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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
- 14
- 15
- 16
SUMMARY: Ginny sees something. Ron sees more something. Hermione sees nothing. Draco has a decision to make.

WARNINGS: panic, judgment & a dash of bigotry, partial nudity

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my last stab at comedy for a while; the tone goes pretty serious after this and holds true to the end (80-ish chapters if my notes are anything to go by).

CONSCIENCE:

THE FARCE

“So, even if you see everything, don't believe anything.”

- Sganarelle in Sganarelle, by Moliere

Ginny paced the parlor. Insanity was what this was. Harry Potter would not marry Draco Malfoy. For one thing, it was Malfoy. And for another, Harry was heterosexual. She knew to the marrow of her bones that Harry liked women. She'd felt his straight, hard, pulsing heterosexuality through his jeans once and it had been impressive. There was no way he would make it with a guy—let alone The Amazing Bouncing Ferret. No fucking way.

She could stand here ripping her hair out or she could do something about it. She dashed for the ultimate voice of reason: Hermione Granger.

“Whaaaat?” Hermione groaned as Ginny shook her in her bed. She sat up, her frizzy hair poofed up like a wild mane around her head.

“Hermione,” Ginny panted. “You have to come downstairs right away! The tapestry's gone mental.”

“Let me put some clothes on, Gin,” Hermione said weakly, swiveling out of bed and making for her dresser. “And explain, huh?”

Ginny recounted what she had seen just twenty minutes ago. How the tapestry had woven a new line from Malfoy's name only to fill in Harry as his spouse. Hermione's brow furrowed as she struggled to pull a plain cotton blouse over her bushy head.

“Alright, that is odd,” she agreed, picking up a brush and working at her hair.

“It's more than odd!” Ginny persisted. “Why would it do that? Why would it say something like that? I mean—Harry likes women. I dunno about Malfoy; he's a fruity one. But Harry?” She shook her head vehemently. “No. I just can't see it.”

“I tell you what,” the brunette offered, wrestling her hair into a bun and pinning it down with a spell. “Why don't we go and have a look at the tapestry? Together. I hope to God you were hallucinating, but there might be some other explanation.”

“I wish,” Ginny rolled her eyes. It was a bad day when the most comforting explanation available was hallucination. “Why don't you go ahead, Hermione. I'll meet you downstairs.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

“I'm...” Ginny winced. “I'm gonna go have a peek in Harry's room, make sure he's okay.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Hermione asked tenderly, her tone both concerned and warning. She didn't want her friend to suffer any more heartache pining after her ex.

“I know he sleeps in his pants,” Ginny admitted with a small blush. “But—what if Malfoy's in there right now, casting the Imperius Curse on him or something? I need to know he's alright, that nothing's happened to him under his own roof.”

“I'm not going to stop you,” Hermione replied with an air of neutrality, slipping into her flats and gathering Ginny's hand in hers as they made their way to the door. “You just be careful he doesn't see you. You know how he gets about his privacy.”

“I know,” Ginny nodded, giving Hermione's hand a squeeze before separating from her to go down the long hall. Harry's room was at the very end. She didn't sense any magic surrounding the big wooden door and a simple Alohomora unlocked it. She lowered her wand before stepping inside, the morning sun already lighting the room in a hazy, orange and gold glow. Harry's room had two big windows, one to either side of the heavy, king size four poster. She saw a large lump in the bed, uncovered by sheets. Stepping closer, she had to stifle a gasp.

Harry and Malfoy were in bed together. They were fully clothed with the exception of socks and shoes, but still! Ginny had six brothers. She knew that boys sometimes slept in the same bed out of camaraderie or occasionally pure laziness, but she'd never seen her brothers like this. They were... there were no other words for it: they were holding each other.

Ginny would have said it was all Malfoy's doing but the only way two bodies arrived in that kind of position was mutually. They were wrapped up in each other like lovers; both on their sides and facing, Harry much lower on the bed so that his face pressed against Malfoy's abdomen, one of Malfoy's long arms curled protectively around Harry's broad shoulders, thin fingers in his dark, messy hair. And Harry held Malfoy tightly about the waist, a leg tucked between the blonde's to encourage as much contact as possible. Harry was wound around Malfoy like ribbons on a village maypole. Malfoy sort of sighed in his sleep, his head resting on an arm. His pointed face tilted down toward Harry, chin tucked to his chest as though he'd fallen asleep looking at the top of the man's dark head and just stayed that way. Under his breath, Harry hissed something in Parseltongue while rubbing a shadowy, stubble-covered cheek against Malfoy's stomach. The blonde responded by draping a leg over Harry's hip, quieting the other man with his touch.

Ginny backed slowly out of the room.

- - -

Draco dreamed he was flying over Stonehenge in the pressing darkness just before sunrise. He often flew around Wiltshire at night so the muggles wouldn't see. The Manor grounds were beautiful but this was an issue of confinement; he needed to be free, even if that meant straying into muggle territory. He flew low, zipping between the massive stones and then vaulting up into the dark, crisp sky. Hunkering down and holding tight to his broom, he soared higher and higher.

As dawn broke the sky in a riot of orange, yellows, and pinks, his broom began to twitch. At first it was imperceptible but soon the wood was moving, alive with magic, swelling under his hands until it was large and heavy. His broom had turned into a huge snake. It hissed against him as they both plummeted to the earth.

He woke with a start, the hissing still in his ears. Dear sweet Merlin, there was a snake in his bed. A big, coiling snake tucked close to his body, wrapped between his legs, its hissing head at his heart, inches from his throat. Frozen in fear, he opened his eyes to slits.

It was not a snake in his bed, in his arms. It was Harry Potter, hissing Parselmouth in his sleep. Draco wasn't sure if this was better or worse.

Extricating himself would be difficult, curled up as they were. Draco flushed with embarrassment. Harry Potter had strong arms around him, a leg between his, and was performing a kind of sleep-induced nuzzling against his chest. And he had an arm around Potter, cradling the man's head to his middle. It would be relatively easy to break the man's neck like this—pressed to his chest as he was, Draco's hand at the back of his head. One swift twist and it would be done. Potter hissed something which sounded almost pleasant and pulled Draco closer, squeezing him with surprisingly meaty force. A part of his spine cracked, not unpleasantly. No, extrication would not be easy.

He got his legs away easy enough. Potter was stubborn about having his arms pulled away and clutched tighter at his prize. Draco cooed French curses to his messy crown, massaging his toned bicep and forearm until the man relaxed and could be prized off without a fight. It was hard to resist ruffling that dark, thick mop—especially when he pouted in his sleep like that, small noises escaping his throat. It became less cute when he hissed dangerously, catching Draco's hand and pulling it to his prickly cheek.

“Putain de merde!” he whispered, vehement words in a gentle tone so as not to wake the sleeping prat. “Quel con!”

The hissing stopped when he stroked Potter's scruffy cheek with the pad of his thumb. For a man who claimed not to be an attention-seeker.... Draco couldn't help brushing a dark fringe of hair from his forehead and planting a soft kiss on that lightning bolt scar.

Now he'd completely lost his mind. It was time to get out. He slipped from the large bed and crept across the room. He watched Potter roll, taking up his vacated pillow and pressing it to his face, breathing noisily through it. Draco almost climbed right back into bed.

No. He needed to go. This was ridiculous. Potter would be upset if he woke to his horny, bisexual house guest humping his leg. He mustered his courage and forced himself back to his own chamber.

- - -

“Hermione, really!” Ginny pleaded from the parlor doorway. “We know I'm not hallucinating. Will you just go look for yourself?”

“Oh, fine!” Hermione snapped, straightening up from her intense examination of the Black family tree. She couldn't find any obvious signs of tampering. She had a theory Malfoy had misaligned some part of the blood magic and the thing now ran rogue. Next it would say Charlie was marrying Kirley Duke from the Weird Sisters.

Ginny huffed impatiently.

“Let's go have a peek, then,” the brunette offered with a shrug. She really wasn't keen on spying on her best friend but Ginny needed the reassurance more than Harry needed his privacy. And if he truly was in bed with Malfoy, as Ginny raved, then he deserved to be caught red handed. “And if Harry catches us sneaking a peek at him, you cast the Shield Charm and I'll hide behind you.”

“Deal,” Ginny said with finality, turning swiftly and heading as quietly as possible up the rickety staircase.

Hermione had to admit the entry to Grimmauld Place was much nicer now that Harry and Malfoy had gotten rid of most of those morbid, stuffed house elf heads. There were still a few hangers on but things looked cheerier. The two girls paused at the end of the long hall, both extinguishing their wands which they had lit in the dark, windowless hallway.

Ginny opened the door with only a tiny squeak of the hinges and Hermione crept in first, her wand held out in front of her. She saw Harry—mercifully clothed—sprawled out on the bed. Alone. She turned to Ginny.

“Well?”

Ginny looked dumbfounded. She could only raise her brows and shrug.

“He was here a few minutes ago,” she put forth in a whisper.

Harry grunted, rolling onto his stomach and tossing the pillow he had been hugging to the floor.

Hermione jutted her head toward the door, indicating that they should talk someplace else in case Harry woke in a snit. Ginny nodded her agreement and soon they were in the kitchen with the kettle on.

“I don't understand,” Ginny sighed, head in her hands as she sat at the worn wooden table. “I saw Malfoy there not ten minutes ago.”

“I don't know what to tell you, Ginny,” Hermione shrugged, idly watching the kettle that refused to boil. She retrieved the sugar bowl and a small carafe of cream, setting them both on the table before the confused, deflated red head. “Maybe a bit of tea will make you feel better?”

Ginny took her tea with a bit of cream. It was easier to hide Cheering Potions in cream. Calming Potions, too. Hermione offered Ginny a reassuring smile.

- - -

Draco paced. He was not the type of man who paced. Pacing was a definitive sign of agitation and Malfoys were trained from infancy to feign indifference, not to show any emotions unless they were useful ones. Confusion and sexual frustration were right up there on the list of utterly useless emotions and yet they bubbled forth, manifesting in this needless, pointless, limitless pacing. He was going to wear a track in the floor soon. Eventually, he forced himself to sit at the little desk by the window and do some actual thinking.

Maybe a cold shower was in order? Maybe he should have taken Jack the muggle's sodding telephone number. Maybe he was just undersexed? There was no logical reason for this sudden attraction to a man who by all rights should repulse him. Draco Malfoy, a drooling member of the Golden Boy Fan Club? Absolutely not.

And yet it stared him in the face. Just like Potter's exotic, fragrant orchid sitting on the desk. It didn't smell like an orchid. It smelled like Potter. Draco knew it, too. It smelled like that warm, saffron and juniper tang that lingered on his skin. Like the musk of his sleepy breath. Like the robust heat of his compact body.

He could not be attracted to Potter; yet these stubborn, poignant details flying up from his memory like sparks from a bonfire told him otherwise. He didn't obsessively file away sensual facts unless he was sharply, intensely attracted. He couldn't recall what Pansy Parkinson's lips felt like, but he could describe the birch-colored flecks in Viktor Krum's hooded hazel eyes, or summon the exacting memory of the supple, springy texture of Margaux Vigier's nipples. That these details of Potter now taunted his psyche was a clear indication—something was going on with Potter. Every fiber of his logical mind urged him to stay the hell away. Every fiber of his groin told him to sneak back into Potter's big bed and take his bloody chances.

It was a calculated risk. At worse, Potter would awake and relegate him to a cold corner of the bed. At best—what? He might get to hump the healthy curvature of Potter's thigh for a solid twenty minutes? Sounded like a bet just gagging for it. Because the bet was gagging, not him. The bet wanted to fuck Potter's tempting eyes and magnetic form into mind-blowing oblivion, not him. It was all the risk, the temptation, the intrigue—not him and not Potter. It couldn't be Harry Potter... could it?

He was completely mental.

He was out of his chair before he realized what he was doing. He wasn't making for the washroom and the cold shower awaiting him. He was making for Potter's bed. And when he arrived, the man engulfed him in warmth.

The simple fact that Potter's sleepy fingers reached for him as his weight settled on the bed, seeking without awareness to touch. And when Potter pulled him to his tepid chest and constant, beating heat? Priceless.

~ * ~

Tea was served, followed by toast, leftover scones with sweet clotted cream and biscuits, all served and consumed without ceremony. Hermione tried to enjoy the pleasant quiet of the morning. The house did an excellent job of blocking out the noise of morning commuters, delivery trucks, honking car horns and the like. It was like being in a glass bubble where the outside world didn't effect you. Hermione always got her best reading and research done on mornings like these. She was looking forward to a stack of books left in the front sitting room. She looked forward to getting her mind off of this strange haze surrounding Harry and The Ex-Slytherin Prince and back to the problem at hand—Voldemort's Horcruxes.

She shuddered, the calm of her morning shattered.

Ron skittered into the kitchen, his eyes shifting and wild.

“What's up?” Ginny asked, Hermione's mouth full of tea.

Ron braced himself against the door frame, his big brown eyes unable to settle. Hermione observed his pulse in a thick vein of his neck. He was close to hyperventilating, his freckles and moles standing out starkly against his pallid skin.

“Harry... Malfoy,” he stuttered. His big hand pressed his heart, begging it to slow so he could speak.

“In Harry's bed?” Ginny asked gently. It wasn't as bad if you said it softly, as a question.

Ron nodded.

“Ginny mentioned,” Hermione said, trying for bracing. Ron balked. “I was up there maybe a half hour ago. I didn't see anything.”

“Anything?” Ron said with a hitch to his voice. “Did Harry have his shirt on?”

“Yes,” she nodded, setting her tea aside. “Why?”

“An' wha' 'bout Malfoy?” Ron pressed. “He have his pants 'round his knees?”

“What?!” she couldn't help a gasp. Ginny went white as a sheet across the table, a scone forgotten half way to her waiting mouth. A clot of cream slipped from the pastry, falling to her plate with a wet splat. “That can't....”

“Saw it,” said Ron.

“But...” Hermione uttered dumbly.

“I saw it. Malfoy's arse, everything. I saw it, 'Mione.”

Ginny seemed to pull herself together first. “We should go up there.”

“No we should not,” Hermione insisted, bordering on hysterical laughter and panic in one nervous flutter. There was no way.

“We should,” Ginny asserted with firm resolve. “What if Malfoy Imperio-ed him or something? What if Malfoy raped him?” She swallowed past a lump in her throat, the scone allowed to tumble to the floor. “We need to go up there.”

“Yes,” Ron agreed.

“Fine,” Hermione sighed. This had bad idea written all over it. The whole morning did. “Let's just finish our tea. Ginny, did you need more cream?”

For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French

Putain de merde – Oh, for fuck's sake!

Quel con – what a cunt
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Conscience