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
- 19
- 20
- 21
SUMMARY: Draco continues to be sexually aggressive and emotionally withholding. His feelings for Harry grow; yet he can't shake his standoff-ish nature. A frustrated Harry Potter is finally allowed to join the Order of the Phoenix and attends his first meeting. When the Ministry schedules a press conference to make Draco's story public, the boys accept the need to keep their relationship secret to protect Draco from becoming any more of a target—but also so that the “Wonder Boyfriend” factor won't draw attention away from Draco's case.

WARNINGS: relationship & political drama, sexual content: Parseltongue fetish, mild breath play, aggressive oral sex, first time anal penetration, fingering, Bottom!Draco, Masochist!Draco, Dominant!Harry

CONSCIENCE:

AND IT'S SERIOUS

Harry woke up with Draco in his arms. It was the best feeling in the world. Draco's warm, messy head resting against his chest, holding his sleep-stilled hand, their legs intertwined... life didn't get any better. He lost track of time just lying there, stroking up and down Draco's back, feeling the bumps of his spine and the detailed expanse of old cuts and burns healed over. He couldn't get enough of the feel of this man. He was almost sad when Draco woke, his silvery eyes opening reluctantly. Harry watched as those eyes took a moment to focus; Draco blinked slowly, his pupils contracting, vision becoming clear for the day ahead.

“'Mornin',” he whispered roughly.

“Good morning,” Harry replied, placing a kiss on his sweaty forehead. Draco quickly squirmed out of their intimate embrace, sitting up and reaching for Harry's dressing gown. Disappointed, Harry sat up, too. “Where are you going?”

Draco's mouth hung open, incredulous, as he stared at Harry.

“Bathroom. Ya mind?”

“Oh,” Harry looked away. Draco made him feel like a sentimental prat sometimes. He got out of bed as well, pulling on pajama trousers and a tshirt. There was something to be said for sleeping naked—especially with a certain blonde-haired Gryffindor convert. “I'll go make us some breakfast. You want coffee?”

“Please,” Draco nodded, belting the Gryffindor robe. Wordlessly, he set out for the bathroom, Harry still tugging his shirt over his head.

He was starting to get frustrated. Draco only touched him when they were having sex or sleeping. The blonde never reached out to hold his hand or touch his face, adjust his clothing or fix his hair. Isn't that what one felt compelled to do in a relationship? When Draco played the piano yesterday, Harry had spent a good hour fighting the urge to go over and run hands through his silky blonde hair, touch his cheek, kiss his talented hands. That was normal—they were in a relationship. At least, Harry was. He wanted to be; but Draco's coldness was difficult to counter. Draco didn't touch him, didn't reach out with words or actions, which made Harry hesitant. He'd seen what Draco really wanted—what he deeply, fiercely desired—in the man's head last night. Draco wanted this relationship just as much as Harry did; he'd even dreamed of putting his head on Harry's shoulder on the Hogwarts Express. They wouldn't get to do that because Harry wasn't going back. But Draco didn't know that. Harry felt the need to fit as much “couple time” as he could into these next two weeks. A part of him knew that would only make it harder to let Draco go when the time came but he couldn't help himself. If he died fighting Voldemort, he at least wanted to die with happy memories of him and Draco. That was the real reason.

Hearing Draco in the shower already, Harry wandered downstairs. A glance in the mirror showed him that he was getting pale; after all, he'd been locked indoors for the better part of two months. Even the tan he'd gotten from a week's worth of forced yard labor at the Dursley's had faded, leaving him as pale and drawn as Draco. The paleness he could get used to... but locked in his own house? Maybe he and Draco could sneak out again. He went into the unused parlor, parting the curtains to check the weather.

It was pouring rain, of course. He and Draco would sneak out another day. He'd bring the idea up over breakfast, see what Draco thought. He turned toward the kitchen to start some pancakes when something odd caught his eye. Why would someone have moved an armchair clear across the room? As far as Harry knew, no one even came in here now that the Order held meetings elsewhere. He walked over to the Black family tree and seized the heavy, high-backed chair, preparing to drag it back where it belonged.

His hands lost their strength, the chair falling to the floor. He jumped back so it wouldn't land on his foot. He gaped at the wall, mouth gone utterly dry.

No wonder they'd tried to hide it from him. No wonder they'd been so angry. The family tree said he was marrying Draco Malfoy.

- - -

Draco was surly as he chewed his pancakes and drank his sweetened coffee. He didn't make eye contact and only spoke to inquire if the paper had arrived. It was like the last two days hadn't happened. It was like they hadn't woken up mostly naked in the same bed, like they weren't even “together,” whatever that meant. And Harry hated it. Desperate to get something out of Draco other than detachment, Harry dove for the bluntest conversational instrument he could think of.

“So,” he laid his fork down on his plate and looked right at Draco. “The family tree says we're getting married. Anything to say about that?”

“Hmm,” Draco pondered into his coffee, expression utterly unchanged. “Maybe it'll go away?” And he sipped his ruddy coffee as though they were talking about the fucking miserable weather instead of their lives... together, potentially.

“That's your answer?” Harry scoffed, not amused at all. “Just ignore it?”

Draco made a noise of agreement in his throat, still pointedly drinking coffee. Harry figured the blonde was using the beverage as an excuse not to speak. Harry didn't know what to think of the news either but he'd thought Draco would have something to say about it; an opinion, a series of lewd words, outrage! Just... something more than nonchalance, coffee drinking and throw-away sounds of ascent.

“You're not... worried?” Harry suggested, brows raised.

Draco shook his head, his mouth full.

“Nervous?” Harry pressed, leaning forward. “Excited, maybe?”

Draco gave him a pained look before swallowing. His voice was suffused with that old, aristocratic speech of his. It made Harry want to wrap hands around the man's delicate throat and not in a good way.

“Don't read into it, poilu. Quello che sarà, sarà: what will be will be. Can we talk about something else now?” He wouldn't meet Harry's eyes. “Please?”

The way he said that last word—devoid of emotion, as though he were talking to a business associate instead of the man he performed sexual favors on last night—made Harry even angrier. Harry never thought a whole lot of himself but he deserved to be treated as though he were the tiniest smidgen of special to this man. He deserved the smallest modicum of lenience, of sentiment. He didn't deserve the Malfoy mask; yet that was exactly what he got.

“Alright, then,” Harry replied sternly. “Let's talk about that stunt you pulled last night. Because, as fun as that was, you can't just... get on your knees and do that to me every time we have an argument.” He flipped his hand at Draco, as though dismissing the man's skill with the back of his hand—slapping it away like it didn't matter, a taste of his own bitter medicine. Draco didn't react.

“Why the hell not?” Draco finally looked at him, face blank. “It was great fer me, too.” Draco offered him a devious, sexy wink. It was so incongruous to his otherwise unmoving face, Harry almost missed it. As it was, the gesture almost melted him. It certainly melted a bit of his frustration.

“Because we have to be able to actually talk to each other. I can't curse you and read all your snarly, twisted-up thoughts every time I want a decent answer.”

“Again, why not?” Draco was being conciliatory. Perhaps he needed more coffee.

“Because that's really fucked up, that's why!” Harry leaned back, exasperated.

“Can't our silly Gryffindor relationship be a little fucked up? It'll match our lives.”

Harry really hated to admit that Draco had a point. “Well, I can't curse you in front of other people,” he pointed out.

“Sure ya can,” Draco smiled devilishly. He meant the Imperius Curse.

“No, I can't,” Harry steadfastly protested. “And do you really want me in your head all the time?”

Draco took a moment to ponder that, fork in hand, using it to cut up the last of his pancakes with currant jam.

“Giving me head all the time? Definitely. In my head all the time? Maybe not.” Draco sighed heavily, pushing his food around his plate, still pensive and sullen. “Wha's the other reason? I think there's a selfish one hidin' behind all tha' noble an' righteous shite.”

“Okay,” Harry offered plainly. “I like listening to you. Sometimes it would be easier to wade through your thoughts and pull out what I need to know,” he conceded with an unhappy shrug. “But I fancy the way you put things, the way you express yourself. And I just want to hear your voice sometimes. I want you to talk to me. Besides, it'll give us something to do when another orgasm could legitimately kill me.”

“I like tha' answer.” Draco's smile lit the room. He fed Harry a bite of pancake from across the table.

It really wasn't all that great—too chewy? Did he use enough milk or too much? Harry vowed that someday he would to learn to cook worth a damn. He deserved full and complete answers: Draco deserved perfect morning afters.

- - -

The morning's owls contained a request marked urgent from Headmistress McGonagall, so Harry soon found himself on his knees before the fireplace in the windowless library room. He'd brought a pillow from the sitting room to kneel on. The Professor's stern face soon emerged in the flames, her lips pursed.

“Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry leaned closer to the magical green fire.

“You have been accepted into the Order of the Phoenix,” she announced without preamble. “We are scheduled to meet this Wednesday evening, nine o'clock. A portkey is en route by owl.”

“Professor, I can Apparate,” Harry pointed out.

“I'll not hear of you Apparating without a license,” she spoke over him. “We'll have someone to guard Mr. Malfoy whilst you are away. And that is the true subject of my calling.”

“You mean Draco?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” she nodded once, curtly. Harry's stomach tensed. “I understand that you and Mr. Malfoy are now the only residents of Grimmauld Place. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Do you think that wise?” Her eyes were sharp, calculating. “While the wards on the house are certainly sufficient and I could spare an extra guard... I can't have the two of you killing one another like a pair of terriers in the night, now, can I?”

Harry had to laugh. “It's okay, Professor. It's great, actually.”

“Still getting along, then?”

“Yep,” Harry grinned.

“You're quite sure?” She's still quite dubious.

“Yes, Professor. I... well, we're together.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Harry swallowed soundly. “As in, we're seeing each other, Professor. Draco and I are a couple.”

McGonagall balked. Her mouth worked silently for a moment, brows lowering. She managed to speak in a very strained voice. “You needn't inform me of your conqu—dalliances, Potter.” She gave him a very funny look, as though she just couldn't picture him and Draco doing anything but strangling one another in their sleep.

“Professor, I'm quite serious,” Harry said, polite but firm. “This isn't a 'dalliance' or a 'conquest;' we're in a relationship. And it's rather serious. He's an amazing wizard and I have very strong feelings for him. I actually wanted to talk to you about his rooming arrangements for the school year. What kind of security do you have in place?”

Harry thought he heard a muttered, “Jesus, Potter,” but he chose to ignore it. This “dating Draco Malfoy” business seemed to call upon him to behave as an adult while the people in his life fell apart.

Harry had a lot to tell Draco. Security would be tight at Hogwarts. If they thought things were constricting now, it would be stifling once the Ministry held their press conference and announced Draco's drastic, life-altering political turn. With the Order's renewed Fidelus Charm on Grimmauld Place, they were quite safe from any Death Eaters who might be after them. They would have to take advantage of the leniency they currently enjoyed. There would be very little sneaking Draco out of Hogwarts if the wards were anything like what McGonagall described.

On the bright side, the new Head of Gryffindor house was Firenze the centaur; a being sure to be sympathetic to Draco's situation, considered a traitor by the other centaurs for associating so closely with the humans of Hogwarts. Firenze would not be able to use the Head's suite adjacent to Gryffindor Tower—hooves made the six flights of stairs rather a challenge—so the space was being converted into a more private suite for the Head Boy and Head Girl. It had the advantage of multiple exits, one leading into the Gryffindor common room through a hidden staircase and the other accessed by way of a bust of Paracelsus down the corridor from the Fat Lady. There was also a large terrace. In case of emergency, Draco could grab Harry's Firebolt and simply fly out.

When had he decided to give Draco his racing broom? The blonde had been a shit that morning. Harry only hoped he would warm up soon. They didn't have much time. He didn't want to waste any more of his young life on fighting than he already had to. Fighting Voldemort was fine. Fighting Draco? Unacceptable.

He stepped into his room with every intention of telling Draco about the unusual steps undergone for his school housing but was stopped short by the scene before him. Draco sat on the bed, shoes and socks off and his long legs folded under him, his few possessions scattered across the bed with him. He used his wand to direct a tshirt into the air. The garment folded itself and then zoomed to the bottom drawer of Harry's dresser which slid open to admit it, softly closing again. Draco had already started on a pair of trousers, which draped themselves over a wooden hanger and zoomed to hang themselves the closet with Harry's meager things.

Draco was a wizard. The things Draco used magic for amazed Harry daily. And that he did it without thinking? Bloody brilliant, that was. Harry tugged off his trainers and socks and crawled up onto the bed, joining Draco at the center of it. He wrapped his arms around the man's waist, settling his chin on a lean shoulder as the blonde sent his suits to hang in the closet beside Harry's old dress robes. Being from his fourth year, Harry doubted they would fit anymore. Good thing Draco was picking out a new set for the wedding. Draco would select something subdued rather than try to truss him up like Mrs. Weasley had done. He wondered if Draco would get another set of those vicar-like robes he'd worn to the Yule Ball. That made Harry smile. He squeezed Draco tighter to him.

“I like that you do everything with magic,” Harry said quietly, speaking to the boy's supple neck, taking in his warmth and smell. “Would you mind saying the spells out loud? I'd fancy a go at learning them.”

Draco gave a little shrug. “Want me ta make a proper wizard out a' ya, Harry?”

“Please.” It was so good to hear his name on Draco's lips, even if he was being teased.

When Harry tried the Unpacking Spell, Draco's shoes tumbled gracelessly through the air, hitting the closet door with a solid thump and thunk. The blonde burst out laughing, leaning back against Harry as he cackled, mouth wide and head thrown back.

“Don't laugh at me!” Harry pouted, enjoying the voluntary contact more than he would like to admit. “Tell me what I'm doing wrong, ya cunt!”

Draco's head fell against Harry's shoulder. The blonde let his laughter die of its own accord. Harry fought the temptation to lick that bobbing Adam's apple mere inches from his lips. He wasn't quite sure how he resisted. He truly wanted to learn, but Draco was... well, he was Draco. And he looked good enough to eat.

“It's easier non-verbally,” Draco suggested. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, letting Harry support him. “Ya have ta create a picture of what ya want in yer mind. Then let tha' picture go out of ya, through yer magic, when ya think the incantation. Kinda... roll the picture up an' push it out of yer wand. Tha's the only way I can describe it. Try again.”

“Okay.”

This time, Harry really focused. He pictured the closet door opening to reveal his and Draco's shoes lined up together in two neat rows, casual shoes in front and less used ones in back. When he opened his eyes, everything happened exactly as it had in his head. Draco turned to smile at him broadly.

“I'm not hopeless, you know,” Harry said with an answering smile.

“I've realized tha',” admitted Draco. “Ya just need a bit more encouragement than most. It's probably 'cause yeh didn't grow up with magic. Ya don't have any reference, so yeh doubt yer abilities. I think, if yer committed ter practicing every day, ya should be up ta snuff by the time school starts.” Draco actually snuggled down in Harry's arms, wrapping his lanky arm around Harry's at his ribs. “Won't Gryffindor House be surprised? The great Harry Potter acting like a real wizard fer a change.”

“Gryffindor doesn't revolve around me,” Harry protested.

“It most certainly does!” Draco scoffed. “It's the headquarters a' The Harry Potter Fan Club. Will I be expected ter attend the meetin's? Or will Dumbledore's Army come after me?”

“Shit, I forgot about the old gang,” Harry rested his cheek on top of Draco's head. Smelling Draco kept him calm. “Think they'll react like Ron?”

“If they find out,” Draco said slowly.

“Ron and Hermione know,” Harry listed. “And Ginny knows. She's sure to have vented her displeasure to a few people by now.”

“Can't we shut her up?”

Harry pulled away enough to look down at Draco's face—unreadable, as always.

“Do you not want people to know about us?” Harry asked slowly. “Talk to me, Draco.”

The blonde propped himself up to sit across from Harry, sending the last of his things away with a flick of his wand. Harry helped him by removing the blonde's shirt, too. Nice to know the spell worked on clothes a person was wearing. Draco's shirt unbuttoned, slid down his arms and folded up, flying neatly into the dresser. Now shirtless and lightly blushing, Draco gave Harry a half-smile, half-scowl, like he couldn't make up his mind how he felt about it. In the end, he folded his arms across his chest. Harry met those storm cloud eyes with a certifiable smirk.

“I think we should keep quiet,” Draco said cautiously.

“Okay,” Harry replied evenly. “Tell me why. What's your reasoning?”

“Retaliation from the Death Eaters, fer one thing,” Draco's features schooled themselves into a gravely serious expression. “I wasn't much more than a whippin' boy ter them. Rookwood is a particular friend a' my father's, which would explain his comin' after me—most likely without orders. If the Department of Magical Law Enforcement goes through with this press junket of theirs, I'm goin' ter have a target painted on my arse tha'll glow in the bloody dark. Leaving my father's house while he's in prison is considered very dishonorable, ya see. Things would only be worse if they thought I left ter....” Draco loosed one hand to gesture furtively between them.

“To be with me,” Harry supplied.

“Yes. Ter be stuffed by Dumbledore's Chosen One.” Draco's language was absolutely priceless even at a time like this.

“So we'll stay a secret,” Harry agreed, taking Draco's hand in his before the blonde could retract it. “Do you want me to tell the Order or no? Because they accepted me as a member. I have to go to a meeting Wednesday night.”

“I'd rather yeh didn't tell 'em,” Draco spoke to their clasped hands, not looking up. Harry couldn't make out the emotion in his eyes and the man's pale face was a blank. “There could be a spy in the ranks. The smaller the chance a' this getting back ta the Dark Lord—an' my father—the better.”

“I guess I understand that,” Harry gave Draco's hand a comforting squeeze. “I'd like to tell... well, everyone! If it weren't for the danger to you, I'd tell everything at that stupid press conference. I want people to know. I don't like hiding this.” He tugged on Draco's hand, trying to get the blonde to look up with no success. Draco continued to examine their joined hands, biting his lip.

“And all yer friends who wouldn't approve?” Draco inquired thoughtfully.

“Fuck 'em,” Harry shrugged. “You should know I don't look for approval. Remember when I started the D.A.? I didn't need ruddy Umbridge's approval then and I don't need anyone's approval now. I've got a job to do an' I'll do it how I see fit. With whoever I see fit.”

“Jus'... fuck everyone, yer Harry Potter?” Draco exhaled fast and hard through his nose—it was almost a snort. Finally, he looked up at Harry through his fringe of platinum hair, grey eyes shining despite the darkness of the day. Harry's vision reduced down, encompassing only those brilliant eyes, that ghost of a smile on perfect pink lips.

“Well, I wouldn't fuck just anyone,” Harry shrugged playfully. “I do have standards. And they're pretty high; they've gotta be blonde, for starters,” Harry joked. “Fit. And smart—I really won't budge on that one. And you know... I think I like 'em a little haughty, too. Suppose I like the chase.”

“So yer down ta me an' Fleur Delacour, then,” Draco's smile lit up his face. “Unless Lovegood develops some airs over the summer, then I've got competition!”

Harry's eyes slid helplessly shut as he laughed. Draco's squirrely chuckle mingled in a moment later, making him laugh harder. Draco's laugh was just plain silly, childish and free. It made Harry's heart beat out of his chest.

Draco's lips were a surprise. One moment they were laughing together and the next Draco was on his knees before Harry, devouring his mouth with unrestrained passion. Harry tilted his head back to receive his boyfriend's tongue. Draco would throw a wobbly and possibly die a little if he knew that was how Harry thought of him but he really couldn't help it. It was just one of those things. When another man kissed you like this, made your heart flutter like this, made you dizzy with his presence like this... he was your boyfriend.

Harry rose up, meeting Draco on every level. He wanted to embrace that wildness, the way their lips, chests and thighs plied one another's with growing familiarity and rising desire. Every time he kissed Draco he realized he would always be excited by the man's lips, the subtle nuances that made up his flavor, his scent, the wetness of his mouth and strong firmness of his tongue. Harry sucked hard when that muscle invaded his mouth, eliciting a heavy groan that further parted Draco's lips and made both their hips buck. They just fit together. It was pleasure beyond words when Draco moaned. Harry wanted this man to pant his name, scream it, covered in sweat, begging for release. His excitement escalated and soon he was growling from the depths of his gut, forcing Draco backwards onto the bed.

“Wait!” the blonde panted, a hand to Harry's chest. The other was still firmly in Harry's grip and pressed to the smalls of his back, Harry's fingertips caressing his bare skin.

“Hmm,” Harry grunted, biting at Draco's jaw. He tasted crisp and clean everywhere. The urge to get him sweaty and dirty was maddening. Before he knew what he was doing, he was pressing harder, urging the man to bend backwards, to give in.

“No, no,” Draco mumbled distractedly. Harry was glad to be a distraction, biting his way down that succulent neck, inhaling the first beads of tension and desire budding along mind-altering skin.

“Stop.”

Harry Potter was single-minded in his quest to get Draco to come from kissing. He hadn't come in his pants since he was a boy of ten rutting against his mattress, thinking of the Falmouth Falcons opening line-up. Harry reduced him to that level of bone-searing lust. His arms shook as he pushed his raven-haired lover away with all his strength.

Harry sat back on his heels, giving Draco a confused and almost hurt look. Before he realized what he was doing, Draco reached out to smooth the wrinkles from the man's brow, caressing his lightning-shaped scar. His fingers trailed down to caress two days worth of stubble and then impossibly soft, pouty, wanting lips. Harry allowed the slow, gentle touch—and when Draco least expected, sucked his ring finger suddenly and powerfully into his mouth. Where, where had this near-virgin learned to do that with his tongue? The slick pulling of lips and inner cheeks was perfect and nearly too much, the way Harry suckled and then released his finger, swirling his tongue only to suck the length back to the hilt.

“Putain, laisse toi,” he muttered, approaching breaking point with disturbing speed. He'd had a good long toss in the shower this morning—he should be fine; and yet here he was, seconds away from pitching over into premature oblivion without so much as a hand to his bits. He pulled his finger away and gripped Harry's rough chin in his hand, angling that beautiful face up to his. Draco straightened his back and stretched up as far as he could on his knees, seeking to gain any advantage. He stared down at his waiting lover. Harry's green eyes were deep with desire, his red lips parted and waiting, breath hot on Draco's face and still smelling vaguely of morning coffee. Coffee that Harry had made, knowing Draco preferred it. Gods, that made him horny, too. Did he never cease to be turned on by this perfect fucking man? Even the little beige and caramel freckles below his eyes were sexy. You had to get so close to see them. They set off his eyes. And his skin—it practically glowed.

“You stop that,” Draco pronounced insistently, giving Harry's face the tiniest of shakes. “Lie on yer back. I wanna blow you.”

Harry settled back immediately, his head nestled in white pillows. Draco seized his powerful legs, throwing them over his shoulders and hoisting the man's backside off the bed to remove his trousers and boxers in a rapid sweep. He dropped Harry's weight back to the bed with a bounce that made his cock flop deliciously against his toned stomach. Draco yanked the material until it came free of Harry's feet and tossed it across the room, hopefully in the direction of the clothes hamper but it didn't rightly matter. They had a house elf, after all. He gazed down at Harry's body, letting his eyes rove the path his hands would soon take up, schooling his breathing.

His wand was on the bed by his knee. He had a split second to decide. He picked up the hawthorn instrument in what he hoped was a casual way and made to toss it from the bed. He only had time for a single non-verbal spell before it was out of his hands. That was the difficult decision. He could spell his jaw to stretch or temporarily charm away his gag reflex. Either would make it very difficult to speak; somehow, he didn't think there'd be much chit-chat once he got started. Harry had a filthy mouth, snake or otherwise, and Draco intended to listen with rapt attention. He did away with his gag reflex in the end, knowing Harry enjoyed the teeth and tension that came from a tight jaw.

He slid the man's shirt up just to revel in the musculature of his stomach and chest. He was perfect, the smattering of coarse black hair offsetting the gentle give of his skin, the hardness of his body beneath. He was a powerful mix of strength and stasis, power and timidity. One moment he was on top, ferocious and demanding, the next on his back, doe-eyed and innocent, his untouched cock ready and weeping. Draco wanted to lavish every inch of him with his mouth, tongue every crevice and kiss every hair, every freckle, every pore, every drop of sweat. One ran down the center of his chest and Draco had to bend his head, licking it away. He rolled that drop around his mouth, absorbing its essence, breathing Harry's scent through his nose, intensifying it in every way he knew how. He kissed a wet path, lower and lower, to what he considered his afternoon treat.

First he sucked just the head into his mouth, cleaning it of sticky precome. He sucked firmly but shallow, using his tongue to probe that dark pink slit, looking for more. Shaking, Harry obliged with another spurt. Draco sucked it up through his teeth. He used a hand to gently draw back the last of foreskin, working the now exposed head with the edges of his teeth. Harry shivered, arching into the pressure. His hands were clenched into fists at his hips, inching closer to Draco's face. He sucked harder still, rolling his head on his neck to move Harry's cock in slow circles around his mouth.

“Draco,” Harry managed between wracking breaths. His voice was so deep it was nearly unrecognizable—a predator's warning growl. Draco reveled in it, the way his spoken name vibrated in his chest and lingered in his ears. It was more of Harry, more to catalog, more to savor. “Please, can I touch you?”

Draco opened his eyes to meet Harry's, his lips not leaving his prize for an instant. He descended further down Harry's shaft before nodding, a small sound of acquiescence escaping his numbed throat. Harry gasped, a noise like sandpaper, throwing his head back as his hands flew to fist tight and snug in Draco's now disheveled hair. Draco watched that dark head fall once again to the pillows, throat deliciously exposed as his head thrashed from side to side in a tantalizing, desperate plea for more.

Draco knew Harry wouldn't last much longer if he got his way. The man was already stone hard and choking him even with the spell. Draco pulled back a few inches, catching his breath.

Harry, with a solid grip on his head, forced him down again. Draco's eyes watered when Harry thrust into his mouth, scraping the very back of his throat. He focused on breathing through his nose as Harry reared back only to slam forward again, harder than before. It was animal, carnal and merciless. Draco panted and held on tight, relaxing his jaw as much as he could as his mouth was pounded.

That's it, Harry, he though. Fuck my face. I can take it this time. Your pleasure is my pleasure.

The more Harry gave, the more Draco realized he wanted, needed, longed to receive. He found a way to close the back of his throat, squeezing and suckling the head of Harry's cock each time he was breached. Harry slid all the way out before slamming in to the hilt, fucking him raw. Harry seemed to like it when he coughed, when he struggled for composure, struggled for air. Draco didn't realize he'd been holding his breath, holding in the air filled with Harry's musk, the heady spice and tang of him, the tripping, pungent odor of magic on his skin. He held his breath, a breath filled with Harry, as long as he could before gasping, choking as Harry filled him over and over again, never letting up for a second. Draco waited until he was legitimately light headed and dizzy before drawing back, closing his teeth to barricade entry. Harry thrust against his lips, cock slapping his face.

He seized Harry roughly by the base, squeezing to prevent his orgasm while bringing sensation to a peak. Harry released a feral grunt, pulsing in Draco's grip. Just a second, baby, Draco told him with an extra tight squeeze. He slipped a finger into his mouth, coating it liberally with saliva, knowing he couldn't manage a wandless and non-verbal Lubrication Charm under the best of conditions, let alone gasping for breath and about to come from the visual stimulation alone! He practically spit on his hand just to be sure.

To be fair, he lowered his mouth back to his very patient lover's aching cock. He worked the head with the flat of his tongue, letting the man know the best experience of his sexual existence was well on the way. Keeping his hand tight at the base of Harry's flushed cock, he trailed his damp hand down tightening balls, stroking with the back of his hand so as not to sacrifice any moisture. He stroked lower, down and then up Harry's perineum with the knuckle of his forefinger. The way Harry jumped and then screamed wildly, he knew the spot had never been touched before. He backed off, bobbing on Harry's cock in a regular rhythm until his strong, compact body began to relax. Harry actually sighed in pleasure, one hand leaving Draco's hair to trail a single finger down his long nose in a silly, affectionate expression of delight. Harry smiled like a little boy, his beautiful bright green eyes closing in abject, serviced bliss.

Draco nearly smiled around a mouthful of Chosen cock. This missish, tender moment was exactly the distraction he needed. Quickly, while Harry was happily unhinged, Draco brought his spit-slicked finger to Harry's entrance—circled once, twice and, feeling him relaxed, slipped a finger in.

Harry's Seeker body clamped down immediately at the intrusion; a wordless, Parseltongue hiss of surprise escaping his exquisite mouth. Before the sting of first entry could catch up with him, Draco swiveled his finger, searching frantically for that little knot of tissue that would make everything worthwhile. It was like finding the Snitch—it happened when it did no matter how hard you tried. He and Harry were just lucky together. He found it almost immediately. He curled his long finger and pressed, massaging the bundle of nerves as his mouth sucked for everything he was worth.

“Draco!” Harry screamed in a hiss of mingled pain and pleasure. The sound caught in Draco's chest, daring the wetness in his eyes to become something more, to actually spill down his cheeks.

Draco loosened his hand at the base of Harry's cock. One good pump and the man was coming, spilling into Draco. He sucked as hard as he could but some still escaped his wanton mouth, dripping down his chin. He retracted his teeth as much as possible as Harry spasmed, clenching unbelievably tight around his finger—so tight he forced all but the tip of Draco's finger from his body.

Seeking one last scream, Draco pushed that finger right back in to be enveloped by hot, slick, pulsing muscle.

“FUUUUUCK!” Harry screamed at the top of his lungs. The man was probably seeing stars. Draco couldn't blame him.

“Yes,” he whispered around Harry's softening cock. Either he'd found a way to dissipate all the man's sexual energy in one fell swoop or he'd momentarily knocked the sex drive out of him. Still, it was nice to see he'd finally satisfied Wonder Boyfriend in a single go. He removed his finger as gently as possibly before sitting back. He ogled the man as he wiped come from his chin, idly licking it off the back of his hand.

“You... are,” Harry gasped, looking up at him with intensely green eyes, “so... incredibly sexy.” He held his arm out for Draco to collapse into. It was an unspoken rule, now; they always laid together after someone came, preferably face to face so they could kiss until their brains decided to come back from holiday. Draco fell into Harry's waiting arms, turning on his side so their sweaty foreheads met. Harry's tongue shot out, licking the last of his mess from Draco's chin before kissing him, lips thick and sighs hopelessly sated.

~ * ~

Harry spent the better part of two hours explaining things to Draco as they sat in front of a good fire in the disused parlor. With the tapestry the way it was, Harry found he wanted to be in this room more and more. Initially, Draco cast the tree a few cautious glances and then ignored it all together when Harry produced a quality bottle of chilled Lambrusco he'd brought up from the cellar. The air was cool from the last two days' rain and the warmth from the fire was comforting as they sat in each other's arms, Harry speaking more than normal and Draco asking lots of questions.

Harry ended up telling Draco absolutely everything about Voldemort, the Horcruxes and the prophecy linking him and the Dark Lord together. He told Draco about Snape's involvement in his parents' deaths, how Dumbledore and Professor Trelawney were a part of it, the many memories Dumbledore had revealed to Harry and what his part would be in the final battle. Needless to say Draco was not pleased at the thought of his boyfriend running full-pelt into unimaginable danger but there wasn't much he could do to stop Harry once he'd set his mule mind to something.

Now it was a few minutes to nine on Wednesday evening and Harry stood in their bedroom in an old trench raincoat he'd discovered amongst Sirius' things, holding the silver figurine of a rabbit McGonagall had configured as a portkey to bring him to his first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. He'd briefly asked Draco if he was interested in joining; at least as a member, he wouldn't be alone in the house for a few evening hours, waiting for Harry to return. And Harry would tell him everything that went on, anyway. Draco had rolled his eyes and then reached out to take Harry's stubble-covered cheeks in both hands, saying, “Why would I waste a few perfectly good hours listening to those people when I could be here, practicing the piano or getting lashed? It will be better to have you give me the highlights in your own words and we can analyze. Pillow-talk.”

Looking at Draco as he waited for the portkey to activate, he couldn't help the smile that came to his lips. Draco had stopped him shaving the last two days, insisting he heeded to see what he was dealing with. That afternoon, the blonde had finally dragged Harry into the bathroom and conjured a straight razor, shaving cream and bristled brush. Draco had given him a very sad, loving look with the blade in his hand.

“I could kill ya,” the blonde had warned, his eyes very far away.

“I know,” Harry replied steadily. “I trust you.”

“Really,” Draco insisted. “One slip a' the hand an' yer dead, Chosen One.”

“I understand. Go ahead.”

And he'd offered his throat.

Now, in Sirius' raincoat and absently tossing the silver rabbit in the air—catching it with Seeker reflexes—he had the best shave of his life, complete with fashionably long, stylized sideburns for the first time in his life. He couldn't help smiling at Draco.

“It's almost time, na,” the blonde said absently, checking the battery-operated digital clock at their bedside table.

“I know,” Harry replied. Draco couldn't be touching the little portkey when it activated but there wasn't any guideline saying he couldn't touch Draco. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the agitated man's cheek. “I should be back in a few hours. McGonagall posted an extra guard. Just remember—any problems, shoot red sparks in front of a window and they'll come charging in, Gryffindor style. Yeah?”

Draco just nodded solemnly, wringing his bony hands in that heart wrenching manner of his. Harry took one pale hand in his, squeezing. He brought that hand to his lips, delivering a kiss that made Draco blush. That was so adorable he did it again and the color on the man's cheeks deepened. He placed a third kiss to the palm of his hand and a subsequent fourth and fifth to the fluttering pulse at his narrow wrist. By the sixth kiss, he was gone.

- - -

Landing with bone-jarring force, Harry barely managed to keep his balance. Upon opening his eyes, he knew exactly where he was: Viktor Krum's flat. There was quite a group assembled and Harry moved into the generous main room, un-belting his trench as he went. Viktor had set out an assortment of port wine, breads, nuts, cheeses and chocolates. Harry helped himself to a healthy glass and a square of dark chocolate as he watched the room fill. He was impressed with the number of unfamiliar faces. The Order's recruitment efforts were apparently going well.

Harry watched two familiar heads of red hair wend their way through the crowd in his direction.

“Harry!” called Fred Weasley amiably, extending a hand which Harry shook.

“It's been ages!” George asserted, offering his own hand for the same treatment.

“Gryffindor's Gout,” Harry snorted. “I suppose the Order'll take anybody these days!”

The twins' laughter rolled out in waves. Several people nearby smiled appreciatively, not having heard Harry's comment but thinking it appropriate to look pleased whenever The Chosen One opened his chosen fucking mouth. Harry thought he might be sick. Draco was right—these clueless people worshiped him. He'd have to set the record straight. He was just as good as everyone else, not meant to be put up on some kind of pedestal. If they wanted a savior they'd best look elsewhere. Harry was just another soldier in the fight. His eyes fell to Ron and Hermione, sitting together on a love seat at the other end of the room. Hermione was conversing with Ginny; none of them even acknowledged his presence. He'd figured as much. They could continue to be petty. Harry had a job to do whether they joined him or not.

George's voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Is it true, Harry? What Gin said about you and Malfoy hooking up?”

The twins certainly didn't beat around the bush. Harry turned his back to the crowd. “For fuck's sake, keep your voices down,” he muttered darkly. “We have to lay low. No one can find out or the Death Eaters will kill us both.”

“So it's true, then?” Fred whispered, incredulous. George blushed from the roots of his hair, the color quickly suffusing his face.

“How exactly does that... work? I mean, sexua—” Fred's elbow met George's gut, effectively silencing the remainder of a very awkward question.

“We're seventeen,” Harry shrugged. “Maybe you haven't noticed, but he's bloody good looking, yeah? We don't exactly sit around playing Exploding Snap.”

“So... he's at home, then?” Fred posed. “Not joining the Order?”

“We just started dating,” Harry rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his port. It had a hint of blackberries that only served to remind him more acutely of the handsome blonde he'd left back home. “What am I supposed to do, conversion by blow job?”

“Whoa!” Fred gasped.

“I like this new Harry!” George exclaimed, clapping the dark haired man on the back. “We should've gotten you two together ages ago!”

“Shut up!” Harry said congenially enough. He didn't need his friends interfering in his life, trying to get him laid, even if the efforts were well-meant. At least he was happy now. And being with Draco had been entirely his decision. He'd fought for it and won. “Your mum's coming over. Remember; not a fucking word.”

Fred and George nodded, busying themselves with the bread and cheese as their mother approached.

“Harry, dear!” she engulfed him in a hug. She smelled like Ginny, flowery, with the addition of pastries and sherry. “How have you been?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry shrugged when she released him.

“And... Draco?” she posed the question offhandedly enough. Harry got the impression that Mrs. Weasley had been the first person Ginny cried to and that the woman had probably heard the very worst of it. He decided to ignore that possibility for now and gave the most generic answer available. It was up to her to press the matter.

“He's doing fine,” Harry offered. “Excited to go back to school. Looking forward to being Head Boy—it's always been a big dream of his.”

“Oh, good for him!” Mrs. Weasley chortled good naturedly. Harry recognized the pitch of her voice as uncomfortable and steadfastly ignored it.

“Yeah. He's optimistic,” Harry agreed. “He's doing a lot better than I would be in his situation.”

“Harry, I'm sorry,” Mrs. Weasley did as Harry had done with Fred and George, angling her body away from the crowded room to converse more privately. “I must ask. I heard some rather disturbing things from Ginny and then Ron. Arthur and I are a little confused. Is it true, what we've heard?”

There it was—the honest question. Harry sighed and took a fortifying sip of his wine. Just to be sure, he put a hand in his trouser pocket, only needing contact with his wand to cast the Muffliato spell. Draco had been working with him enough that he could cast some basic spells without having to actually draw his wand. It was coming in handy.

“I'm not sure what you've heard, Mrs. Weasley, but Draco and I are together. I'm sorry things didn't work out with me and Ginny. I'm even more sorry she had to find out the way she did,” Harry purposefully left that statement open-ended. “Draco and I had only just realized our own feelings and were still sorting things out. I'm not ashamed, though—we're really happy and I wish we could tell people, but he's still a target for the Death Eaters and would be in even more danger if word got out. We have to stay quiet for now.” He looked around the room meaningfully, letting her know that it wasn't safe to clue in other members of the Order yet, the information was that sensitive. “I'd appreciate it if you could help us keep our relationship a secret.” That was also the most polite way of asking Mrs. Weasley to control her daughter's run-away mouth. Mrs. Weasley understood the gravity of the boys' situation and her face reflected her fear for Harry's safety if not Draco's per-say.

“Of course, dear,” she said warmly, placing a motherly hand on Harry's shoulder. “You know I think of you as one of my own. I'm glad you're happy. And there's no need to worry about Ginny—she's strong and stubborn. She'll bounce back before you know it. She always does.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley. That's really good to know.” He took a moment to compose his face before turning back to face the room. He spoke in a slightly louder voice, touching his pocket to release the privacy spell. “You should try the chocolate! I have no idea where Viktor got it but it's wonderful.” That got Mrs. Weasley moving to the refreshment table where Fred and George saw to amusing her until the meeting got underway. Harry found himself a plain chair toward the back of the room and sat stiffly, working on his wine and meeting the eyes of anyone who stared at him with a frank glare. Why people thought a seventeen year old kid would be able to fix an international problem the government couldn't was beyond him. Did they seriously think Harry Potter would stand up one meeting and declare he had a solution, run off and kill Voldemort so the rest of them could live happily ever after?

Okay, maybe living with Draco was making him the slightest bit cynical and bitter. He couldn't help it, though. He missed his little prat.

The first ninety minutes was of little import to Harry. He ended up refilling his wine glass and grabbing a few more chocolates to combat the sedative powers of the wine as well as the meeting. Logistics, introductions of new members—and McGonagall conveniently skipped over Harry, assuming everyone knew who The Chosen One was—reports on the status of their cause amongst various countries and groups of magical beings. Bill reported little success with the Gringotts goblins and Hagrid, Madame Maxime in tow, were off on another giant mission, Grawp acting as their enforcer. A french witch gave a rather upsetting account of rising Death Eater activity in the country, including several abductions and a kidnapping. A Greek wizard reported on a skirmish that had taken place in sight of muggles. Quick thinking Aurors had been able to pass it off as rival football clubs getting out of hand after an afternoon in the pubs.

The only part of the meeting which peaked Harry's attention was a message from their “unnamed spy” in the enemy camp, Severus Snape. With the influx of new members, McGonagall was keeping Snape's identity under wraps. The message said that the Dementors were completely out of Ministry control and that a mass break from Azkaban was imminent. Considered most dangerous was Lucius Malfoy, his home a Death Eater stronghold frequented by Voldemort and the man himself still holding significant funds and some remaining political leverage. Snape didn't say what that leverage was or McGonagall was censoring that part of his report as well. Snape warned that when Lucius Malfoy broke loose, he would be out for blood—most likely his son's first on that list. Voldemort himself couldn't be bothered with the young man's dissent and sudden transfer of loyalties. Voldemort was spending more and more time with his higher-ups, leading Snape to believe that a major attack was being orchestrated. He would make contact when he had more information.

Harry was called upon to speak about the situation with Draco and the Ministry. He explained in brief terms that the Ministry was pushing for a poster boy and, because he wouldn't take the job, Draco had been second choice. Tomorrow he would be put on display in a big press conference with all the magical media. The whole time he spoke people gaped. They waited, open mouthed, hoping that at any moment he'd have the great epiphany that would end the war. It made Harry so mad he could spit.

Someone had the nerve to ask him if Draco would be joining the Order soon. Harry had to swallow the angry hiss in his throat.

“The man was tortured within an inch of his life and sanity. You think he's going to be choosing sides and taking up arms again?” Harry waggled his eyebrows at the Belgian wizard whose name he didn't know and didn't bother to ask. “We're lucky he was in any shape to provide us with intelligence. Now give him some peace. It's the least he deserves.”

Whispers were silenced when Harry sat back down. McGonagall called the meeting to a close and was soon engulfed by people with questions, opinions and points not yet made. Harry did not envy her responsibilities one bit. He found Viktor and offered his and Draco's best before picking up one last chocolate and heading for the floo. He caught Hermione's attention and gave her the muggle signal for “call me.” She was due to floo him regarding the Horcruxes. If there really was one in him, he wanted it out as soon as possible.

When he stepped into the green flames, there were only two things on his mind: holding Draco and falling asleep in their big warm bed. The fact that he not only received a welcome home kiss but the bonus offer of a neck rub? Un-fucking-believable. He was the luckiest man alive.

~ * ~

It had stopped raining in time for Draco's Department of Magical Law Enforcement press conference the following morning. The boys sat in the kitchen, quietly drinking coffee. Draco had made these wonderful little scones—at least Harry thought they were scones. They were dense like scones but sort of flat and round like sugar biscuits. And they tasted like sugar biscuits. Draco put a bit of jam on top of his, so Harry assumed it was a scone. Whatever they were, they were delicious.

Draco glanced up at the clock. He stood and adjusted his dark suit, making sure his tie was straight and his lapels free of crumbs or sugar granules. He met Harry's gaze with an unnecessarily wide smile.

“Anything in my teeth?” he asked, joking to hide his nervousness.

“Nothing in your teeth,” Harry confirmed, standing up and putting a comforting hand to the side of Draco's blonde head. He'd agonized over his hair for the better part of a half hour, twice asking Harry if he thought Draco should cut it. Only Harry's insistence that he liked it long had dissuaded the man. Running his hand back through silky blonde tresses, Harry was especially glad he'd spoken his opinion. “And you look perfect.”

Harry rested his forehead against Draco's, just breathing his scent and knowing the man was doing the same. He stroked calming circles along Draco's scalp, probably mussing his perfect hair. Draco didn't seem to mind.

“You're sure you don't want me to come?” Harry offered. “I'd understand if you changed your mind since last night.”

“No,” Draco patted Harry's elbow before letting his hand rest against Harry's shoulder blade, gently massaging the place where the Snitch knot still made guest appearances. “It's a good thing ya won't be there. I can't have ya lookin' at me with those goopy eyes while I'm trying ter speak. Everyone would know we're boning—yeh can keep a secret, Boy, but yer face can't lie worth a damn. We're droppin' 'nough of a bombshell without everyone thinkin' I'm yer gaggin' come dumpster. Or vice versa. So it's really much better this way. We'll keep 'us' quiet.”

Harry loved Draco's dirty mouth. Somehow when the man called him a gagging come dumpster it got him all hot n' bothered. Harry pulled him in for one last kiss before the blonde's Ministry escorts arrived at the front door to steal him away from his raven-haired lover. Harry performed the Disillusionment Charm on Draco himself, wanting to savor every last second of looking at his face, looking deeply into his stormy grey eyes.

Draco was a Malfoy, Harry told himself. He was trained for this sort of thing and would do brilliantly. That didn't stop him from sitting at the piano bench for the better part of three hours, biting his God damned fingernails to nubs.

- - -

Draco returned from his press conference confident and nonchalant. He didn't say a word about it; instead, he dragged Harry upstairs for an hour's worth of hot, sweaty, half-clothed rolling around in bed. He'd slapped Harry's hand away each time he reached for the blonde's straining erection, declaring it “wasn't about that.” After a while Harry gave up and just enjoyed kissing, touching, being in Draco's arms and Draco in his. He only found out about the press conference by reading about it in the next morning's paper. Draco made sugar scones again.

“'Malfoy and Potter have developed a relationship bordering on civil,'” Harry read from The Daily Prophet. “Whatever gave them that idea?” Harry joked. He moved a section of the paper aside to look at Draco across the table. The blonde's face was pensive, distant.

The cameras wouldn't stop flashing. He was going to have a migraine when he returned to Wonder Boyfriend's bed and that made him irrationally angry. He put on his best Malfoy smile and waited until the screaming died down. He'd finished his prepared statement ages ago but the questions just kept coming. Most of the time that Auror Shackelbolt would lean over and inform the reporter in an unmistakable tone of voice that the subject matter was still under Ministry review and therefore confidential. Draco had been vague enough about his time in the cellar of Malfoy Manor that he couldn't blame the reporters for their questions. His scars told the whole story. So he'd purposefully worn a muggle suit to hide the damage done to his person. All that was visible was the tiny white scar that blended into his hairline—and even that was covered by his hair. His hair that smelled like Harry. His suit smelled like Harry, too. He licked his lips, imagining he still tasted Harry there.

“But you and Potter hate each other!” one reporter shouted over all the others. Draco couldn't hide his laugh.

Shackelbolt signaled that the accusation was acceptable to address and the pushing, shoving crowd quieted down but did not stop their incessant seething, as though moving so many centimeters to the right or left might yield the perfect shot of a Malfoy in disgrace.

“True enough,” Draco conceded. “Our school rows are quite the stuff of legend, actually—truancy, several duels and severe cosmetic damage to a men's lavatory being the least of it,” he laughed and the cameras flashed to capture it. “But we're both adults now, able to put such things aside in favor of the larger picture. As fate would have it, we happen to get on rather famously these days. We have a lot in common.”

“Such as?” A nosy reporter shouted. Draco smiled graciously.

“Well, it's not widely known that Potter possesses a particularly sharp wit—much as it pains me to admit I was in the wrong about him all these years!” That got him an appreciative chuckle from his audience. Draco continued to smile as more pictures were taken. “He keeps me in stitches. We share similar tastes in food and music, preferences for books and entertainment, though we always disagree over Quidditch. Neither of us are shy of a debate and he argues his point well; despite his being completely barmy and outright wrong, anyway. But I suppose our strongest commonality is sheer stubbornness, a certain refusal to lie down and die which I understand leaves The Dark Lord chuffed to bits.”

“'One is left to wonder that Mr. Draco Malfoy can be so cheeky with Death Eaters, his former compatriots, banging at his door. Apparently it is that zest and zeal, that will to live, which helps him challenge the Dark Forces mounting against him. Harry Potter has indeed gained a friend and ally in his great fight.'” Harry finished reading the front page article and set the paper aside, facing Draco with a flippant smile that gave him dimples.

“Would you look at that, Draco,” he pointed out, pushing his luck. “They called us friends.”

“Shut it, Golden Boy,” Draco said over his coffee cup. “We're fuck-mates.”

“Serious fuck-mates,” Harry corrected.

“Sure,” Draco muttered, biting into a sugar scone loaded with currant jam. “If 'serious' makes yeh happy, then by all means. The head is certainly intense 'nough ta qualify the appellation. How 'bout some 'serious' fuckin' action in the bath, say ten minutes?”

Harry cocked a curious eyebrow. “Why wait?”

“I'd like ta finish my tea first, if yeh don't mind.”

Harry dragged him to the bath immediately, just to prove how “serious” they really were. Coffee and sugar scones could wait; his “zest and zeal” for Draco would not.
- 19
- 20
- 21
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Conscience