekly was always running mindless drivel about him. He'd stopped paying attention.

The photo got him. Under the banner of “Potter's New Flame” stood himself and 'Petra,' also known as The Day Draco Malfoy Had Tits. Merlin, had it only been yesterday? With everything that had happened between then and now—Malfoy punching him, their excursion to The Gladstone Arms, then Heather and Jack—it felt like a week, at least. He needed to sleep more.

The photograph had been looped to capture their exact actions. The Harry in the picture looked aggravated and aggressive as he advanced on Petra. She appeared to be egging the little Harry on. At the last second, little Harry flicked his wand and a gust of wind blew by, flipping Petra's skirt to show her knickers. She pushed the fabric down with one hand, leveling her wand at Harry with the other. Witch Weekly readers didn't get to see the perfect Full Body Bind 'Petra' had cast, followed by a bloody fantastic Incarcerus Charm complete with ball gag. They'd both been thrown out of the examination area for dueling. It hadn't been funny then, but Harry chuckled now. He got Malfoy a little bit more every day.

Hermione scanned the article, summarizing that the writer suspected Harry was on the prowl for a new romantic interest. The writer played it in such a way as to suggest Harry should play the field and give as many ladies as possible the opportunity to, well, date him. In light of last night's experience, Harry thought about a whole string of witches parading through his bed. The image didn't give him much pleasure, surprisingly. He'd had a bit of sex and as nice as that had been, he wanted someone to share his life, not just his bed... once all this Horcrux bullshit was over with, anyway. There was no point getting sentimental about it. He should focus on staying alive.

So he ignored the magazine and went back to the muggle mail. It was all pretty mundane. Advertisements for new restaurants he wouldn't be able to go to, discos he had no interest sneaking out to, and coupons for a few local food markets he would never shop at. It did nothing but make him feel more isolated. Then he found a bill. His first bill. Wasn't that something?

“Hermione, look!” he said, pulling out all the junky ads to upgrade his credit card features before taking the crisp white page in hand. “My first bill. Guess I'm an adult now.”

When he saw the total he gasped, all joy dripping from his face as though he'd taken a bucket of ice water over the head. He shook with anger, the paper fluttering to the floor.

“I'm gonna kill 'em,” Harry growled, tearing from the table and racing wildly up the stairs. He didn't care if Malfoy was sleeping. All reminders of headaches and hangovers burned up in the inferno of his complete rage. When he found Malfoy's door unlocked, he kicked it in.

“Ten thousand pounds, Malfoy?!” Harry bellowed, slamming the door as hard as he could behind him just because it felt good to smack things around when he was brassed off. “How could you possibly spend,” he gasped anew, recalling the exact damage, “nine thousand, six hundred seventy four pounds, five quid in one fucking day?!”

“You said to get whatever I liked,” Malfoy shot back, steaming regally from across the room. He'd showered and dressed and was sitting at the desk with a very dusty old schoolbook from the Black library. “Am I now to understand that offer was conditional? How much do I owe you, Potter? You can have it from my hide after the Dark Lord gets to me.”

“Slytherin's balls, Malfoy! And Hufflepuff's taint, too!” Harry raved. He could punch a hole in the wall, he was that angry.

“No,” Malfoy said sternly, surging forward. “No, you don't get that one. Hufflepuff—fine. That twat's communal property. But Slytherin? No and no. You have to be a Slytherin to use that one.” The way he said it, it was like being a Slytherin was next to godliness. In what was left of Malfoy's twisted little world, it probably was.

“I would've been if it weren't for you!” The words were out of Harry's mouth before he could stop them; immediately, he knew he should have bitten his tongue and stormed out in a huff. Malfoy's sharp silver eyes rounded on him like two expertly aimed arrow points. Sleep deprivation only seemed to make the man more acutely aware, observant, accurate. His intensity was a little scary.

“What. Did. You. Say?” Like it was a slight to Salazar Slytherin that the lowly likes of Harry Potter would be placed in his house.

“The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin,” Harry said, suddenly finding himself too upset and just plain tired to give Malfoy a proper fight. “That fucking hat really pushed for it, too. But I begged it to put me anywhere but Slytherin because you were in Slytherin. And I knew I wanted nothing to do with a house that would take a poncy, stuck up little prick like you.”

Malfoy hung his head and Harry had no idea why.

“Nine thousand, six hundred and seventy four pounds, five quid,” Harry repeated. “Know how much that is in galleons? You understand that's an entire year's tuition at Hogwarts. And then some.”

“I... I'm,” Malfoy groped for words—his gaze flitted all over the room but he seemed unable to locate the words he was looking for. Perhaps the “I'm sorry” ones. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he settled for something else. “Will you be... are you able to attend in the fall? I haven't....”

“I can afford Hogwarts, Malfoy,” Harry said flatly, sticking his hands in his pockets before he broke something. Malfoy didn't need to know Harry wasn't going back this year because of his mission with the Horcruxes. “I still have money from my parents, plus Sirius' estate. I'll be alright. I live very modestly,” he shrugged. “So long as I don't buy a new broomstick for a few years, I'll manage.”

“Oh,” Malfoy's head shot up. His eyes were very wide, as though he'd discovered his non-friend had three heads. “You live on the interest, then? That's very savvy of you,” he paused, assessing Harry's mien for a long moment before treading dangerous ground. “Slytherin, almost.”

“I understand that's a compliment, Malfoy.”

“Yes, it is.” Malfoy gave a long upward sigh that ruffled his lengthening hair. That he hadn't spelled it short was probably a sign that he intended to keep it the way it was. The blonde smiled a little sheepishly, making a helpless gesture with his pale hands. “Suppose I'll owe you back rubs 'til one of us dies, then.” Malfoy must have expected Harry to laugh or at least smile a bit. His face fell when Harry gazed steadily back.

“Is that all you're worried about—getting yourself off the hook?” Harry asked coldly. “Then there isn't much for you to worry your pretty head about. I'm not much longer for this world.”

“Don't say that,” Malfoy whispered. His big, silvery eyes were just creepy. Between his overlarge eyes and the way he wrung his hands, he reminded Harry of a frightened house elf.

“Why not? It's true,” Harry turned to get away form those weird, watery eyes. He knew Malfoy was still looking at him; he didn't need to hear the man speak plainly to know that his weird-ass eyes were boring into him with a fixed intensity.

“Because you're Wonder Boy, Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived,” Malfoy said in a slow, shaky voice. He didn't sound like himself. For once, the aristocratic lilt sounded forced. “Yer gonna kill 'em in the most spectacular way. And yeh'll be awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, an' go on to a fantastic career. Professional Quidditch, yeah?” Malfoy picked up speed and enthusiasm. “Then you'll retire to a life of country leisure with your gorgeous wife and brood of short, messy-haired, bespectacled offspring.” He'd gotten his pithy diction back by the end. He was spitting the words with practiced venom but there was no anger hiding behind them this time.

“Who says my children would wear glasses?” Harry mused, keeping his eyes focused on the ugly wallpaper. He should really change that along with the rugs in the hall. “Why would I play Quidditch? And why must my wife be gorgeous? Maybe I'll shack up with Luna Lovegood and start writing for The Quibbler.”

He'd only said that last bit because Malfoy had hit his fantasy life spot on. Except the gorgeous mystery wife would be Ginny, and he'd be an Auror instead of a Quidditch player, and not all of their children would wear glasses—just one or two of them. He heard Malfoy laughing.

“Oh, Potter! You'll do no such thing,” he smiled ruefully and his creepy eyes sparkled from across the small room. “For starters, I think Granger would hang herself if you wrote for The Quibbler, although your writing skill would at least be on par with their minimal publication standards. But that specy Ravenclaw for a wife?” Malfoy raised a delicate eyebrow. Man, Harry wished he could operate only one brow at a time like that. “Come on, Potter. You can do so much better than that. You could have anyone you wanted, served up on a platter.”

Harry turned wordlessly toward the door.

“What's wrong?” Malfoy asked, casual and confident. How could he be so fucking confident? Was it because he was truly brilliant in the sack? Or was confidence something you could learn to fake if you tried hard enough?

“Headache,” Harry mumbled, reaching for the door knob. Malfoy's hand was suddenly at his shoulder, gently but firmly turning him around. Harry avoided eye contact.

“You clench your jaw when you're angry,” Malfoy observed, casual as ever. “Wreaks havoc on your neck. Best come and lie down, then. I owe you.”

“You don't owe me, Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, pulling away.

“D'accord. I don't owe you,” parroted Malfoy, all things cool and calm. His wrinkled shirt and the thin, hard line of his mouth said the opposite, but his voice was smooth as honey and pleasant as lemonade in July. He turned without a word and sat on the edge of the spare bed, looking up at Harry with gentle grey eyes reflecting the blue bed hangings and flecks of darkness from his black shirt. Harry stood frozen.

“You have a headache, yes?” he asked. There was no sweetness in his voice and that was fine. There was no business in his voice, either. He was offering to do Harry a solid, no strings. Harry nodded. “So lie down, then. I can't if you're standing, remember?”

Harry remembered. He went to the bed and laid down, allowing Malfoy to cradle his head in chilled, slender fingers. He actually did have a terrible headache, but Malfoy took care of that.

~ * ~

Harry, Ron and Malfoy had put together a second lunch of sandwiches and chocolate frogs. The blonde had pulled several bottles of white wine from the cellar and soon they were having a nice, quiet afternoon reading over the interesting and absurd facts printed on the cards while munching the wiggly sweets.

“How the man having seventeen cats all named Figgy is ranked above his essays on Non-Verbal Endopathotic Theory, I'll never understand!” Malfoy whined, biting the head off a wriggling frog and washing it down with a swig of wine.

“Hey, there's what we should do with our N.E.W.T. scores!” Ron exclaimed. “We should get jobs rewriting these damn things! They're all so dated.”

It was nice to see Malfoy and Ron at least interacting; granted he had to supervise and ply them with wine and chocolate, but it was a start. He was also clueless about what they were discussing sometimes, but it was nice to sit around with a few bottles of wine and just relax for an afternoon. Ron was a little drunk. Harry and the blonde were still recovering from the previous night's escapades and took it slower, eating more sandwiches. Ron blustered right on ahead, the life of their little party.

Harry's peace was interrupted by Hermione's shrill, excited screams. She raced into the room with four fat envelopes in her fists, all bearing the Hogwarts seal.

“Hogwarts owls are here!”

She was so happy. He'd thought it best if they all took the year to search for Horcruxes but perhaps it would be beneficial to have a home base like Hogwarts, full of resources and magic to draw on. Plus, Harry wasn't sure how to tell Malfoy he wasn't going back—or if he should tell the Slytherin at all. Why would Malfoy be particularly concerned? Harry would only be an owl away.

A thick Hogwarts envelope was stuffed into his hands and he opened it obligingly. Of course Headmistress McGonagall offered to continue his Quidditch captaincy should he choose to return. Her letter was a bit more personal than the usual return to Hogwarts script. She seemed to have a sense that Dumbledore had charged Harry with a final mission. Everything in the letter rode on him—if he would come back.

“Head Girl!” Hermione exclaimed, pressing the letter to her chest before Ron swung her around in his big arms. She laughed like the eleven year old girl he'd met first year.

“I don't think anyone's surprised!” Ron laughed too, kissing the top of her head before setting her on her feet again. “What about you, Harry? What does your letter say?”

“Quidditch captain,” Harry replied, using his eyes to signal Ron not to say anything to Malfoy. In his lacquered state, it might not have sunk in all the way. Hermione gave Harry a quick nod of understanding. “And a prefect.” He pulled out the shiny badge and gazed at it.

“About fucking time!” Ron roared happily, clapping his friend in a rare hug. He pulled away beaming. “What about you, Malfoy?”

Draco sat on a bench, scanning his letter probably for the sixth time, committing it to memory for some later purpose. When he looked up at Ron's address, Harry caught confusion in his big grey eyes before the mask slid down like a guillotine, severing all connection to feeling.

“Please excuse me,” the blonde said, formally dismissing himself. He laid the letter out on the table to go upstairs empty handed.

“Let's give him a minute,” Harry suggested, picking up his wine glass but not feeling nearly as pleasant as before. “He left the letter because he wants us to read it—that's how he is. He won't say it, though. Let's look.”

Ron and Hermione peering over his shoulders, they read together. McGonagall's tone toward Malfoy was similar to that of Harry's letter—if you come back, not when. She acknowledged that Malfoy's future was at the moment bleak and uncertain but that a good education might help open many new paths. The envelope was heavy with a badge—that of Head Boy. But it was devoid of house colors. The last paragraph of the letter explained in no uncertain terms that Malfoy would not be safe in Slytherin house, given the students who had thus far enrolled for the coming term. In the next few days, Malfoy would be re-sorted into a new house, representing them as Head Boy. It didn't really matter what house Malfoy was resorted into. The occupants of that house wouldn't want to accept him, would judge him for the acts of his father and the Mark on his arm. Harry only hoped the Ravenclaws could see past the patented Malfoy mask and get to know the confident, funny, deviant man Harry did. Ravenclaw was the only other house Harry could imagine Malfoy being comfortable in. At least he'd have like minds with whom to discuss that Non-verbal Endo-whatever research he'd mentioned over chocolate frogs... but he'd better learn to be nice to Luna.

“I can't imagine a Hogwarts without Malfoy, funny as that sounds,” Harry said into the silence. “I'm going to offer to McGonagall to pay his tuition if it hasn't been covered already. He needs to go back.”

“That's... extremely kind of you, Harry,” Hermione said, mushy with pride as she held a hand out to him. He took her hand in his and gave her a quick, one-armed hug. “After what happened yesterday... well, I take it the two of you made up.”

“Er, yeah,” Harry shrugged dismissively. He didn't really feel comfortable discussing his non-friendship with his friends. It was personal, somehow. After last night, he and Malfoy had pretty much cemented their unusual understanding. “Look, he's had a few minutes to brood. It should be out of his system. I'm gonna go talk to him, see what's up.”

Hermione and Ron both gave him raised eyebrows but didn't say anything more as he polished off his wine and left the room.

- - -

Harry tentatively opened the door to Malfoy's bedroom only to find the blonde reclining in bed reading Ingo Imago's The Dream Oracle, one of Harry's old Divination textbooks. Harry heaved a nervous sigh and entered the still, quiet room. Malfoy looked up at him blankly. Harry had to clear his throat before he could speak.

“Uh, you've been acting funny all day. Something's off,” Harry looked at his shuffling feet. “Did... do you need to talk?”

Malfoy shook his head. Looking away as he was, Harry barely caught the movement.

“Does it have something to do with us fighting before?”

“No,” the blonde said evenly.

“Your Hogwarts letter, then? Head Boy, being resorted... nervous? Worried?”

“No, Potter. And really, I'm fine,” Malfoy rolled his eyes dramatically, as though to say Harry was vastly overreacting.

“Then it's about Jack.”

Harry felt Malfoy stiffen. He didn't just see it. He felt it in the air. One minute Malfoy was relaxing on the bed and the next, every muscle in his body seized and he stopped breathing. Several very foreign emotions fluttered across his pale face before he clamped down that cold, Malfoy mask.

“What exactly did you and that guy do?”

“None of your business, Potter.”

Harry was dismissed with a single, regal wave.

“You sure about that?” Harry pressed. Malfoy's eyes were nearly blue form the bed hangings when he snapped to meet Harry's gaze. That look told Harry everything—something important had happened, something Malfoy did not want to talk about. Because it was too hard.

“Positive,” Malfoy sneered, eyes narrowing as he made to go back to his book. Harry took a few tentative steps forward, regaining Malfoy's attention. “What is it, Potter? Think you're of the bent persuasion? Looking for tips?”

“No,” Harry rolled his eyes. “I like women, Malfoy. Obviously. I... wanted to ask you something else.”

“Alright,” Malfoy sighed mightily, setting his book aside and rounding his agitated focus on Harry.

Harry sat himself on the spare bed before beginning. This had weighed heavily on his mind as he'd tried to sleep that morning. It still nagged at him, eating away.

“How do you do it? How can you have sex with muggles?” Harry blurted. Malfoy wouldn't expect him to phrase it elegantly and that in itself was a relief. “Every time she asked me a question I had to lie. It got to the point where I didn't wanna talk anymore, you know? Just shag and get the hell out of there. Is that what it's always like? With muggles?”

Malfoy nodded solemnly.

“Really?” Harry bowed his head. “It felt kinda awful.”

“Are you sure you're not gay?” Malfoy teased quietly. Only Malfoy would be making lewd jokes when Harry was being vulnerable and serious. Fucking Malfoy. Deep down, Harry appreciated the man's dark humor.

“The sex was good, I guess,” Harry shrugged. “I have nothing to compare it to, so what can I say? But lying to her, not being able to tell the truth... sort of ruined it. Is that normal?”

Malfoy folded his hands in his lap and stared at them for a long time.

“Wonder Boy, I don't feel like talking politics with you. It's not a good idea.”

“This has nothing to do with politics!” Harry whined.

“It has everything to do with politics,” Malfoy spat. “You know what I believe; hell, you despise me for it! I'm not spoiling for a fight—”

“And I'm not trying to start one,” Harry interrupted evenly. “I don't have anyone else to talk to about this. You don't have to talk to me about whatever's crawled up your arse. That's fine. Don't tell me your problems. But I can't exactly talk to Ron or Hermione about this. Not without getting us both in a lot of trouble.” Because Hermione, much as he loved her, would not approve of his getting laid. She would also snitch on him for sneaking out so that the Order would increase the guard, preventing him and Malfoy from ever getting pissed or shagged again. They had to keep this between them.

“Look,” Malfoy shot him a pained look, twisting his long fingers in that sickening way of his. “I'm sorry I let you take me to that muggle pub. I really... it's a weakness I shouldn't have allowed you to indulge.”

“What, are you saying you only do muggle blokes?”

“Gods, you're thick!” Malfoy scoffed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. His other hand gripped the bedspread. “The magical community is pretty small, yeah? There aren't exactly gobs of bent wizards running around looking for a toss. If that's what you're in the mood for, you've got to go out amongst the muggles.”

“So you've done that before,” Harry inferred. “Gone to pubs and picked up men. That's how you knew to put a kerchief in your pocket.”

“Yes. There's a code for it. Keeps things simple. The less talking one does, the better,” Malfoy noted, calm and collected because he was talking about rules. “It's actually easier with men, believe it or not. Very little chit chat. I might've warned you but, I'll be honest, I was pretty well ploughed.”

“Me too,” Harry admitted, snorting silently at Malfoy's double entendre. They could make sexual jokes now. And it wasn't strange at all. “Do you think I should stick to witches, then? Would that make things easier?”

“Golden Boy, I'm not talking politics,” Malfoy heatedly snapped, getting up and walking swiftly to the window. He parted the curtains and peered out. Harry could tell by the set of his shoulders that he wasn't really seeing anything beyond the glass. His eyes looked a little haunted.

“Talk politics, Malfoy,” Harry offered. The words came out gentle, though they were intended to be only neutral. “Say what you need to. I won't interrupt to tell you you're wrong.”

“Why?”

“I already told you. There's no one else I can talk to. And believe it or not, I value your opinion. Even if I don't always agree with you.”

“Fine,” Malfoy said on a heavy exhale. Clasping his hands behind his back, he turned to face Harry. His expression was made of steel. “Yes. I think you should stick to witches and leave muggle women alone. I'm ashamed I have to go the muggle route on occasion, but it can't be helped. Still, I try to do it as little as possible.”

“As to your statement regarding lying to your little tart—that you couldn't tolerate lying to her, I believe? That it ate at you until you couldn't enjoy a presumably great fuck? Imagine if you dated her, if you built a relationship with her based on those lies. Imagine if you fell in love. Would you feel even worse for lying to the woman you loved?”

“I'd feel like shite. I already do, Malfoy.”

“Of course,” Malfoy smiled ruefully. “You're a selfless hero, after all. But there are people who go on and marry their muggle play-things despite all that. Eventually, they break and tell their spouses the truth. You get plenty of divorces and a few deaths that way, but I digress. Marriage, in the modern sense, is a promise two people make to share everything, every part of themselves and their lives. When a wizard marries a muggle, there's always going to be something he holds back, something he can never share with her. Oh, he may tell her about our world, he may tell her everything and she might even understand it—but they will never share magic. That muggle will never ride a broomstick or cast a spell, attend a Quidditch match or see a Thestral. They are forever cut off from our world because we have the spark of magic and they do not. It isn't right, to put that kind of distance between yourself and a supposed partner. That's not a loving marriage, if you ask me. Not if you can't share everything.”

“Witches and wizards should operate as a leper colony, keeping out of sight, secluding ourselves so as not to spread knowledge of our existence, spread panic and misunderstanding. Everyone is better off if we mix as little as possible—it prevents our accidentally falling in love and cocking it all up. We need to contain ourselves. If someone has the infection, has magic, it's our duty to take them in and teach them as best we can, but they'll never understand our world the way those of us who were born into it understand. We have our world and the muggles have theirs. There's no excuse for us going off and infecting others. Telling a non-magical person about magic is akin to giving them an infection: they'll always be scratching at it. They'll always be curious, they'll always want to know more. They think—if they only push hard enough—one day they'll get it. But they never can. It's not right to do that to someone, to bring them so close that they can put their nose to the glass that separates us but never be able to cross it. You shouldn't ask someone you truly care about to love you through the glass. It's selfish and it's wrong.”

“So I think you should stick to witches, Potter. I think we should all stick to our own side of the glass. We can protect ourselves and the muggles at the same time. And we should. It is the only logical thing to do. Even Granger knows it, deep down. You don't see her snogging a nice muggle boy; no, she chose a wizard. A pureblood wizard who can help her fit into our world. She's one of us now and she's bright enough to adapt. It's only natural that we keep to our own. We are what we are. We can't and shouldn't fight it. But we're best kept separate from the muggles. It's as much for our own good as for theirs.”

Malfoy settled on his bed, arms folding behind his blonde head as he reclined. He'd said his peace. “Those are my politics, Wonder Boy. We shouldn't mingle; it only risks exposure and certain heartache on both sides. I'm sure you're gagging to tell me how utterly wrong I am—”

“Malfoy, I agree with you.”

“I beg your pardon?” the blonde spluttered, rolling onto an elbow and starring open mouthed at the crazy dark haired boy.

“It would only be selfish of me to start a relationship with Heather. Or any muggle girl,” Harry sighed. “You're absolutely in the right about it. As much as I wanted to tell her the truth, I knew it was wrong. You're right, Malfoy—all or nothing. As much as I hate being The Boy Who Lived, that part of me—and the magic that comes with it—contributes to who I am. And I won't lie about myself. That's no way to get someone to like, love or respect you.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, looking dazed.

“What?” Harry asked. Malfoy's expression reminded him oddly of Ron.

“You said I was right,” Malfoy said quite pensively, staring unseeingly at the floor between them. “You actually, legitimately agree with me. Harry Potter and I share a political stance; on intermarriage, no less!”

“Is it so shocking that we might agree on something?” Harry joked.

“It most certainly is!” Malfoy shot back, the beginnings of a smile lifting his face. “Would you repeat it?”

“Repeat what?”

“When you said I was right.” Malfoy's grin was just great. It made his eyes look a little crazy, but crazy in a good way.

“Would you like me to get down on my knees and grovel, too?” Harry said sarcastically.

“Oh, would you?” Malfoy shot back, joy in his big eyes turned very blue by the bed covers.

“I think you'd like that a little too much,” Harry chuckled, getting up from the bed. “Like you said, not very many bent wizards running around. I can't have you making designs on me.”

“I don't think you have anything to worry about, Potter,” Malfoy chuckled.

“What's the matter? Am I not your type?” Harry flinched the moment the words left his mouth, a nervous hand shooting up to brush his hair out of his eyes. He'd accidentally hit on something that had been bothering him—that Malfoy's muggle, Jack, had looked an awful lot like himself. He was curious to see how Malfoy would respond. The blonde rose from his own bed to stand about two feet from Harry, giving him a slow, critical once-over. Malfoy's appraising gaze made him nervous. “Well?”

Malfoy's brows furrowed as though in deep concentration as he observed Harry's hands, his shoulders, his neck, and finally his face. He heaved a mighty sigh.

“You've got good stock, Potter,” he admitted begrudgingly. “You might change your grooming—”

“What the hell's wrong with my grooming?” Harry shot, on the defensive. “I bathe.”

“As I am most acutely aware each time I go for a shower and the hot water's gone,” Malfoy returned fire. “You might elevate your manner of dress, perhaps, or simply learn a proper shaving spell,” he pressed a cool, bony finger to the scab on Harry's jaw. He'd been half-dead shaving that morning and had given himself a nasty cut for his negligence. “Unfortunately, I don't believe any number of cosmetic changes could bring me 'round to your fan club, Boy.”

“Yeah?” Harry sneered, playing along. He knew this was just Malfoy's game, his amusement, and was happy to go along with it. Placating Malfoy had become a hobby of his.

“Yeah,” Malfoy mocked, drawing his hand back from Harry's face. “The problem is that you lack a certain confidence which attracts sexual partners, male or female. Oh, you have that wounded bird bit down,” Malfoy replied to Harry's incredulous stare. “And the Heathers and Weasel chits of the world will flock to that, rest assured. They'll want to bandage you up, fix you, make you presentable. But you'll never be able to pursue a partner with any real vigor until you possess a certain self-assurance and comfort in your own skin that only comes with time. You're still searching, Potter. You don't really know who you are. Not yet, anyway; but I suspect you'll learn.”

“So what's that supposed to mean?” Harry quipped. Malfoy had hit unnervingly close to home. “Come back later, maybe you'll bite?”

“Saint Potter, you are so hopelessly straight, I wouldn't waste my time. Not like I have better things to do,” the blonde sighed, turning away. Harry could have sworn that Malfoy was smirking, but there was a sad cast to his gray-blue eyes.

“Is that why you always needle me? Because you have nothing better to do?”

“Something like that.” Harry got the impression he'd gotten awfully close to another of Malfoy's many sore spots. It was about time to back off and preserve their fragile peace. He cast about for a more neutral topic of conversation: he found it in a blooming potted violet sitting on the desk. The plant hadn't been there when he and Ron had shared this room in the past.

“Malfoy, did Mrs. Weasley bring a plant into my house?” Harry asked. “Because I'm death to houseplants. I touch them and they die.”

Malfoy gave a half-hearted chuckle, mostly in appreciation for the dark haired boy's obvious efforts to change the subject.

“She did not. And you can't kill it, Potter, rest assured,” Malfoy pulled his wand as he approached the plant. “I transfigured it from a dung bomb wrapper—Merlin knows I had enough of them in the rubbish bin.” To prove his point, Malfoy swished his wand at the happy little plant and it began to twist and sparkle, reducing down to a brightly colored cellophane wrapper.

“That's brilliant,” Harry said earnestly, drawing closer.

“Simple household magic,” Malfoy shrugged. “I could teach you if you like.”

“Please,” Harry smiled, drawing his wand. “Is this my initiation to the leper colony?”

“Sure,” Malfoy agreed lightly. He noted Harry's wand technique and scoffed. “You won't get anything done that way. Who taught you to hold a wand?”

“Hermione,” Harry said without thinking.

“The blind leading the blind,” Malfoy muttered, twisting Harry's wrist so that his wand sat in his palm rather than his usual way of gripping the shit out of it. Harry stiffened and Malfoy processed how his choice of phrase could be seen as offensive. “Granger's a talented witch, to be sure. She's come quite far and it does her credit—but that is not the way a wizard holds his wand,” Malfoy pressed at Harry's calloused hand, urging him to relax his hold. “There, see? Now there's no need to wave it about. Just quirk your hand up and let it fall back in place.”

Everything Professor Flitwick had ever screeched about “swish and flick” came flooding back to Harry, finally making sense. If he'd had his mother and father to guide him, would he be a better wizard? Would he know the proper way to hold a wand? Would he know how to turn spare bits of parchment into plants or how to magic a snifter of brandy out of thin air, like Malfoy did? There really was something to what Malfoy had said.

“Makes sense,” he mumbled as Malfoy's cool hand guided him through the motion once more.

“Of course,” Malfoy said quietly. “It's the old way.” As though that explained everything.

“What's the incantation? For the houseplants I can't kill,” Harry almost laughed. He could finally have plants in the house and not worry—magic plants. Bloody amazing!

“Lusum Arboris,” Malfoy supplied.

“Lusum Arboris,” Harry repeated, letting his hand and wrist move as Malfoy had instructed. Sure enough, the old wrapper began to contort and shimmer. A moment later, there was a very beautiful orchid blooming in a wicker planter. The flowers were a vivid orange, shot through with red and purple veins. Malfoy leaned forward and leisurely smelled the largest of the blooms, an approving smile gliding across his face.

“Doesn't smell like dung bombs, Potter,” the blonde chortled happily, slapping Harry hard on the back. “We'll make a wizard out of you, yet.”

Harry took that with a grain of salt, coming from a man with the Dark Mark on his arm and a few hundred pounds to his name. Then again, it wasn't money or power that made a man, but the things he did with his life. And Malfoy was certainly turning himself in a new direction.

“Malfoy, is there a spell to, I dunno, spruce up the carpets? Or the wallpaper, for that matter?” he asked. “It's sort of driving me crazy. Everything's... dingy.”

“There are a few things we might try,” Malfoy mused, folding his arms over his chest, still gazing proudly at the exotic, sweet-smelling plant. “Between your being the owner and my being a blood relation, I should think we could get it done if we put our heads together.”

“Shall we give it a go, then?”

Malfoy smiled, his hands dropping to his sides as he stowed his wand in a trouser pocket. “Let's. Just because the place is our Azkaban doesn't mean it has to look it.”

- - -

Hermione finally found the odd couple late that evening, crouching in the third floor hallway. The boys knelt beside one another, backs to her, touching at shoulders and hips and heads so close together that strands of their hair mingled, black and gold in the low light. They had their wands out and they spoke quietly, unaware that she stood a few feet behind them.

“Look!” Harry said, pointing at something on the floor.

“I'm tired, not blind, Scar Head,” Malfoy drawled. His voice sounded different, less cold. Even though his words were the same as ever, his behavior was familiar—warm, even. “We've changed the color but it's still in tatters.”

“Well at least it's something,” Harry sighed, moving his hand to pat Malfoy on the leg.

“Something that took us the better part of an hour,” Malfoy whined.

“It's a start,” Harry said bracingly, squeezing the blonde's thigh. Harry turned to look at Malfoy, his face tilted and forehead brushing the man's temple. What in the hell is going on here? Hermione thought. Did I miss something? If she didn't know better, she'd say Harry was flirting with the blonde. But Malfoy was so neutral about it, as though Harry behaved this way all the time. She could count on one hand the number of times Harry put his hand on Ron's knee—because the number of times was definitely zero. But here they were, sitting close and casually touching like a couple of girls.

Hermione cleared her throat loudly. Both men turned to look at her, a blush creeping up Harry's face. Good. Malfoy's face was completely passive. If anything, he looked worn out and in need of a solid night's sleep.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said primly, “but I wanted to let you know that Tonks and I have cooked up a little surprise. She and I were talking about getting a group of Aurors together so we could all go out and have some fun—we never go out, Harry, but we should! This way we'll have guards just in case, but it should be fun. I guess now it's a bit of a celebration—you're a prefect, and then us as Heads,” she included Malfoy and her smile didn't waver. “Tonks and the twins are free tomorrow night. What do you think?”

Harry and Malfoy shared a knowing look that was not lost on her. Not one bit.

Malfoy got to his feet and offered Harry his hand. It was like a really weird dream when Harry smiled, taking Malfoy's hand and letting the blonde pull him to his feet. She spotted what they'd been working on—a carpet. It was now green instead of dingy grey but, as Malfoy said, was still rather beaten up. Both men stowed their wands.

“Sounds like fun,” Harry said.

“One thing,” Malfoy said, rather menacing. Harry's dark brows drew together. Malfoy leaned into his face a bit. Where there once might have been tension or anger, Hermione only picked up familiarity. Malfoy poked a bony finger to Harry's chest, articulating his point. “Make me go as a girl and I will kill someone. I don't think I need say who.”

Harry simply dissolved in laughter.
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Conscience