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
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SUMMARY: Draco Malfoy's response to torture.

WARNINGS: snark

CONSCIENCE:

CREATURES OF FILTH

Harry Potter lay flat on his back at two o'clock in the morning, covered in sweat and barely breathing. He felt as though he had been repeatedly run over by muggle construction vehicles. He thought he could still feel the imprint of their tires across his body... until he realized that the thing digging into his ribs was in fact a table which he had had the good fortune to land on, reducing it to a splintering pile of tinder. Being launched into the air must have been part of the struggle to remain conscious. He tried to move his head and managed to moan instead.

“Yeh alright, Potter?” asked a gruff voice from the shadows of the room beyond.

“Yeah, I think so.” Everything was coming back slowly, as though from a dream.

He had been practicing defensive spells with Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody in the disused first floor parlor at number twelve Grimmauld Place. They had been working for several hours—making it now quite late. He had lost concentration, slipping into another one of those dreams that felt so unbelievably, undeniably real. Jerking awake, all he had seen was that ball of light rushing towards him, all he had sensed was a lifting sensation, an upward rush overwhelming him from the inside out, and then—crash.

“Alastor?” Harry felt like such an idiot; losing his grip in front of such a seasoned Auror! Surely Mad-Eye Moody wouldn't think Harry was capable of facing Lord Voldemort after such a pathetic showing. Moody had taken the time and energy to arrange these practice sessions for Harry and here he was blowing it! He'd have to do better—there was simply no other way.

“I'm sorry. I lost control,” Harry mumbled, pushing the table off his torso and sitting up very slowly, avoiding the Auror's gaze. The man's magical eye followed him even in the darkened, dusty room.

“Rubbish,” Moody growled congenially upon seeing that Harry was alright. “I hit yeh with one o' the most powerful restricted Confundus Charms the Ministry o' Magic has on record. I'm impressed yeh know yer own name, let alone mine!” He ended this little speech by inserting both hands under Harry's arms and physically hoisting The Boy Who Lived to his feet. Harry swayed drastically. “Dizzy?” Moody asked, his weathered face crinkling.

“Mfft!” Harry suddenly plugged his nose and ducked his head between his knees.

“Nosebleeds!” came Molly Weasley's disgruntled shout from the doorway. She was holding a big steaming cup of tea in one hand and an unopened letter in the other. Her slippers padded against the carpet as she made her way to the two men at the other end of the long room.

“I think that's enough magic for one night, Alastor!” She continued, fast approaching Harry with a motherly arm outstretched. “He's not even supposed to be doing magic, I'll have you know! Not until his birthday,” she continued to hiss and tisk, examining Harry's profusely bleeding nose. She forced him to sit on a comfortable old sofa that expelled dust when he sat. When finished attending to his miscellaneous cuts and bruises, she sighed and handed him the letter she had been carrying.

“What's this?” Harry asked. “I haven't been expecting anything....” He accepted a bag of ice cubes which Mrs. Weasley had conjured for him, slapping it onto a swelling, blackened eye with a sigh of relief.

“It's urgent, Harry,” and—with a stern glance at Mad-Eye—she stood and walked to the other side of the room to allow Harry some privacy.

Dear Harry,

We have received word that a follower of Lord Voldemort is seeking asylum with the Order in exchange for his immediate extraction. Having no other safe locations available at the present time, I must ask to impose a guest upon you until more suitable arrangements can be made. Please send your response as soon as possible. Members of the Order will move on your word.

Regards,

Minerva McGonagall

PS- Please inform those you see fit of the content of this letter.

Harry paused, reading the letter through for a second time. By the time he reached the post script, the parchment had incinerated itself.

Harry rolled his eyes. Just because he was underage did not mean he was incapable of destroying his own clandestine post. Members of the Order may “move on his word,” but he certainly held no power within their ranks. He was a figure head, a poster boy—everything he never wished to be. And Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was perfectly aware of this. Harry had made sure of that on her first visit to his house. Now she attempted to pacify him with comments like those strategically inserted in her last: “inform those you see fit” my foot, Harry thought. Until the end of July, he wasn't even a pawn on the chess board—and everyone knew it.

All he could do was sigh, yawn, and ask Mrs. Weasley for a piece of parchment. Mad-Eye offered to charm it to light McGonagall's desk on fire, which did very little in the long run but made Harry smile.

- - -

Draco stood out on his balcony enjoying the night air, standing with the very gracious aid of a sturdy stone balustrade. While he had been able to heal the majority of his wounds with magic, there were a slew of deep cuts and angry purple bruises that refused treatment. Several of his ribs still felt decidedly out of place and he would need several doses of Blood Replenishing Potion if he wanted to wake up on this side of the mortal coil come morning. Needless to say, his muscles could barely support his weight. But the night air soothed his irascible spirit.

There was nothing wrong with torture—so long as said torture was aimed at someone other than himself. Every bone in his body felt aged a few hundred years overnight. His best set of robes had been ruined with his own blood. Their remnants were still burning away in the rubbish bin he had placed on the terrace with him. It is important to remain warm when one has lost a lot of blood, so he stood close to the little fire and wore his dressing gown despite the warmth of the summer night.

Draco felt at peace watching the owls swoop across the sky, their Dementor counterparts prowling his mother's rosebushes and the ornamental garden. The Dementors were responsible for the temperature fluctuations at the Manor. At any given time, there were windows and doors frosted over from their presence; one simply cast a warming spell and went about one's business. Or tried....

The sadistic whims of the Malfoy Family had finally gone past the point of reconciliation, in Draco's opinion. He had always measured the worth of a person or thing in terms of self-preservation. Crabbe and Goyle protected him—the fact that they never questioned him was an added bonus. His family was important because they sheltered him with power, fame and money—all excellent things to have when one wishes to remain well-preserved. The Dark Lord had provided a safe haven from squibs, mudbloods and muggle-lovers; that is, until the Dark Lord had ordered him brought to the last thread of life and sanity. His loyalties to the Dark Lord no longer served as bonds of self-preservation and thus they should be severed. And they would be. Imminently.

As young Mr. Malfoy stood out on his balcony in extremely ill heath, he certainly knew that he was behaving rashly. It would be clear to any rational person that young Mr. Malfoy should be resting after sustaining major curse injuries. Being a fiercely logical man, he must have known that his present course of action would alienate him from his family and friends forever. He certainly understood that abandoning the Death Eater ranks would warrant his immediate death, should his plot be discovered before Potter's people could spirit him away. This and much more should have been weighing heavily on young Mr. Malfoy's; however, at the time of our current visit, such clear and daunting facts are being overshadowed by the veracity of young Mr. Malfoy's outrage and the impenetrable magnitude of his ego.

And thus he waited for the telltale pop at either side of the balcony. He waited for gentle, Potter-loving arms to engulf him. He awaited the whisking off to a better place which he naturally and intrinsically deserved.

What young Mr. Malfoy received was a slight shock as a squashy package made contact with the side of his injured head. Cursing under his breath, he levitated the object to eye level—snatching at it and peering disbelievingly, confoundedly at the writing it bore.

“Ultra-Ribbed, Lubricated, Her-Pleasure Triple Thrill Pack?” He read aloud in measured levels of disdain, still highly affronted that someone or something had had the audacity to throw such a plainly muggle artifact at him in his weakened state. “This is an—”

But the remainder of Mr. Malfoy's lewd and colorful comments were cut off when the portkey activated.

- - -

“Incoming in fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve!” Mad-Eye Moody was standing in the main hallway of number twelve, his regular eye watching the countdown on a gold pocket watch while his magical one was trained on the portrait of the late Mrs. Black. A few wands were also aimed in the painting's general direction, anticipating an ebullition. The Order members were counting down until their former-Death-Eater-turned-political-refugee arrived.

The majority of those in the house were somehow involved. May Eye was handling reconnaissance with Tonks in the hall. Mrs. Weasley was preparing a quiet room upstairs. Headmistress McGonagall waited in the larger and tidier of the two parlors off of the main hallway. Hermione Granger was minding a pot of onion soup on the stove: “in case he's hungry, Harry!” she had informed him when he questioned her motives. Harry took a Butterbeer from the pantry and slapped a frozen steak over his blooming black eye, wishing that he could be upstairs and asleep like Ron and Ginny. As far as Harry was concerned, let the bastard creep into the house in the dead of night, collapse in the hallway and die of blood loss in a pool of his own vomit, bile and misery. Unless the git had any useful information, all the fuss will have been for nothing. Harry cracked his Butterbeer and downed half of it before entering the hallway and preparing to play host to some retired old codger.

“Places! Wands at the ready!” Moody bellowed and was rightly shushed by nearly half a dozen people. “Alright. Incoming in four, three, two—”

Pop!

“Creatures of filth, you will unhand me this instant!” Screeched one Draco Malfoy at the very top of his lungs, waving his arms about like a lunatic and bearing a large and multi-colored package of muggle condoms. He was shortly joined by the late Mrs. Black and the remainder of the hallway paintings, creating a cacophony such as Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix had never before heard in their lives.

“You shall burn in the deepest circles of hell!”

“Remove this detritus from our sacred home!”

“Mudbloods! Blood traitors! Squatters! Thieves! Creatures of disease and filth!”

“Silence!”

It was possibly the most effeminate shriek Harry had come across in quite some time... which is perhaps why he found it particularly confounding that such a sound should have come from Draco Malfoy. And that particular Malfoy—drained of all color, bruised and bleeding from a serious head wound—was dressed in his pajamas, slippers and dressing gown. Blood seeped through haphazard bandages, staining his linen garments. The box of condoms had slipped from his pale, shaking hands as he gasped for breath. Malfoy swayed dangerously, struggling to remain upright as his vision swam in crippling, reality-bending pain.

Silence was immediate. And in that silence, their eyes met for the first time since before Albus Dumbledore's death. There was such passion and hatred between these two young men that even the portrait world halted to mark it.

“You,” Malfoy drawled, doing his best to sneer as Mundungus Fletcher and Dedalus Diggle kept him on his unsteady feet.

“You,” Harry snarled from behind his frozen steak, Butterbeer clattering to the floor as he held Malfoy's dark, piercing gaze.

“Mr. Potter? Mr. Malfoy!” Minerva McGonagall could be heard approaching the scene. “What in Merlin's name is going on here?”

While Mundungus and Dedalus began to explain that the condoms were simply the only thing they could find for a portkey at the last minute, while many members of the Order attempted to close the momentarily bemused and intrigued portraits of the extended Black family, something far more important was going on. At least, it was the most important thing for those involved. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had begun The Menacing Stare-Down. Nothing else mattered as these two mortal enemies gazed unflinchingly into the deepest pits of their personal hell.

But hell didn't last that long, seeing as young Mr. Malfoy lost consciousness about thirty seconds into it.
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Conscience