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
- 18
- 19
- 20
SUMMARY: Wasting no time, Draco manages to pick a fight with Harry over the stupidest thing—on their very first night together, no less! Thankfully, they find the ideal way to work through their mutual aggression.

WARNINGS: a couple of Draco's very pervy fantasies, multiple instances of implied oral sex, sadomasochism, biting fetish, D/s, T&D, topped off with a brief moment of near-suicidal angst (apologies)

CONSCIENCE:

THE FIRST GREAT RELATIONSHIP ROW

“I don't think I can come anymore,” Harry groaned. He and Draco, in varying stages of undress, were collapsed on top of one another in the second floor hallway. They'd been on their way to the kitchen to knock up some lunch: they'd made it as far as the hall. Now there was a stain on the old rug and Draco couldn't wipe that very smug smile off his face. They'd only done it for the first time that very morning.

“Really? Six is yer max?” The blonde teased, using Harry's upper arm as a pillow. They were going to be stuck together until one of them managed a wandless Cleaning Charm or performed the miracle of actually sitting up to fetch a wand from discarded trousers.

“I guess so. Why?” Harry half-shrugged, not wanting to dislodge Draco from his comfortable and charmingly intimate position, nestled in the crook of Harry's arm. “What's yours?”

“'Bout twelve.”

“Oh my God!”

“Yes, I am a god. Your God. Thanks fer noticin'.”

Harry bit back a laugh. He couldn't laugh. His stomach hurt too damn much. He was developing a cramp from having so many orgasms so close together. Maybe all this exercise would give him six pack abs. He was just as toned as Draco. It would drive the blonde mental thinking Harry was in better shape than him. The thought alone was enough to make Harry want to start doing sit ups right then and there. He had so much energy when he was with Draco! Every time the blonde came it was like someone cast an Enervate on him and pumped several cups of coffee directly into his blood stream just to be sure. Harry's body was already recovering. He was able to sit up, hoisting Draco with him. While his stomach muscles shook a little at the strain, his arms held fast. He pulled Draco into a quick hug before reaching for his trousers with his free hand.

The sound of wings beating the air distracted him once he'd gotten his boxers on. He glanced down the staircase to find a very attractive tawny owl sweeping the entryway, unable to locate the occupants of Grimmauld Place. The brown and white spotted creature bore a large scroll pouch. Unable to summon the strength to actually stand up, Harry brought two fingers to his lips and whistled sharply. The owl shot up the stairs, landing gracefully on a nearby sideboard and offering its leg for Harry's inspection.

“Formal invitation,” Draco identified in a mutter before flopping back to the floor, bunching up his shirt and stuffing it under his disheveled head. He closed his eyes. If Harry didn't know any better he'd say Draco was ignoring him. But then the blonde's hand found the small of his back and began tracing slow, gentle circles with his cooling fingers, drawing little patterns in drying sweat. Harry couldn't hold back a groan of pleasure. He'd been supporting Draco in a weird position towards the end, there, and his lower back had taken most of the strain. His fingers fumbled to open the scroll. It finally gave way and he laid back with Draco to read it.

“Bill and Fleur's wedding,” he mumbled, scanning through the fluff to get to the useful information. “Myself and guest, next week, somewhere in France?”

“The castle at Chauvigny,” Draco nodded. “I haven't been but I hear it's breathtaking.”

“I guess we'll find out,” Harry shrugged, setting the elaborate scroll aside. Draco didn't say anything. “What's an appropriate wedding gift? I've never been to a wedding before, let alone a magical one.”

“Large bag a' galleons oughta do it.”

“Is that proper, though?” Harry asked, looking over at the unusually surly blonde on the floor beside him.

“Of course,” he sniffed, looking away.

“Draco,” he said bracingly, catching the man's chin and turning his head around. Draco hadn't had time to collect himself and his emotions spilled over—confusion and insecurity chief among them. “Do you not want to go? Because I can write Bill and Fleur, say it's too much of a security risk....”

“Tha's stupid, poilu,” Draco shook his head, pulling his chin from Harry's grasp. “Yeh want ta go. They're yer friends. Yeh should go.”

“Do you not want to come with me? Is that it?” Harry chased him, rolling on top of the man and supporting himself on all fours, suspended over him. Draco was not sneaking away from the question. Or from Harry.

“Didn't know I was invited,” he murmured lamely, head still turned petulantly away.

“Of course you are,” Harry sighed wearily, nuzzling the exposed side of Draco's neck, nipping at the tendons before venturing to the nape of him, trailing tongue and teeth along with lavish kisses. He held himself upright by one arm, freeing a hand to glide to Draco's narrow hip. Their bodies came together in a blend of rightness, soft skin and hard bones aligning in a balance that was beyond comprehension. Draco just fit beneath him and that was all there was to it. Soon the blonde was gasping under his careful ministrations, his lips chasing Harry's across the perfect expanse of their joined forms. Harry wouldn't let Draco find his lips, always moving to a new place and kissing it raw. He withheld nothing. His treatment was harsh, unforgiving. He waited for Draco's unrestrained moan, that delicious arch of his spine that meant he was giving into the pain and pleasure of it all. Teeth grazing nipple, an especially rough squeeze of the hip... and Draco was there, writhing, that unbridled sound escaping him. The power of his passion was almost frightening. Almost. Finally, Harry met his lips with a tender kiss, their bodies still hard and straining.

Harry whispered against those wanting lips. “You are my date, my non-friend. Get over it.”

“Sounds like I don't have much of a choice,” the blonde breathed. He was surprisingly coherent for being so far gone. “It's formal. I don't have dress robes.”

“Then order whatever you like, dearest,” Harry offered, nibbling the shell of Draco's ear. The man was sensitive, so much fun to overexcite, overload until he just shook and screamed with it. Like Harry, he liked being tantalizingly close, hovering on the edge as long as possible before tipping over into release. Harry bit and tasted, taking his sweet time, speaking between shocks of stinging teeth, damp lips and cooling breath. “Pick something out... for me... would you? You know... what I like... nothing... fancy.”

“Simple,” Draco muttered. “Direct.” He twitched violently, from the gut and radiating outward, hands burying themselves in Harry's sweaty hair.

“Yessss,” he hissed, sliding down Draco's body. “You know, Draco. Clothes later,” he rolled a hard pink nipple in his mouth on his journey southward. He didn't stop for long. “I'm hungry,” he growled against Draco's smooth stomach.

“Kitchen is...” the blonde was momentarily speechless as Harry's tongue made a wet streak across his abdomen, tracing scars. “Far. Too far.”

Harry hummed his agreement. “I'm hungry,” he insisted. “You'll do.”

Draco's head thunked to the stained carpet as he screamed.

- - -

Lunch taught them that Kreacher could not be trusted with any food-related task beyond boiling water for tea. Harry had always considered himself to possess a strong stomach after the crap the Dursley's fed him; somehow, a few bites of Kreacher's so-called stew made his stomach churn. He sipped tonic for the afternoon and seemed recovered by evening, listening to Draco play piano in the front parlor. The blonde had allowed Harry to taste the stew first and so hadn't had his constitution resorted as well. He played a few tunes Harry was known to like and charmed his tonic water to taste of lemons.

Draco prepared their dinner with magic. Harry sat in awe as ingredients zoomed about the kitchen, dicing and seasoning themselves, sauteing and brazing, flying in and out of the oven. In less than two hours time, a lovely meal sat before them—French in origin and no less than four courses.

“Since we've lost the entourage,” the blonde said pleasantly, blowing on his boeuf à la bourguignonne, “I thought I might take one of the larger bedrooms.”

Harry glanced up from his buttery potatoes, confused. “I sort of thought... you'd want to sleep with me, now.”

“Wha', every night?” Draco's head tipped to the side, disbelieving.

“Well, sure,” Harry shrugged, a sly smile turning his lips. “How else am I supposed to get you into double digits every day?”

Harry never knew he was such a pervert. Or a sex fiend. You learn something new every day. Draco speared a little pearl onion, careful to let the excess sauce drip back to his plate. The way he rotated the fork in his hand reminded Harry of the way the blonde handled his hawthorn wand, which in turn reminded him of other, very pleasing things.

Draco actually winked at him. “I'll move a few of my things tonight.”

~ * ~

Draco walked from the bathroom to the bedroom wearing pajama bottoms and a borrowed dressing gown. Face washed and teeth brushed, he was ready for bed. He let himself into the room as quietly as possible. His dark haired lover sat in what would be their bed, pouring over his old Potions textbook. He squinted through the lenses of his thick glasses, studying intently. Draco had never considered the man to be particularly studious but his opinion was rapidly changing. Wonder Boy read quite a bit when Granger wasn't about to badger him.

Draco removed the dressing gown, tossing it over the battered school trunk at the end of their bed. He renewed the room's Cooling Charm before ducking under the sheets, carefully keeping to his designated side of the bed. He heard his bedmate close his book and set it aside. He heard the unfamiliar, metallic clinks of a pair of glasses being folded and deposited on the nightstand. A moment later, Wonder Boy extinguished the magical lamp non-verbally. His wand clattered to the nightstand a second later, followed by a sigh.

A warm hand reached across the bed, caressing his spine.

“What are you doing?” the man whispered, voice husky. “Get over here.”

Draco felt a gentle tug at his shoulder. He ignored it. The bed was just the right combination of firm mattress and feather light pillows. He could feel himself drifting off already.

Rough hands grabbed him round the middle and dragged him across the bed. To spoon.

“Um... wha' the hell is this?” Draco asked tersely. He'd been seconds away from sleep but was fully awake now.

“Relationship stuff.”

“I see. 'Bout how long does it last?”

“All night, Draco.” Wonder Boy hugged him tighter. Draco focused his reception from chilly to downright icy. How was he supposed to sleep with the man's constant boner pressed between his cheeks? “You don't like it?”

“I'll get used to it,” Draco couldn't help but snap; snotty, petulant, implying, I'll get used to it but I'll never fancy a cuddle with you, you muggle-loving Gryffindor twat.

“You're a real pisser, Draco.” Mercifully, the man released him and rolled away onto his back. He also let out a tight, angry breath that insisted, in no uncertain terms, neither of them would be allowed to rest until the God forsaken “lack of cuddling” had been addressed.

“Fine,” Draco scooted over, placing a hand on his broad chest, that heart beneath hammering into his hand. “Against my own better judgment, I like it. Happy?”

“No,” sitting up, The Chosen One fixed him with a severe look, green eyes blazing. “When you fancy someone, you want to spend time with them, you want to be with them. Do you understand? You don't curl up with them against your better judgment. There should be no thinking involved! You just do it because it feels right.” He got up and headed for the door, a hand carding through his eternally messy hair. “Yesterday I realized that nothing has ever felt this right in my entire life. I thought you felt remotely the same.”

Wonder Boy threw open the door, preparing to tromp off down the hall.

“Where are you going?” Draco demanded, forced to crawl out of the warm bed to chase after the bloody git.

“To sleep in one of the other eight bedrooms,” he shot back, angry.

“Why? Because it's against my nature to fucking 'cuddle' with you?”

“No,” his manners are cold and defeated, like he was sick of fighting. That was new. “Because it's against your nature to care about anyone more than your precious fucking self.”

With that, he stormed out.

Okay, Draco thought bitterly, I bloody well deserved that. Now what?

Draco followed. When he was young and dealing with the frazzled, overemotional nannies mother employed, whining had been his go-to; most regrettably, it got results more reliably than reason. He cleared his throat, screwed up his face and prepared himself to sound all of a petulant two and a half years old.

“Haaaarry!”

Wonder Boy froze mid-stomp, his inky black hair blending into the darkness of the hallway. Only his light skin in the moonlight distinguished him. He turned to face his sort-of boyfriend, hands fisted at his sides.

“Harry, I'm sorry,” Draco kept his voice low and even, betraying as little emotion as possible. This could turn out very badly. He needed to keep the man happy or he'd be out on the street. There was a little more to it than the need for proper housing, but he wasn't ready to admit that just yet. At least not aloud. “I don't do relationships. Not well, anyway. Especially muggle ones like this.”

“Why are you using my first name?”

“Because—at least I've been told—that's what you do when you snog someone.” Coy smile. That should have gotten him. Draco's face fell when it didn't. The Chosen One was quite hopping mad.

“We've done a lot more than snog,” he snorted, stuffing his hands in his pajama pockets so he wouldn't fold them across his chest in anger, apparently.

“I'm making an effort,” Draco offered, hands splayed at his sides in a hopeless gesture.

“And, what?!” he growled, voice emanating from somewhere deep, deep down in his chest. “I let you put your amazing cock up my arse and maybe, just maybe you'll say you fancy me back?” Draco had to admit, that sounded very nice. “No way. I don't wanna fuck you, Draco; I want to have an actual relationship with you. A relationship where you're affectionate or vulnerable or anything else you need to be. A relationship where we tell each other everything outside of when we're a second away from coming our brains out. I can't fight to hug you the rest of my life.”

“'The rest of your life?!' You're whinging worse than a girl! V.A.S. much?” That may have been uncalled for but he didn't care at the moment. His reaction was complete emotion—a knee jerk—and it was probably the meanest, pettiest, wrongest thing he could have said in that moment. He knew it, too. He was being a defensive prat when all Harry had wanted was a little human contact at the end of an admittedly monumental day. Draco felt his teeth clench and lips draw back in genuine remorse, brow furrowing. He might have royally fucked himself beyond redemption. Only Harry's reaction would tell him if they could scrape things up and start over again.

“Draco, I'm going to sleep in the other room.” Gods, the man shook trying to keep his voice even. Draco began to protest but Harry cut him off with an imperial wave of his strong, calloused hand. “You take my bed—I know you prefer it.”

“No, I'll go—”

“No!” Harry was at his wit's end. He squinted without his glasses but Draco could see his eyes watering from twenty kilometers. “I have feelings for you, you stupid, stupid fucking cunt! And they're not going anywhere—even when you act like a prick and piss me the fuck off, like you're doing right now. You're sleeping in my bed. I'm going down the hall.” His voice threatens to break. His hand shakes as he points to an empty bedroom. Draco felt frozen to the spot. Could Harry cast a Full Body Bind wandlessly and non-verbally? It very much felt like it at that moment. “Come find me when you're ready to be honest with yourself.”

- - -

Lying alone in Harry Potter's big, comfortable, perfect fucking bed, Draco was forced to wonder what—if anything—he could possibly do to fix this mess. Much to his fear and general dislike, he'd gone and developed a soft spot for Wonder Boyfriend. And he was highly, highly attracted. Getting blown by him was akin to a religious experience, if Draco were the religious sort, and not because Harry was The Chosen One. Draco thought he'd heard angels singing—or maybe that had just been the voice in his head screaming for it to never end, to just come and come forever. To his eternal embarrassment, he got hard that instant, just thinking about it. What in the name of Salazar Slytherin was he going to do?

Harry was everything he never knew he wanted; loyal, honest, reliable, companionable, compassionate, and endlessly kind. And possibly as kinky as he was, which bordered on true clinical perversion. He'd really worked himself into a pickle jar; he was stuck in this ruddy situation. Nowhere to go, no friends aside from Harry—who is astronomically angry with me, Draco thought with a shudder—and the Ministry's joke money, barely enough for a decent pair of muggle trousers each month.

He was about to get out of bed and use Avada Kedavra on himself. Did it work for suicides? If not, he had that Dark cutting curse Harry had thrown at him that spring. If he cast it hard enough, he could probably lop his head clean off in one go. Or perhaps there was some rat poison lying around the old house. That would be fitting. He felt like vermin at that moment.

Draco heard the sound of the old trunk piano drifting up from the parlor. It had to be Harry. By the sound of it, he was trying to figure out the melody of that song—the song he played when he needed to think, to be alone and away from the world. The song his mother used to play when she thought she was alone. The song she played to drown out the sound of her son being tortured.

“Damn it,” Draco growled, throwing the covers aside. “Why do you have to be so....” Kind. Good. Perfect.

He snatched up Harry's dressing gown and bolted down the stairs before his conviction gave out.

Harry sat at the piano bench, trying over and over again to replicate the tune. His tshirt rode up at his back, exposing smooth skin. Watching from the doorway, Draco licked his lips. He knew the man's taste, salty and exotic, vibrating with spice and the tang of his magic as though it leaked from his pores with his sweat. Draco couldn't help a sigh as he entered the room, still belting the dressing gown. It smelled like Harry. He was engulfed, consumed by Harry it would seem.

“Here, let me teach you,” Draco said softly. He went to sit beside Harry on the bench, wrapping an arm around him and placing his chilly hands over both of Harry's warm ones. He guided Harry's unskilled fingers over the keys until he'd managed the first few bars.

“I'm sorry,” Draco whispered. “I guess it's still in my nature to be an asshole. Especially to you.”

Harry just nodded, enjoying Draco's chin resting on his shoulder, Draco's arms around him. “Maybe... you could try being nice ta me some more? I might come 'round with a bit a' coddling.”

“Oh, 'maybe' you 'might' come around?” Harry's whisper was hollow, his face not looking up from the stark black and white of the keys. “That's not much to reassure myself with.”

“That's all I can give,” Draco sighed. “Look, I'm rubbish with this 'feelings' business—absolute rubbish. Worse than Weaselby! Honestly, a part of me still can't believe I'm having this conversation.”

“Then why are we?” Harry's voice is dejected. He's slouching against Draco's arm around his waist, needing the contact even if their words are heated.

“I didn't mean that as an insult. It's not about you. You're great. I'm the problem.”

“I've been in your head, Draco. You're really not that bad, you know.” Harry turned to face him. Draco let his hand trail to Harry's lower back where his shirt rode up, leaving that patch of his lower back exposed. He's silky beneath the spray of body hair, and even his hair is downy and soft. “You don't really want to do or say anything truly bad, Draco. Like Dumbledore said. You try and skirt around the edges and come out with all the worst appearances, but deep down you're actually a good person.”

“Oh, really?” Draco cooed, rubbing his fingers against Harry's skin, sneaking his hand farther up the man's back. “What if I said I wanted to shag your brains out right now? Wouldn't that be bad?”

“That's not the kind of 'bad' we're talking about and you know it,” Harry warned, removing Draco's hand from his back. Comprehension dawned on Draco.

“How do you know what Dumbledore said to me? Did you see tha' in my head, too?”

“I was there that night, under my Invisibility Cloak. I saw everything.”

“You and tha' cloak do an awful lot of sneaking,” muttered Draco darkly.

“Too bad I can't crawl back in your head, do some more sneaking,” Harry answered Draco's melancholy tone. “Might answer a lot of questions.”

“Go 'head. I don't have anything left to hide.”

“I think I've cast enough Unforgiveables on you,” Harry said firmly.

“Legillimens, then.”

“Are you sure?”

“Honestly?” Draco heaved a sigh, fighting the heavy, anxious knot in the pit of his stomach. “I don't know what I think. Maybe you'll make some sense of it for me.”

“Alright.” Harry went to fetch Sirius Black's wand from a display case. He gave it a few experimental flicks before aiming it at Draco, who sat calmly at the piano bench. He cast the spell without preamble, for which Draco was thankful. He'd had enough dramatics in his miserable life. He appreciated a man who got right to the point.

“Legillimens.”

Harry was struck dumb by Draco's overpowering lust for him. He saw every last freaky, perverted fantasy the man had racked up featuring himself and a very... uninhibited Harry. Draco thought about their sweat-covered bodies pressing together again, as they had done for the first time only that morning. Draco thought about tying Harry up again and doing even more wicked and humiliating things to him with that very talented, deviant tongue of his. Draco thought about brewing a potion so he could stay hard after he came, like Harry did. Draco thought of pleasing Harry a thousand different ways; kissing him, touching him, casting spells so every second of their sex would be seared into both their memories.

And then Harry found a thread that was different, gentle. Draco thought about teaching Harry to play the song without a name, to play duets with him on sunny afternoons in the front sitting room. Draco thought about kissing Harry across the breakfast table, kissing him over a game of chess, kissing him goodnight and actually curling up in his arms. Draco thought about closing his eyes and just running his hands through Harry's dark hair. Draco imagined being on the Hogwarts Express and resting his head on Harry's shoulder. He mooned over Harry's boyish smile and his shining green eyes, the way he smelled and the way he tasted. Draco thought about how kind Harry was, not how sexy—how gentle, how brave, how patient, how strong, how good.

With a great effort, Draco pushed Harry's spell from his mind.

“How'd yeh get in there?” he said quietly, his voice shaking.

“In where?”

“Those... were dreams I had,” he mumbled, his words soft, simple. “I didn't even remember 'til yeh brought 'em back.”

“I dunno,” Harry sighed. “But I found something out.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry smiled with his little victory. “You fancy me. A lot.” And you're so very, cripplingly afraid of being alone. It just makes me want to hold you more. But he kept that last bit to himself.

“Ya think?”

“Yes,” he nodded emphatically. “That, and you're the biggest, freakiest pervert I've ever met.” And it's kinda hot.

Draco stood up, suddenly nervously. “Was it the thing 'bout the broom shed? Anywhere firsties can walk in on yeh just... really stirs my cauldron. I guess ya figured tha' out, though.”

Harry closed his eyes for a minute. There was something inherently wrong about wanting to be caught doing the nasty by eleven year olds; probably the fact that the mere mention of it stirred his cauldron, too. He pushed it aside.

“You think about sex... all the time!” Harry blurted. “How do you function?”

“Same way every bloke does,” the blonde shrugged hastily. “Four or five times a day, jus' naff off to the loo.”

“Five times a day?” Harry choked. He leaned against the nearest wall for support.

“Sure. More so this las' year. Doing the Dark Lord's bidding didn't leave much time fer casual sex.” Draco gave him a warm, winning smile, eyes catching the light. “How often do you?”

“What does that matter?” Harry spluttered, unable to stop a blush from heating his face.

“Oh, I think this is 'relationship stuff.' I think people in your sodding little Gryffindor relationships are supposed ta talk 'bout these things.” Draco neared, putting one hand against the wall just above Harry's shoulder, leaning, pinning him. The way Draco looked at him....

“You're one of those sodding Gryffindors now,” Harry chuckled.

“So answer the question, fellow Gryffindor,” Draco quipped. “How often do ya polish it?”

“Um, a few days a week?” Harry shrugged. “Maybe three or four. But I've never thought the kind of dirty stuff you do.”

“Maybe tha's yer problem, baby.” They were cheek to cheek now, bodies a fraction of an inch from touching as Draco whispered in his ear. “Wha' do ya think 'bout?”

Harry had to concentrate on swallowing. Draco was so damn close. Harry could smell his skin.

“Girls, mostly.”

“Tha' could be the problem.” Harry could feel Draco's breath against his neck. “Never thought of a bloke? Bein' shoved 'gainst a wall in the Quidditch locker rooms an' taken advantage of?”

“Well, no,” Harry gulped. Pinned as he was now, the idea certainly had some merit.

Draco's soft, warm lips traced down his neck in a cloying slide of dampness and heat.

“How 'bout na?” Draco's free hand glided up Harry's thigh with painstaking patience.

“Now?” Harry's brain was quickly losing function as other urges took over. Draco's hand cupped him and he knew he wouldn't be able to get another word out if his life depended on it.

“Yeh know,” Draco whispered breathlessly, “I've never done this before.”

“Ghhm?” Harry actually managed a grunt. He tightened and pulsed under Draco's expert touch.

“Make-up sex.”

Then Draco smiled and dropped to his knees, a hand trailing behind to touch Harry's cheek, his neck, his chest. Draco's fingers snuck under his tshirt, found his nipple and began their ministrations. Harry moaned. He couldn't help it. Draco was kissing his stomach and then... lower. He knew what was coming, how good it would feel. “I hear it's fantastic, though. Care ta find out?”

Harry could only bite his lip and nod. That was all Draco needed.

Apparently seven was Harry's max.
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Conscience