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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
- 13
- 14
- 15
SUMMARY: Just what it sounds like. Harry and Draco get shit-faced. In inebriated bliss, the two conclude that their non-friendship has tipped over into actual friendship. This pleases Harry while scaring the life out of Draco.

WARNINGS: under-aged drinking, boys being boys, inevitable Draco/Harry arguing

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic is, as of December 2011, about 350,000 words. When all's said and done, we're looking at something over 500k. Shoot me.

PODCAST: This chapter is now available as a podcast read to you by, well, myself. Because my devotion to this epic beast knows no bounds. For this and any future podcasts, head here: http://www.mediafire.com/?3qa7tzx5bx1d5

CONSCIENCE:

TEQUILA WILL BE THE DEATH OF US, POTTER

Harry waited nervously on Malfoy's bed, thirty pounds worth of tequila in a paper bag on the pillow. His bounced his legs as he waited. Malfoy normally didn't take this long in the shower. He was about to head back to his room when he heard the door open.

Malfoy wore a towel around his skinny hips, carrying his clothes in a little bundle. He jumped a foot in the air when he spotted Harry in the room, a hand flying to his pale chest as though to stop his heart from escaping.

“Hey,” Harry said awkwardly. “Didn't mean to scar—I mean, scare you.”

Malfoy regarded him through long, dirty blonde lashes, his expression giving away nothing. “Nice save, Potter.”

It was hard not to see the scars lacing up his torso and running down his arms. A particularly nasty gash split one pectoral on the diagonal, going right through his pink nipple. The bite mark marring his left side was tinged red from the shower, the area permanently shiny as the skin would never grow right. Most of the marring lines were short and angry, inflicted more for pain than internal damage. The scars slid dangerously low, disappearing under the towel. Harry suspected they kept right on going.

When he tore his eyes away, Malfoy was looking right at him. He felt his ears go red.

“I'm not used to it, either,” the blonde offered with a shrug, tossing his clothes at the hamper and going to the wardrobe for fresh ones. He cast a button down tshirt, denims and pants onto the bed behind him.

Harry just stared. He could see the sinew of muscle and tendons shift under the bite mark. You could just see everything there, like his body had lost the protection of skin, completely exposed to the world. Malfoy was skinny—you could see his ribs in other places, too. The look reminded him of Heather Lightley, the way her ribcage protruded when she put her arms above her head. Granted, she'd been moaning and pretty darn happy at the time, so it was a good memory. Malfoy was no girl, though. He turned to catch Harry staring again.

Instead of the dirty look Harry had been expecting, Malfoy only regarded his own body pensively. He traced bony fingers over a long, thick scar on his upper stomach.

“This one was you,” he said mildly. His hand went up to his shoulder, touching a scar of similar appearance at the juncture of his left shoulder and chest. “This one, too.”

Harry wasn't sure what his face looked like. It probably should have been somewhere near “aghast.” In embarrassing reality, it was probably “mild interest.” The blonde reached down to secure his towel.

“Am I a peep show?” Malfoy joked with a little smile. “Pay up or turn 'round.”

“Um, I got you something,” Harry said hesitantly, reaching for the paper bag, “but not to get your clothes off or anything. I thought you might fancy drowning your misery with something a little stronger than the usual fare.” He removed the bottle and held it out for Malfoy's inspection. The blonde held his towel with one hand, taking the bottle with the other.

“Hundred proof,” he commented. “Silver. That's good shit. My clothes might come off, anyway.” Harry got up and turned around so Malfoy could get dressed. They kept talking over the rustle of fabric. “So what's the catch? We're not drinking with Weasley and Granger, are we?”

“Oh fuck, no,” Harry rolled his eyes. Hermione was still giving him dirty looks from the last time he and Malfoy had gotten drunk together. “Let's wait til they're all in bed.”

“All?” Malfoy inquired.

“Lupin left but Ginny's here now. She and Hermione took over the front room.”

“Damn,” the blonde muttered. “Okay, Potter. It's safe.”

“Ace,” Harry said, turning around with his hands securely in his pockets. “You hungry? I could knock something up before Hermione wastes supplies.”

“Yeah, sure,” Malfoy replied, unbuttoning his cuffs to roll his shirtsleeves. “Lead the way.”

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Malfoy thought it was especially funny when Harry washed and chopped potatoes by hand. With a wave of his wand, the blonde had onions minced, chicken herbed and dressed and everything simmering in a large skillet with a bit of broth. He even magically orchestrated the mixing and kneading of a quick-rising bread. Harry, remembering he had a wand and could perform magic, too, Summoned a butterbeer from the ice box. Sometimes being a wizard really was phenomenal. There certainly was a lot Malfoy could teach him.

Ron sat with them while dinner cooked, the two girls holed up in the front parlor. Several times, Harry caught Malfoy drumming his narrow fingers against his leg or the table, playing a soundless tune. Harry understood why the women were using that room and he didn't like it one bit. After the meal, the men were admitted to the parlor where Ron and Malfoy struck up a game of Wizard's Chess and Hermione slapped Harry with a thick pile of notes concerning the books they'd acquired from the Restricted Section. Quickly bored out of his mind, Harry read them through, pulling out pages for the few things that sounded promising. The only excitement was Ginny teaming up with Ron and Malfoy trouncing them both. Ginny practically stomped up to bed. Malfoy made his excuses soon after. Harry spent a solid ten minutes with Ron and Hermione so as not to arouse suspicion before forcing a series of convincing yawns that had Hermione suggesting he head up to bed. Harry agreed, said his goodnight, and snuck up to Malfoy's room.

Malfoy made these silly things called tequila slammers, one part tequila to two parts conjured champagne. After an hour of drinking and idle Quidditch banter, they moved up to the third floor hallway. Hardly anyone went up there so they weren't likely to be caught if someone got up in the middle of the night. Harry cast a quick Muffliato on them just in case. When Harry finally got up the nerve to ask what, exactly the champagne was to celebrate, the blonde had toasted him, declaring, “my demise, of course.” And then he downed about half the glass.

“Cor, don't talk like that,” Harry implored, setting his own drink aside on the window sill and facing Malfoy.

“Why the fuck not?” he spat. “No matter how you look at it, I'm dead. A part of me already was. And sorted into Gryffindor? That's just another nail in my coffin.”

“You'll be fine, ya cunt,” Harry rolled his eyes, stealing a sip from Malfoy's drink right out of his hand. The blonde gave him a look but didn't say anything. Malfoy had made his drink a lot stronger and it burned on the way down. “Head Boy gets private quarters, yeah? Maybe you can throw a party or something. Conjure some booze, invite a few people. Really, Malfoy. It won't be that bad.”

“Get yer own,” Malfoy slurred darkly, holding his drink closer to himself. “An' it will be that bad, ya cunt. Who do you suggest I invite to these parties, hmm? All my Slytherin mates? Do you want them in your precious Gryffindor tower? Maybe I'll invite Loopy Lovegood and Wayne Hopkins from Hufflepuff. That'll be a great party,” the blonde's short burst of laughter was like a bark. It reminded Harry of Sirius.

“I think it's just gonna be you an' me, Wonder Boy,” Malfoy said into his glass before draining it. His hand looked a little shaky.

Harry couldn't respond. His throat had just closed off. Knowing he was really well lashed didn't help, either. He took the last of his drink, anyway, avoiding Malfoy's statement.

“What?” the blonde asked. “Does this end when we go back to Hogwarts? Is that it?”

“That's not...” Harry began to plead but the words left him after that. He had no idea how to tell Malfoy he wasn't going back, that he would essentially be alone in Gryffindor Tower, friendless and alone. Wasn't that what the man wanted, though? Loneliness because he feared human connection. What a pathetic way to live.

“I get it,” Malfoy brushed off Harry's concern, turning his back on his dark haired non-friend. “You have a reputation, as do I. So it's back to the way things were. Don't worry,” he sighed, giving Harry a very cold look over his shoulder. “I'll start a spectacular fight on the Hogwarts Express. We'll arrive at Hogwarts cursed and bloodied and no one will be the wiser of our little summer together. Apologies if I cost us house points,” he sneered, “but it'll be worth it.”

“You're such a prick, Draco,” Harry muttered, eyes closed. The man just did not get it at all. How could someone who knew him so well misunderstand him so fantastically?

“Mind out, Potter!” the blonde spluttered, red in the face and livid at the use of his given name.

“What do you want, Draco? Do you want things to go back to the way they were; us at odds, you thinking I'm an attention-starved prat and me thinking you're in league with Voldemort?” The blonde flinched when he heard the name of his old master spoken aloud. Alcohol loosening his brain, Harry kept right on going, his voice near yelling. “Is that really what you want, to go back to us hating each other? Or do you want what's next?”

“It's not one or the other, Potter! It's not black or white! There are plenty of other choices; thousands of them! Choices that don't involve the Dark Lord or you.”

“I'm not talking about choices! I'm talking about what you want, Draco.”

“Don't call me that!” he spat, eyes narrowing.

“I'll call you what I like.”

“Oh, you like that?” Pithy, blithe, sniping, sarcastic, caustic. Using sex as a weapon again. “Get off on the control, do you, Potter? Or maybe my anger gets you hot. That explains a lot.”

“This 'last name only' pants is just another thing to keep everyone away,” Harry insisted. He would not be derailed. “And it worked pretty well until now. 'Malfoy' is an unfeeling, manipulative, bigoted bastard. But I got to know Draco. 'Draco' is bright and cracking funny. 'Draco' fancies adventure and challenges me when I just want things to be easy. And 'Draco' doesn't want to be alone. That's what scares you.”

“Ta Gueule, poilu,” the blonde snapped, looking away, hair falling over his eyes. “You haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.”

“Don't I? Tell me to my face.”

“Tell you what?” He glares, trying to make his eyes steel. He fails. Emotion bubbles through. “That I'm a fragile little flower just wanting to be loved? Fuck off.” He turns to walk away.

Harry bellows, incensed. “Fuck off? You're just gonna push me away—the only person who wants to help you? The only person you trust?”

“Trust? Ha!” he slaps his leg. “Now that's cracking.”

“Stop it, Draco.” Harry pushes him against a wall and pins him there. “You have to move on. Distant and cold has gotten you a very lovely life, hasn't it? Pain and torture and grief with no friends and nothing of your own.” Draco, anger rolling off him in waves, pushes Harry's hands away in an attempt to escape. Harry checks him with a shoulder to the chest, winding him, keeping him trapped against the wall. “Isn't it time you gave the old bit a rest? Maybe try being honest about who you are.”

“I am distant and cold!”

“No you're not!” Harry insists. He pushed a bit harder with his shoulder, keeping the squirming blonde pinned and talking to his chest. “If you were, you'd be downstairs asleep instead of here, shit-faced, arguing with me!” Harry bangs an angry fist against the wall, landing a scant inch or two from Draco's blonde head. There a sweep of air, blowing strands of Draco's blonde hair across his fierce, angry eyes. Harry's hands come to rest on either side of Draco. He stares the man down, holding him down willfully as much as bodily.

“Maybe I just like a good row,” Draco suggested. It was a weak retort, especially for a Malfoy.

Harry snorted. “This is hardly a good row.”

“Hand me the tequila. I'll show you an argument you'll never forget.”

Were it not for holding Draco down, Harry would have thrown his hands in the air. “Would you stop turning everything into innuendo? You're not going to seduce me, either!”

“Really?” Draco actually looks put out. “I was rather enjoying our tête-à-tête. Are you sure I can't seduce you just a little?”

“You know,” Harry observes, “it's really perverse that you use an intimate thing like sex to avoid intimacy. You have serious issues getting close to people.”

“Is that a 'no,' then?” The anxious knit to his brow is terribly adorable in an openly arseholed way.

“That's a no,” Harry confirmed. He couldn't help the foolish grin taking over his face. He wanted to be angry—he really did. Draco did this to him.“We've kissed twice and you're not in my trousers.”

“Three times, Scar Head.”

“Three?” Harry pauses to think. Draco takes the opportunity to duck under his outstretched arms. He steps away but turns to face Harry almost immediately.

“Our little duel,” Draco counts on his long fingers. “Then that roach-infested hell hole you had the nerve to call a hotel, and when Granger took us all out dancing. You discovered tequila, remember?”

“We k... again?” Harry takes refuge leaning against the wall.

“Oh, that one wasn't as bad as the others,” Draco says, coming closer. “If I recall correctly, you even reciprocated. I dare say, it was a vast improvement! I had begun to worry you didn't know how.”

“And why would you care whether I can kiss or not?”

“Oh, you know,” Draco trills, hands clasped behind his back. He's playing innocent. He's only wavering on his feet slightly. “Calloused, distant, cold—and terribly bored. I decided to seduce you; because I need another notch on my bed post, naturally. How did you put it? I... needed a little intimacy to avoid intimacy. How's that?”

“Sounds like bollocks,” Harry shot.

Draco throws his hands out to his sides, his skin flushed and eyes large. “Then what do you want me to say?!”

“The truth, maybe?”

“That it was you or Weaselby and I wouldn't stick my dick in that troll trap for all the gold in Gringotts?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Suddenly, Draco's back hit the wall next to him. The blonde sunk to the runner carpet in a liquored pile. Harry let his legs slide out from under him, too, his backside hitting the floor with a thud.

“That I was bored out of my mind and needed to do something offensive and devious before my head exploded?” the blonde offered. Harry let his head flop to the side, fixing Draco with a stern, disbelieving look. He waited patiently, knowing the truth would bubble forth from the man's tanked lips.

“That,” Draco swallowed thickly, “if anyone was going ta understand me, it was you? An' I didn't know how ta keep yer attention any other way?”

“That one sounds like the truth.” Their gazes held.

“Too bad it's the second one that's bang on,” Draco shrugged. “You suck at guessing, Potter.”

“You suck at lying, Draco,” Harry replied. “At least to me.”

Draco is stunned silent for a minute.

“So, what do I do, then?” It's a tiny, scared voice. “To keep your attention, Wonder Boy.”

“Just be my friend.”

“Maybe ya haven't noticed—I don't have a stellar record for friendships.” Draco's head sags to fall against Harry's shoulder. “I think you'll need to provide detailed instructions to avoid a failure of epic proportions, here.”

“Well,” Harry thought about it for a minute—as much as he could think, with nearly a third of a bottle of tequila engaging his stomach in a punch-up. “Keep drinking with me, for sure. Talk to me about shit an' listen when I talk to you. Argue with me when you think I'm wrong. Tell me if you think I'm about ter do something stupid—”

“Then I think you're doing something very stupid,” Draco speaks up.

“Yeah?”

Draco nods against his shoulder. “You're trying to make friends with me.”

“I... think it's too late.”

“Damn it.” The words are there, but they lack any heat.

“You don't want to be my friend?”

“You're a good person,” Draco sets a hand on Harry's knee and gives him a pat. The thin line of his arm rests along Harry's thigh, elbow tucked against Harry's hip. It feels very normal through the tequila haze. “Don't waste your time on me.”

“But—”

“Really, Potter. Don't bother. I'm not worth the effort.”

“Can't—can't you call me Harry?”

“No,” Draco sighs.

“Because, even though you're afraid of being alone, you're even more afraid of getting close?”

“Yes,” he sighs again.

Harry understood that one admission, that single word, took a whole fucking lot. He ruffled the blonde head on his shoulder. It felt nice to have Draco's warmth beside him. His fingers and toes were getting cold—which made no sense, it being summer and all. He realized he was sleepy. And Draco's breathing was evening out.

“Oi,” he muttered. He put his face in blonde hair and it smelled like crisp leaves and fall, the way the man always smelled. Harry probed with his nose, brushing the hairs around. “We can't sleep on the floor. We'll get caught. Come on.” The blonde made a disagreeable noise in his throat. “Get up or I'll carry you.”

The man lifted his blonde head with a groan of “bloody hell.” Harry took that as his cue, getting to his feet and seizing the man's arm to pull him up. They both wavered for a moment, grabbing at one another for balance.

Draco waved a warning finger between them. “Drop me and I'll kill you.”

“M'kay,” Harry agreed. He bent forward, putting his shoulder to Draco's middle and then heaving the dead weight over his shoulder. He'd never carried someone this way before but it worked alright. Draco was drunk enough to just give in to it. Without thinking, Harry went directly to his room, releasing the blonde safely onto his own bed. He blinked up at Harry, pupils consuming his irises so that only the tiniest sliver of silver shown around them.

“Potter, there's a Privacy Ward on yer bed,” he pointed out, depositing his wand on the nightstand before lying back against the pillows. Git, Harry thought, that's my side.

“So?” Harry set his wand and glasses on the nightstand beside Draco's. Too lazy to walk around the bed, Harry crawled over Draco to get to the other side. He toed off his trainers and socks, content to lie comfortably on his back and struggle.

“Well, what for?”

“Maybe I'm a loud wanker.”

A moment of bemused silence met his statement.

“Sure, right,” Draco drawled. Then a thought occurred to him and he rolled onto his side, head propped up on his elbow and facing Harry. “Are you still having those famous nightmares?”

Harry didn't dignify that question with a response. He dropped back against the pillows to escape Draco's questioning gaze.

“Alright then,” the blonde sighed, lowering himself to the bed beside Harry. “Let's go with loud wanker. You would be the elusive male screamer....”

~ * ~

Ginny woke at the ridiculous hour of half six and could not get back to sleep for the life of her. She had half a mind to ask Hermione for a sleeping potion, as she hadn't had a good night's rest the last four days. Groggy, she dragged herself to the kitchen for a cuppa to start off her miserable day. Another day watching Harry and that slimy git, Malfoy parade around like best friends? Sounded miserable, indeed. If the Burrow weren't so crazy—Bill's release from hospital having spurred Phlegm into a frenzy of wedding planning that suffused the house—she'd head right back home. As it was, this dark and creepy house was her refuge.

Cuppa in hand, she bypassed the unused dining room and went to stand in the formal parlor.

She hated to admit it, but Malfoy had done an incredible job repairing the Black family tree. Her name glittered back at her, along with all her brothers and sisters, plus Fleur Delacour. There was even a thread of marriage appearing beside Charlie's name. Another wedding wasn't far off, apparently. She hunted around until she found Tonks; unfortunately, no line of marriage there. Not even a little one. Ginny got close and squinted just to make sure.

Movement close by caught her eye. At first she thought it was a spider or something crawling on the wall. This room was rarely used now that the Order of The Phoenix held their meetings God-knows-where, so a few bugs wouldn't be surprising. Grimmauld Place was an old house. But that wasn't a bug. The tapestry was active, moving, creating a new link as she stood there and watched.

A line of marriage shot out from Draco Malfoy's name. Transfixed and aghast, Ginny drew closer. Malfoy's place on the tapestry was at chest height and so she bent her knees slightly, bringing her eyes even with it. The silvery line quivered a moment, as if unsure, before supplying the name of Malfoy's intended.

Ginny dropped her tea cup.

There, in her face, was a name.

Harry James Potter.

For The Curious: Translation of Malfoy's French

Ta Gueule is, of course, one of Draco's favorites: shut the fuck up.

Draco calling Harry poilu is his idea of a joke. The word literally means “hairy,” a cheeky play on The Chosen One's given name, since Draco can't bring himself to Christian name-calling. Poilu is also a somewhat vulgar means of calling a man attractive—especially a meaty guy with lots of body or facial hair. The name is commonly used in the French gay scene to describe “bears”—big hairy guys, often fond of cuddling. Malfoy is starting to realize that, against his better judgment, he's a little bit attracted to the Gryffindor Golden Boy. Lord help us.
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Conscience