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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
- 12
- 13
- 14
SUMMARY: The next morning—Ginny is fuming, Hermione is curious, Malfoy is calm and Harry is clueless. Questions about his life's direction only serve to make Draco question who, exactly, he is.

WARNINGS: reflections on consensual sexual violence, allusions to m/m anal intercourse

DISCLAIMERS: The “no one calls you an engineer” saying is a reference to one of my favorite writers, Dan Savage. I am shamelessly plugging him. A ton of my plot bunnies come from his intelligent and poignant ravings. He harps on a lot of the same points I dabble with in this pile of rot.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: For Hollibell. Your devotion boarders on stalker-like.

CONSCIENCE:

YOU GRYFFINDORS & YOUR BLOODY TOSSING FEELINGS

Draco looked up from buttoning his shirt when he heard stomping in the hallway. Something told him trouble was about to knock on his door; indeed, before he could finish his buttons, trouble in the form of Ginevra Weasley kicked his door in, Harry Potter style. These Gryffindors could really do with some manners. He'd seen more doors kicked in this week....

“Last night,” the angry witch prefaced, hurtling across the room and into Draco's person space. “You and Harry. What the bloody hell were you thinking, Malfoy?! And you'd best tell me the truth or I'll hex your bits off!” Her wand was indeed pressed to his groin and he didn't doubt her threat. Draco had only the slight upper hand of having absolutely nothing to live for and therefore wasn't frightened in the least.

“Your threat would have the average bloke lying out his arse to tell you whatever you fancy,” he sneered. “Unfortunately, I am not the average bloke.” He pressed a hand against his trouser pocket—all he needed was contact with his wand to cast a non-verbal Light Shield that had her stumbling back several paces. It gave him time to draw his hawthorn wand and gather his bearings. “Why don't you try again, Weaslette? I hear 'please' is quite efficacious.”

“I don't have time for your rubbish 'please,'” Weasley chit snapped. “What are you playing at, Malfoy? He has feelings, you know.”

Ah. The part of last night wherein he and a pleasantly ploughed Wonder Boy had gone tonsil diving. The Weaslette would be upset by that—it was probably as far as she herself had gotten with Prissy Princess Potter. The dark haired deviant was now well on his way to becoming a delightfully slutty drunk. If only his friends weren't quite so puritanical. This was how Salem started.

“Of course he has feelings,” Draco replied bracingly. “He's a Gryffindor. I wouldn't expect any less. The real problem is that said feelings are not bent in your direction.” He couldn't resist the snide double entendre; in hindsight, it might have been brighter not to fertilize that particular seed but he couldn't resist an opportunity to flex his sartorial wit. As it was, the Weasley girl went redder than her hair, hand clenching around her raised wand.

“Malfoy, you're really full of it,” she spat, eyes brimming with fire and water. “You think Harry could ever have feelings for the likes of you?”

“Me?! Gods, no!” If that wasn't an interesting thought! “I happen to know our Wonder Boy is madly in love with a muggle woman from Southampton. Heather Lightley. Its been a torrid affair but he ultimately realized their worlds were too different and—being perfect, as I'm sure you're full aware—he let her go. Tragic, no?”

Draco let the outrage drum through her veins a moment before amending. “Although I do acknowledge the compliment. My humble sexual prowess up to the task of switching the great Harry Potter's side of the pitch—The Straightest Boy Who Ever Lived, you might say? You must think my cock about a foot long and flavored of blancmange.”

That drove her from his chamber with a missish stomp of her foot. Smiling to himself, Draco stowed his wand and resumed buttoning his shirt. It was certainly another exciting day in Azkaban.

- - -

Harry was trying to figure out what to do with Malfoy's shirt. First he'd picked it up from the floor and folded it neatly on the bed. Then he realized he was being ridiculous—the thing wreaked of his sweat and would need to be washed before returning it. But the washing instructions were only provided in French or Italian and he didn't speak either and couldn't bear guessing wrong. He ended up setting the refolded shirt on top of his hamper. He was staring at it when Hermione knocked on his door.

“May I come in?” she asked before poking her head through the door. “I hope it's not too early. We were out late.”

“It's fine, Hermione,” Harry dismissed her worry and sat down on the bed in his pajama bottoms and dressing gown. “Did you need something?”

She remained standing, hands folded nervously over her stomach. “About last evening....”

“Yeah, that must've been weird for you to see. Sorry,” Harry half-shrugged. “It's just that—you know, for Malfoy—getting drunk and carrying on was something he did with his Slytherin mates. And now I'm the closest he has to a mate. He's really starting to trust me, too. So messing around, carrying each other around and stuff? That's just something we do now. I'll take it over fighting any day,” Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Um, I was really lashed last night. I didn't... say anything weird, er, to Malfoy?” He felt his face flinch in anxiety before he could clamp down on the emotion.

“Ah, no,” Hermione shook her head guardedly, hands still clasped. “Neither of you said anything out of the ordinary.”

“I know it's strange to see me and Malfoy getting along,” Harry admitted. “But it's a good thing—proof that people can change given time and some proper motivation. Look how much Malfoy's evolved.”

Hermione was torn. A part of her wanted to tell Harry that he and Malfoy had kissed—rather passionately. But she didn't know quite how to put it. And Harry's attitude toward Malfoy was so obliging, he would probably write it off to Slytherin antics or plain old loneliness. Malfoy probably was lonely. And so was Harry. So she said nothing.

“Yes, Malfoy's changing,” she agreed quietly. “You have that effect on people, Harry. You bring out the good in everyone.” She could only hope that was true of Malfoy. She'd have to ascertain the truth from the mouth of the dragon, himself. “I'm feeling like a little breakfast. I'll see you downstairs, yeah?”

Harry didn't feel much like breakfast. He blamed yet another spectacular hangover. He had crawled back into bed when his bedroom door was thrown open with a bang. Merlin, his bedroom was seeing an unusual amount of traffic this morning! Seeing his intruder was one very angry looking Ginny, he propped himself up on his elbows.

“What's up?” he asked benignly.

“Who the hell is Heather Lightley?!” she demanded in a low voice.

Harry gulped; his bright, distant eyes and deep flush probably said it all.

“Oh my God,” Ginny gasped, taking an affronted step back. “Malfoy was right....”

“Don't let him hear you say that,” Harry quipped. “We'll never hear the end of it.” Malfoy loved being told he was right. It seemed to mean the most coming from Harry, but the blonde reveled at every utterance. It amused Harry endlessly. He might even tell the man about this, just to watch his pale face light up.

“You slept with that muggle woman, didn't you?” Hurt burned in his ex's eyes along with the accusation. Harry felt the urge to roll his eyes and huff. This was really juvenile. He'd grown up a bit while Ginny and his friends stayed the same.

“Not that it's any of your business, Gin, but yes. I did.” Sort of-ish, he thought. Close enough. Further than I ever got with you.

“I can't believe you,” she stammered, shaking her head in shock. “Malfoy's got you all twisted up, hasn't he? I don't know who you are anymore. Do you?”

“I know who I am,” Harry said firmly, sitting up in bed and fixing her with as firm a look as he could muster. It drove her back another step. “I'm tired, Gin. I have a hangover and I'm not in the mood to discuss my sex life with my ex girlfriend.” It came out harsher than Harry had intended but the words were true enough. Who he slept with wasn't any of her business. And who he slept with didn't make him a different person. He would always be Harry Potter and nothing could change that. If she didn't like his non-friendship with Malfoy—a relationship that was opening new doors and probably making him a better wizard—then that was her problem.

“I'm going back to sleep, Gin,” Harry said, falling back to the pillows and preparing to throw the blanket over his head. “Please tell Hermione I won't be there for breakfast. I can't hold anything down just yet.”

“Fine,” Ginny sniffed, schooling her emotions poorly. “Malfoy's a righteous prick, but you make your own decisions. I'll see you later.”

Surprisingly, Harry didn't have any trouble getting back to sleep. Darkness claimed him almost instantly. He dreamed of pink and purple lights swirling across grey skies. He dreamed of flying.

~ * ~

Malfoy hadn't come down to breakfast, but that was hardly unusual. Hermione observed Kreacher bringing a tray of tea and biscuits upstairs around eleven and knew it had to be for Malfoy, as Harry wouldn't want to eat anything Kreacher touched let alone prepared. However, Harry hadn't come down to breakfast either, and that made her worry. Ginny had gone back to the Burrow in a righteous fit. All she'd said was “bloody Malfoy.” Hermione assumed she was upset about what had happened between Harry and Malfoy last night—not just their bold kissing on the dance floor, but the way they had been so chummy, getting drunk and dancing together. When Tonks and Elphias Dodge had come to collect them, Malfoy had hoisted Harry onto his back and carried him all the way to the underground. Their closeness had been natural rather than calculated. Ginny was probably jealous that her recent ex was becoming so intimate with someone she despised. Hermione had to admit she wasn't exactly pleased, herself.

Ron was blissfully unaware of the tension filling Grimmauld Place. He'd munched toast all morning, leaving a trail of crumbs wherever he went. Hermione followed him with a Vacuuming Charm. When she mentioned the previous night, he'd only apologized for letting Fred and George buy him one too many drinks. He hardly recalled dancing with her, let alone what Harry and Malfoy had done. Hermione decided not to worry him; instead, she gave in and sought Malfoy out.

The recondite blonde was easy enough to find—he sat playing the piano in the empty front salon, a half-eaten sandwich and a cup of tea atop the grand instrument. He played a jazzy rendition of the traditionally sober The Founders March but his fingers stilled on the keys as she entered. Picking up his tea, he turned slightly on the bench to regard her. He crossed a foot over his knee, resting the tea cup against his loafer.

“Afternoon, Granger,” he said with a little nod. “I doubt you've come for a request. So out with it—whatever's crawled up your arse. I'm not known for my unerring patience.”

She brushed off his rudeness and got right to the point. “Malfoy, are you gay?”

“Why would you say that? Do I appear gay?” He gestured down his front. He wore a pair of tailored tan trousers and one of Harry's grey tshirts. He appeared casual and ordinary—well, as ordinary as one could be with a shock of platinum blonde hair, massive scarring and a big tattoo on one's forearm. And Malfoy wasn't exactly effeminate—graceful, poised, aristocratic, but not particularly female. But there was a strong image burning in her mind: Malfoy kissing her best friend in a crowded disco, their bodies glued together and his hands all over the dark haired boy. That made her say he was gay.

“Well,” she suppressed a blush, “last night. You and Harry were pretty... familiar.”

“I was lashed,” he shrugged. “Potter was in worse shape. I recall having to carry him most of the way home. Is there something I'm missing?” he waggled a trademark Malfoy brow at her. She couldn't help scowling back.

“You honestly don't remember?” she scoffed, eyes gone wide. “You two were dancing and... you, you kissed him! Rather intensely, if memory serves.”

“Oh, that,” Malfoy drawled. He had the nerve to roll his eyes.

“Yes, that! So I'm asking, are you gay?”

“And why would kissing your Golden Boy indicate that I prefer my own sex?”

“Because he's a man, Malfoy!” Hermione insisted, stamping her foot. “And so are you!”

“So that makes me gay,” Malfoy held his chin and gazed off in mock thought. “Me, and not Saint Potter.”

“Harry was drunk!” Hermione defended him. “He probably had no idea who you were or what you were doing.”

“Typical,” Malfoy sighed.

“That I'd defend my friend? He's a good person, Malfoy! I don't know why you're yanking him around like this, acting all chummy with him and then going and doing something... like what you did, but you've no right! I don't care if you're gay—I'll admit, I was just morbidly curious. But Harry deserves better than this jerking about. If you were really his friend, you'd never treat him that way.”

“I am not Potter's friend,” Malfoy said in a slow, bracing voice, as though trying to clarify all her misconceptions in a single sentence. He looked as though he were about to pinch the bridge of his nose a la Severus Snape. The blonde inhaled deeply before continuing in the same even tone. “Nor am I making passes at him. We were both very, very drunk and we happened to tongue a bit. You build a thousand bridges and no one calls you an engineer; suck one cock....” he sighed sadly.

“W-what?!” she stuttered noticeably. “You and Harry....” She trailed off, words lost to a deep, consuming flush.

“No, Granger,” Draco articulated regally, “I did not nor have I ever fucked your Precious Prince Potter. Nor do I intend to—he is persona non grata in my bed, as I am sure I am to him. It's simply a saying.” It was something Blaise said all the time as a warning: party with the Durmstrangers all you want, just don't get caught. You can spend a lifetime building a reputation only to be taken down by a single conquest. Society judged hastily and harshly in matters of sex. Now Draco had partied with Potter and gotten caught. This was an awful bloody mess.

“So you're not...?” Hermione pressed, less sure of herself than the last time she'd accused.

“I'm not,” Malfoy confirmed. “And Potter is The Straightest Boy Who Ever Lived. It was nothing. It meant nothing.” Malfoy turned back to the piano keys, starting up a complicated tune she couldn't recognize.

Hermione made for the door without knowing where she was going. Her mind kept referring back to some recent reading from her Muggle Relations texts; in Hamlet, the word “nothing” meant both nothing and impassioned sex at the same time. She couldn't help but think Malfoy's “nothing” held some deeper meaning, too.

~ * ~

Professor McGonagall arrived by floo late the next afternoon bearing the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. She discovered Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy on the stairs, the blonde seated on The Chosen One's shoulders as they worked at unsticking the unsightly house elf heads affixed to the wall. The two were having reasonable success and she stood observing them for a few minutes without making her presence known.

It was as though the boys had been in the same house these six years together; the way they half spoke, half grunted at one another was unguarded and familiar. Perhaps being locked up together was exactly what these two needed.

The Potter's charm went awry, burning Malfoy's hand. He cursed loudly and boldly, swinging a leg to kick Potter in the gut. Potter winced, the wind knocked form him, and doubled over—Malfoy's blonde head smacking the wall with a dry, dusty thud. Malfoy hollered again, both boys going down hard. In a tangle of limbs, they rolled down the stairs to land at Minerva's feet. Malfoy bled from the forehead and Potter clutched at his stomach with one hand while clawing at Malfoy with the other. Perhaps things hadn't changed so much after all.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said and both boys jumped to attention. Malfoy cast a quick Healing Charm at his forehead and Potter attempted to stand up straight, still holding his gut cautiously. They muttered greetings in return. “Mr. Malfoy, am I correct in assuming you are eager to get this over with?” She received curt nod from the blonde. “Excellent. Then let us proceed.” She gestured with an open hand, signaling the boy should lead her to wherever he was comfortable.

The young man lead her through the main sitting room, Potter trailing behind. Hermione Granger and Remus Lupin sat on the sofa with a collection of books she had sent from the Hogwarts Restricted Section. Miss Granger gave her a polite nod as she passed. Malfoy lead on to the small library off of the sitting room. It was a disused room that had undergone only enough cleaning to be habitable but it was private, with only the one door and no windows. A few candles dimly lit the space.

“Professor,” Malfoy turned to her, leaning against a large desk. “Is there any precedent for this?”

“Some,” she offered. “To my knowledge it has been necessary for students to switch houses in two other instances. You are not the first, though it is a rarity.”

“So, is there a protocol? Or do I just....” he inclined his whitish head toward the Sorting Hat. “Because I can tell you what house I'll be in. I don't think there's any doubt.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, drawing on years of authoritative diction to penetrate the young man's massive ego. “The only protocol is that you must be resorted by the Hat. Need I remind you it is a prophetic instrument? I would be remiss in my duties as Headmistress of Hogwarts if I allowed a single student to err from this tradition. Can you imagine what would happen, Mr. Malfoy, if I allowed every student to select their own house? Pandemonium, Mr. Malfoy. Chaos.”

“And four Hufflepuffs,” Potter muttered quietly.

Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek as he schooled his expression; for a moment, it had appeared he was about to laugh at Potter's joke.

“Just do it,” Potter suggested, taking another step into the room. “Get it over with, yeah?”

Malfoy nodded slowly, reaching a hand out for the Sorting Hat. He took to a faded, wing backed arm chair, holding the artifact at arm's length and regarding it with a certain amount of apprehension.

“Go on, then,” Minerva encouraged firmly.

The blonde gingerly placed the hat on his head, immediately screwing his eyes shut and balling his fists. The man had changed some. This was quite a show of emotion for the once stoic Slytherin. Perhaps it was his experiences at the hands of the Death Eaters, perhaps it was his experiences living with Harry Potter and his tight little trio—Draco Malfoy was different. He demonstrated more genuine emotion, much of his false airs stripped away. Minerva watched him bite his lip in wonder. The boy shook his head minutely, arguing with the hat. She watched his lips mouth the name “Ravenclaw” several times, more emphatic with each repetition.

“Fait chier! Je n'en sais fichtre rien,” he muttered. Remus, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley appeared at the door, peering in. Malfoy shook his head vehemently, the hat wobbling. His breathing was heavy as he became more and more upset.

The Hat must have said something to his liking because he froze mid head shake. Eyes still closed, his face twitched up almost imperceptibly; soon, a little smile took over his face. He leaned back against the chair, folding his arms over his chest as he appeared to listen. He sat this way for more than a minute, listening and considering. Finally, he gave a little nod and reached up to remove the artifact from his head. The brim opened for its pronouncement.

“Gryffindor!” the hat shouted loud enough for anyone else in the house to hear.

“Quoi?!” Malfoy squawked, ripping the hat off his head and shaking it. “We had a deal!”

“I believe congratulations are in order, Mr. Malfoy,” Minerva said, offering the fuming boy her hand. He ignored her, throwing the hat across the room in a fit of rage. Potter stepped out to snatch the priceless artifact mid-flight before it caught fire on a nearby candle. Malfoy had jumped to his feet, kicking his chair and actually screaming through clenched teeth. Potter set the Sorting Hat on the desk and moved forward, attempting to comfort the irate blonde. He got himself screamed at.

“There's been a mistake!” Malfoy shouted.

“What, you want a redo?” Potter countered.

“Don't be ridiculous,” the blonde snapped, hands clasped and trying to pace in the tiny room quickly filling with curious bodies drawn by his shouting. “There's just been some sort of mistake, is all. Give me that!” He lunged for the Sorting Hat but Potter intercepted him, taking the blonde roughly by the shoulders and giving him a good strong shake. Those seeker hands would leave bruises.

“You're hysterical, Malfoy,” he asserted. “Don't make me slap you.”

The blonde rolled his eyes grandly.

“You're acting like a five year old,” Potter scolded. “It's just Gryffindor. You've survived worse, right? You're a Malfoy. You'll be fine.”

These words, spoken in an almost fatherly tone, settled young Mr. Malfoy instantaneously. He folded his hands behind him and straightened his back.

“You're right, Wonder Boy.”

“Ooh,” Potter said in a fake-snide voice, “that must've hurt.”

“More than you'll ever know,” the blonde sighed heavily. “A Malfoy in Gryffindor.”

“Why would the Sorting Hat do that, Professor?” Miss Granger asked. “I mean—no offense, Malfoy—but you're not exactly Gryffindor material.”

“Did the Sorting Hat give its reasoning for your placement, Mr. Malfoy?” Minerva asked. She watched Potter squeeze the other boy's shoulders before releasing him. Malfoy looked from the Sorting Hat to Potter before responding.

“It said it had to consider the safety and interests of others above my own. That it could not in good conscience place me in a house underground, ruling out Hufflepuff or reentry to Slytherin. It could not place me in a house to alter my destiny—I thought that meant Gryffindor, but I was tricked. Apparently a year in Ravenclaw would change my future, while a year in Gryffindor will keep me as I am. And we all know how I feel about self-preservation.”

“Oh, pish-posh!” Remus scoffed playfully. “That's just decoration. I think you've changed.”

That was a sentiment Minerva was beginning to share.

“Sure, whatever you say,” Malfoy said absently. After a moment, his gaze traveled to Remus. “I guess you of all people would know about changing.”

Minerva couldn't suppress a little gasp. Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley were equally stunned. Remus, however, broke out in laughter.

“That's exactly the sort of thing Sirius would've said!” he wheezed, leaning against the door frame as tears pricked his eyes. He held his stomach as he cackled.

That was true, enough. Mr. Malfoy had a few Gryffindors in his extended family tree. And his sharp wit and odd humor would serve him well there. She only hoped the rest of Gryffindor house would be as accepting as Potter seemed to be.

“Professor, if I might have a moment,” Malfoy said quietly, retreating to a corner of the room. Minerva followed. “I wished to speak with you about my apportionment as Head Boy. Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why, Headmistress?” the boy pressed, his face neutral but his eyes demanding. “I know for a fact Theo Nott was ahead of me in house standings at the end of last term. My grades were rather poor that last semester. So why am I Head Boy? If I was given the position out of pity, I won't have it.”

“Mr. Malfoy, Head Boy is awarded solely on academic merit. I have no influence in assigning the post,” she insisted. “That being said, consideration for Head Boy does include one's entire academic history, not solely sixth year performance. Your record as a prefect and Quidditch participant worked highly in your favor. You are correct in your assertion that Theodore Nott preceded you academically and he was first choice for Head Boy; however, Mr. Nott will not be attending Hogwarts this fall. The same with Stephen Cornfoot of Ravenclaw, who was runner-up. And so it fell to you, Mr. Malfoy. An academic scholarship has been made available to you as a student of good standing without parents to put forward your tuition. You have only to accept.”

“So I earned it fair and square,” Malfoy said slowly, scratching the back of his neck in a very Potter-like gesture, not meeting her eyes. “At least by process of elimination. I suppose, as a Gryffindor,” he said it like it was akin to being a lacy tea cozy, “I can accept a victory a la Wonder Boy; a combination of sheer luck and the seat of one's trousers, but still. It feels good to win sometimes.”

- - -

Harry's brows furrowed in concentration. This was a lot harder than Tonks made it look. He focused even harder and the numbers gave a little wiggle.

Malfoy was still brooding in the front room, banging out a rendition of the Hogwarts school song so loudly that it drove Hermione and Lupin from the room. Harry could hear the man tinkling on the keys from his room on the second floor. Oh, well. Whatever kept him sane at that moment was fine by Harry. He set back to his project—changing the date of birth on his muggle identification card. He only needed to be a year older to buy hard liquor. And if there was one thing Draco Malfoy needed of him, it was a big ole drink tonight.

He wasn't sure how to tell his now fellow Gryffindor that he wouldn't be returning in the fall... or if he ought to tell him at all. Harry thought maybe he could head up to Scotland with him—just make the journey to the castle, make sure he was settled in alright and then head back to Grimmauld Place. After all, he and Mad Eye Moody had another training appointment and it was one he wouldn't dare miss; non-verbal offensive magic, Harry's weakest point. Maybe Hermione and Ron could go up with them and stay with Malfoy for a few days after Harry left. The Gryffindors would be a lot more agreeable if Ron and Hermione were there to pave the way. It wasn't that Malfoy couldn't hold his own or anything. Harry just felt... protective. He was responsible for the git. Malfoy respected him, trusted him. It was a two way street. He wasn't about to let Malfoy down.

With a surge of magic Harry felt in his fingertips, the little black number finally changed. Just like that, he was eighteen. In for a pence, in for nine thousand six hundred seventy four pounds, five quid, right? Now to get Malfoy drunk—and over himself.

~ * ~

Draco sighed, the hot shower water pouring down his back, streaming through his hair and into his eyes, dripping down his face like tears. This was stupid. He hadn't... not since Jack.

It was so utterly stupid. He tossed off like the Italians ate meals—leisurely and several times throughout the day. Why deny himself? Just because the last time, he'd....

He slumped bonelessly to the wet floor, water beating on his crumpled legs as his upper body hit the shower wall. Okay, he'd always been a violent pervert. There were a million reasons for that, many of them genetic. A good part of it was just the intensity, the wave of power that took over when he hovered on the edge of madness like that. It was a sort of freedom, like flying, and he reveled in it. For the better part of two years it had been his escape. And then... two days ago, it caught up with him.

Jack had understood what was being asked of him. In the dark pub, he'd seen the kerchief as pretty much black, anyway. That had worked in Draco's favor. They'd talked for a long time, discussing exactly how it was going to go, what was okay and what was off limits. There weren't a lot of limits, surprisingly. Draco would have thought that, with a complete stranger, the man might've held something back. Either Jack had really liked him or was more of a sadistic wretch than any bent wizard Draco had come across. And there were a few depraved ones out there, too. He'd been unsure but didn't let it show. That first punch had been the hardest, what with Jack just kneeling there with his eyes closed, hands tied together at his front. Draco hadn't made the knots easy to get out of, either. If the muggle wanted out, he had to say so. That was part of the agreement. Once it started, Jack had to be the one to stop it.

He didn't stop it. It got easier after the first hit, blood on his fists and pounding in his ears as he wailed on the man. Doing it in French had been eerie—he hadn't spoken French in the bedroom since he was fourteen but it felt right, easier, knowing he wouldn't be understood. He could say whatever he wanted needing to Obliviate the obliging muggle afterward. He realized Jack got off to the foreign language. His big green eyes may have been pained but his body betrayed his true feelings rather gloriously.

Bloody knuckles made him remember when he wanted to forget. The muffled shouts sounded an awful lot like the ones echoing in his head. He'd gritted his teeth and gone on, tears streaming down his face as Jack moved under him. It was easier not to see his face. Even in struggling, he seemed to say that it was okay, that he could handle it if there was more. It had taken an agonizingly long time to get everything out—every last explicative, every last thought and memory pouring out to break skin and crack ribs. He hadn't known he was strong enough to do that. He searched for that power, that mind-altering control. But it wasn't like before. This time the sense of mastery was a lie. He was still trapped. It wasn't fireworks when he finally got there. It wasn't flying. It was more like crashing. He began to understand why they called it release.

Draco watched the water pool together in a wavy puddle before slithering down the drain, taking his new tears with it.

As soon as it was over, Jack had darted off to the loo. Draco hadn't had words. He'd lain with his eyes shut, letting the wet paths cake and dry on his cheeks. He'd listened to the soft, mundane sounds of the muggle bathing. The shock had come when Jack returned to the bed with a wash cloth and a bowl of water. He'd taken Draco's hands, cleaning the blood from them, wiping the sweat from his face with delicate, tender care. He'd laid with him until he fell asleep, all the while kissing his face and stroking his hair softly, telling him it was over and no one would hurt him again.

Was it over? Most days, Draco felt like a part of it—a part of those dark, endless days that blurred together like soot-black storm clouds—was still inside him and biding its time. It wasn't the sort of thing one got rid of.

Perhaps he was changing, or had already changed. If anything, he felt himself getting worse by the day. Fewer and fewer things made sense as his control boiled away to nothing. It was change and die or simply die. Would he ever be a normal, caring person like Harry tossing Potter and all his perfect little Gryffindor friends? He'd rather die. But he could try, for this last instant of life, to be himself.

For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French

Fait chier! Je n'en sais fichtre rien! - Damn it! I don't know a bloody thing about it!

Quoi?! - literally, What?! Most people use “comment” because simply saying “quoi” sounds rather like a duck quacking and is a generally considered gauche
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Conscience