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
- 25
- 26
- 27
SUMMARY: Draco returns to Hogwarts a Malfoy in disgrace—or a Malfoy reborn. It depends on how you look at it.

WARNINGS: some vaguely sexual content, coarse language and what passes for Slytherin banter

CONSCIENCE:

SERPENT IN THE LION'S DEN

or, The Remnants of the Noble House of Malfoy

It was too soon. He was dressed in his best suit, Harry's arms around him and that damn cloak flung over their bodies, the jar and clang of Side-Along Apparition followed by the chaotic noise of Platform 9 ¾ and it was all just to damn soon, to real, too much. He was actually squeezing Harry, fingers scrambling to grip the fabric of his muggle tshirt, tugging, pretending they were still Apparating and the closeness was necessary. Harry held him back just as tight, inhaling heavily against Draco's hair, breathing his scent. This was it.

He'd known the second he woke up that he would hate today. The bed was that special type of cold—the cold that communicates on a bone-deep, painfully omnipotent level that the body you're seeking isn't here. There's only the shadow of that form's terrible warmth, the ghost of its scent, fledgling memories left in cotton and goose down; vicious, teasing fucking memories. He'd opened his eyes to find Harry stark naked and leaning against a post at the foot of the bed, just looking at him. Really looking, green eyes fixed and intense, boring into him, memorizing details. And he was rock hard, stroking himself as he stared.

“Touch yourself,” he'd commanded in that impossibly low voice and Draco pulled the sheets down before he tented them any worse. Harry was watching—watching him—always watching, now. Orange light from the window caught in his hair, highlighting strands around his face and down his torso, dragging Draco's eyes up and down his frame in a merciless tug of war between arms and thighs, chest and inky hair, eyes and sex. Oddly enough, green eyes won. “You remember this, Draco. Every second that we're apart, you remember this. Every time you close your eyes, every time you think of me, think of this. Think of us.”

He tried so hard not to cry out when the Mark burned on his arm. He tried to ignore it, tried to put it aside. He couldn't hide anything from Harry. The man was back in bed immediately, cradling Draco to his chest, soothing with his hands and hot, open mouthed kisses. He whispered nonsense, hissed in Parseltongue, lips ghosting over the Dark Mark as he held Draco tight. They'd rutted against one another, bodies locked, the old plan forgotten in favor of this last sexual congress, this need to touch and be touched, to be together in that last hour or so before they faced their very separate worlds.

Harry had watched him in the bathroom afterwords, naked before the sink and cutting his hair with practiced wand flicks. White blonde strands fell, landing in splashes against green-veined marble. Green like Harry's eyes, observing from the doorway. Harry always liked watching him.

Now Harry kissed him beneath the Invisibility cloak, witches and wizards moving all around them unawares. Draco prayed they wouldn't feel Harry's magic flare, hoped to Merlin they wouldn't hear the rather pathetic sound coming from his own throat at that kiss. Harry's breath hitched, their chests so close it was a wonder either of them could breathe. They weren't, Draco realized. Harry gasped for air when they prized their lips apart at last. A very confused witch looked straight through them at the desperate sound. Harry held him tight, one arm around his waist and the other still trying to tangle in his hair. He'd cut it awfully short and there wasn't much for Harry to hang on to. He wound up running his fingernails over Draco's scalp, stroking back from the temple, sweaty palm slicking back the soft strands his fingers displaced.

“This isn't goodbye,” he whispered, their foreheads together.

“I know,” Draco replied very quietly. “Stop bein' a weepy prat 'bout it.”

“Why?” Harry teased. “Gonna make another set of those badges? 'Potter Cries,' 'Support the real bloke in the relationship?'”

Draco couldn't help but snort. “I jus' might.” And, against his better judgment, he brushed the end of his nose against Harry's. The man liked it. He was only being companionable.

“You play nice,” Harry warned in a would-be stern voice. The expression on his handsome face was tired, worried. “And watch your back.”

“I'm not a first year, nor am I some hapless Hufflepuff,” he muttered. “But thanks.”

Harry nodded. “I have a couple of appointments but I should make it up in a week or so.”

“Appointments yeh put off 'cause a' me?” Draco surmised with a twinge of guilt.

“Yes and no,” Harry sighed, fingers tracing circles against his scalp. “It's just stuff I have to do. But I needed to get my head on straight first. I... I know why I'm doing this now. I—”

“Save it,” Draco cut in, silencing Harry with a quick kiss. He ran his fingers through that unruly mass of dark hair, always surprisingly soft to the touch. Harry was a mess of sensations and textures, so very real and present, a kind of condensed calm and power sliding out of him through his skin. Draco didn't know how he hadn't noticed years ago. Maybe Harry hadn't always been like this. Maybe this was new. “Ya know I couldn't give a fuck 'bout yer bloody Gryffindor morality, always needin' a sermon ter justify yer actions. Jus' do what ya have ta do an' then get yer ass to Scotland, yeah?”

“Okay,” Harry agreed against his lips. “I think I can manage that, love.”

Harry's mouth closed over his in the dreaded goodbye kiss—the first of many uncomfortably emotional kisses and other such gestures that signaled the demise of something. Gods, he hated change. And he hated goodbyes. But he kissed back, kissed Harry for everything he was worth, knocking his boyfriend off-balance with the intentions radiating from his body and surging into the other man through lips and tongue, chests and thighs and heavy breaths and hands. Oh yes, hands. Harry bent back in his arms under the assault, yielding and inviting more as his head tilted back. As soon as Harry had some semblance of balance, Draco laid a hand on his trunk—Harry's trunk—and Apparated out from beneath the cloak. Invisible, Harry was left tonguing thin air, suddenly quite bereft of their beautiful, warm press.

The crack of his Apparition was met with a few glances. Then the casual eyes processed who he was. A witch nearby actually screamed, another woman clamping a hand over her mouth. Yes, scream, Draco thought bitterly. Because you know exactly who and what I am.

A ripple went across the platform. Now everyone was turning to look. Younger students peeked out from their parents' protective arms, wanting to see what the commotion was about. Draco felt his composure slam down like a castle's storm gate, clanging loudly in his mind, so much commotion adding to the many feelings swirling in his head. He relaxed his jaw, holding his head high. His father was still in Azkaban, he was a blood traitor wanted dead or alive and he was bearing his broken, Dark Marked, love-bitten body back to Hogwarts, the only place Harry said he would be safe. It felt a little like walking into Azkaban. And in a way he was being punished—punished for not being good and noble like Harry, punished for not wanting to risk his life for a bunch of Mudblood twits who wouldn't respect thousands of years of tradition if you spoon fed it to them over the course of the next millenia. Once again, Draco Malfoy was punished for not being as good as Harry Potter. It stung much worse this time; now he knew that Harry's goodness, his utter perfection wasn't an act. And he, Draco Malfoy, filthy blood traitor, would never be that kind of person. He just didn't have it in him. Harry would have to be good enough for the both of them.

He levitated Harry's school trunk onto the train, depositing it in the covered space between cars. One foot on the stairs and the other gripping the hand hold, he hoisted himself up, feeling the fine wool, silk and cotton at his shoulders pull. He chanced a glance back at the place where Harry stood on the platform. Not even the smallest shimmer suggested that The Boy Who Blew stood there—undoubtedly gazing fondly at him. Draco could feel his eyes, though. Harry was making this infinitely harder than it needed to be.

“Go,” he mouthed. Harry was only making it worse for himself, watching Draco leave like this. The sappy Gryffindor git would stand there as the train pulled away, probably bawling his eyes out. It was best he got on with his Dumbledore-ordained quest and stopped thinking about whatever this was between them. They could have whatever they wanted if Harry succeeded. If he succeeded. “Please.”

Draco heard the reluctant crack and knew that Harry was gone. He could feel it in his chest, dragging himself further into the Express. His trunk floated ahead of him, doing a good job of obscuring his face. He went to a car with open seating and proceeded to the most sparsely populated section, settling his trunk on the storage rack. He took a seat and pulled a book from his blazer's breast pocket. The train quickly filled and soon, with a blast of whistles and a last few shouts from mothers and fathers to behave and wash behind one's ears, the Hogwarts Express pulled out of King's Cross Station.

Draco didn't notice his companions for the first half hour of the journey. He mostly stared out the window, the book he'd packed no longer peaking his interest. It was a French collection of myths and he couldn't bear another word of his current section on the love story of Tristan and Iseult if his very life depended on it. He was in no mood for ill-matched, persecuted lovers; chivalrous, adulterers or otherwise. Simply reading the line “ni moi sans vous, ni vous sans moi” made him feel physically ill. He glanced across the way at a mousy Ravenclaw girl buried in The Daily Prophet. The headline made his brow furrow: “Arnett Didier Murdered In Paris, Death Eaters Responsible.” He leaned across the aisle to get a better look at the front page article.

No wonder Harry had hidden the paper as they drank coffee that morning, holding hands across the table. This was bad. Apparently Philippe had taken his grandmother to the opera last night while Arnett remained at their town home to catch up on business. When Philippe returned, it was to find the Dark Mark set over the house, a fire burning up the main floor and his father's lifeless body strung up on the terrace for all of Paris to see. Hundreds of muggles had to be Obliviated, photographs tracked down and destroyed to keep all evidence from the non-magical public. It was proving a nightmare for the French Ministry; one of their most prominent citizens slaughtered in his own home by Death Eaters, the Dark Mark proudly set over the place, mocking the government's control and making every citizen question their safety. And Draco knew the Didiers had remained publicly neutral while quietly supporting the Dark Lord. Either Arnett had made a wrong move or there was something far more sinister at work. With Arnett out of the way, Philippe reportedly inherited his father's fortune and estates. The Prophet couldn't reach him for comment before the issue went to press early that morning. Draco sat back in his seat, pressing a contemplative two fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes, feeling the occasional shaft of sunlight play across his face. It looked like rain back in London but further north the sky was slowly clearing.

Someone cleared their throat, bending down near his face. Who would have the gall?

“Malfoy. Are you asleep?” Ah, Granger.

“Resting my eyes,” Draco said passingly, inhaling as he propped himself up in his seat. The occupants of the car were casting them both funny looks. Granger had already changed into her robes, Head Girl badge pinned to her bosom.

“Well, I have the compartment set up for the prefect's meeting,” the witch said, straightening. “I did everyone the favor of scheduling it at the same time as Professor Slughorn's tea.”

“I'm sure the old Slug Club will be devastated,” he drawled, stretching his legs in a cat-like gesture before rising to unlock his trunk, drawing his school robe from where he had conveniently placed it at the the top of neat clothing piles repacked in the morning hours. He folded the garment over his arm before signaling for Granger to lead the way.

The large compartment was set up with quills and parchment, water glasses and convenient seating. When Granger closed the door behind them Draco loosened his necktie, pulling Harry's Gryffindor tie form where it was concealed in the robes. With his school robes buttoned, no one would be able to tell he wore a suit rather than the normal uniform. The luxurious, perfectly tailored fabric made him feel calm, confident, strong. Not to mention that every scrap of fabric in his trunk smelled like Harry. These are Harry's robes, Draco reminded himself, stroking a hand over the heavy garment. He was clothed in Harry; wrapped up in the man's scent, his memory, his intense passion and bewildering affection. Pull it together, Malfoy. Don't cry on the fucking Express—then they'll know you're batty. He made quick work of swapping his black tie for the red and gold one, a genuine smirk twitching his lips when he recalled the last time Granger had seen him and Harry with this exact tie. He slung the school robes over his shoulders, engulfed in a puff of air that smelled like myrrh and jasmine, cloves and that impossible tang of Harry's magic. He quickly took a seat at the table before Granger could detect his blooming erection through the muggle flat-front trousers. This was going to be a long meeting if he didn't stop rhapsodizing. A very long meeting, indeed.

- - -

Draco was still grumbling when he took to the narrow train corridor nearly an hour later. It was a compunction of outrages that had him worked into a right lather. Slytherin house had one seventh year prefect—one! Tracey fucking Davis. The entire Slytherin seventh year consisted of her, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode. Sixth year had a few more students; notably, almost all the sixth year blokes were returning but the only seventh year male was Blaise. Lucky bastard would have a dormitory to himself. Then there was the issue of the transfer students. With Durmstrang in smoking ruins, Hogwarts had accepted several new students to the upper years. No seventh years, of course, but a sixth year girl, a hand full of fifth years and a good dozen to the lower years. Draco was summarily elected to have stern words with them about what would and would not be tolerated at Hogwarts. He suspected it was karmic punishment for the rollicking good time he'd had most of fourth year.

Justin Finch-Fletchley had announced that due to a scheduling conflict he would need another prefect to split his duties as Professor Flitwick's pianist for choir rehearsals and music classes. Finch-Fletchley laid out the schedule of times he needed covered. When no one volunteered and the silence became overwhelming, Draco had agreed with a violent huff—though he'd have to drop NEWT Herbology to do it. You'd think no one played the piano any more! He'd glared daggers at the purebloods Macmillan, Abbot and McDougal to no avail.

To top off the indignity of it all, someone had gone and made Longbottom a bloody prefect. Draco felt a muscle near his left eye twitch. Himself as Head Boy and Nevil The Cauldron-Destroyer Longbottom as a sodding prefect? McGonagall was surely scraping the bottom of the barrel this year. Nervous eyes had flicked and flittered over his red and gold-themed badge and Gryffindor tie, not sure what to make of the situation. A few faces thought he was playing a joke. Granger had presided over the meeting at his left, Weasley beyond her and the newly made prefect Lovegood on Draco's right, sandwiching him in estrogen as a reminder to watch himself. Granger's agenda had been meticulous and exacting, painfully so. Every potential issue was covered, schedules for prefects rounds distributed and the meeting adjourned. Draco took his time collecting the few notes he'd made, letting everyone slip out of the room ahead of him.

Walking the relatively un-congested corridor, he breathed the familiar scents surrounding him; pumpkin juice and pasties from the trolly, the leather and wood of the train, a titch of damp in the air and the warm spice of Harry clinging to his robes. He was caught up in the moment as the idyllic countryside flew by. He didn't notice the clump of Hufflepuff fourth year girls gaping at him in his Head Boy badge, muggle suit and Gryffindor tie, their noses practically pressed to the glass of their compartment as they whispered and pointed. He certainly didn't notice the gawking girls scatter as the vulturous form Daphne Greengrass descended upon him.

“Well, well,” she drawled, arms folded under her breasts as she leaned her weight to one hip. “What have we here? A blood traitor and a Gryffindor, too. Malfoy, you've sunk to new lows,” she tisked, shaking her head in feigned sadness at his fall. “Are you even a prefect?”

“Head Boy,” he countered, not giving her the courtesy of eye contact.

“Oh, that's rich!” the girl let out a peal of derisive laughter. “That's what they're calling Potter's toys now? Just tell me, head-boy—who sucked who first?”

The girl meant it as an insult to bait him into an outburst, a less-than-proper display or even to let some useful piece of information slip. It was the Slytherin game, poking at whatever might make your opponent rise to the occasion and embarrass themselves with a blithering, emotional response. The Boy Who Lived to Annoy had always been Draco's hot button. His sexual preferences weren't much discussed because, as Slytherin was predominantly pureblood, no one rightly cared. There was very little chance she was aware Draco actually went both ways. Greengrass was merely attempting to be vindictive. She wasn't the brightest creature but it was a well-honed barb. He wondered how long she'd been polishing it and whether she'd had help. He let a familiar cold sneer work its way across his face, turning to meet her glare with indifference. He remained silent, just to see how far the witch would go.

“No?” she crooned in a little baby voice, making Draco's blood run a little colder. “Then at least give me the basest satisfaction. What does The Chosen One's arsehole taste like? Surely that particular flavor is ever on your forked tongue.”

Draco glowered, scanning the area for firsties. The coast remarkably clear, he allowed his smirk to grow. He could play this game better than anyone: he'd been the king of Slytherin for a reason. Weighing his options, he decided to go for shock value.

“Like my come, Greengrass. I suck it out afterwards because it's too good for him. He's a filthy whore and he loves it. Is that what you want to hear? Hmm? 'Cause he's a dirty little bitch and I fuck him raw.”

She went red with outrage; no one spoke that way to pureblood women. Despite whatever they might dish out, they expected to be treated as princesses with virgin ears and cunts of purest white porcelain. It was a heinous and unfair double standard based solely on one's genitalia. Generally it was an unspoken matter of etiquette which Draco observed but he was feeling less than gentlemanly given the nature of her prodding. Her expression was at once mortified and dubious; she thought he was mocking her, playing the game at the male level. Little did she know he and Harry went that way. This wouldn't start any rumors about the two of them—if anything, it might spread that Draco Malfoy hadn't lost his acerbic forked tongue and wasn't afraid to use it. Whether he wore Slytherin green or the enemy's red and gold, he was a poisonous snake in the grass with a venomous bite.

“Greengrass,” he snapped, “there are first through third years approaching from the next car. Hold your tongue or I will use my power as a prefect in retaliation.”

Cancerous bitch, she waited until the little ones were perhaps a meter behind her before spewing her bile.

“You, Draco Malfoy,” she vituperated in clear tones, disdain dripping from every syllable, “are a traitor to your family and to the heritage of all pureblood witches and wizards. I hope our Dark Master finds you to finish what was started in the sacred catacombs.” She spat at his feet, contempt filling her eyes. Oddly enough, the Weaslette has snapped about the same thing at him not even two months ago.

The firsties were cowering in a puddle in the car's doorway, not wanting to get involved in the heated discussion of the powerful seventh years yet unable to avoid overhearing the woman's dark rhetoric. Many of them flinched at the mention of “our Dark Master.” Greengrass was being careless. Why had her family allowed her loose, allowed her back to Hogwarts with that kind of mouth? With her self-assured and lofty manner, there had to be some major goings on at the Dark side of the proverbial pitch.

“One hundred points from Slytherin and two weeks detention served nightly with Headmistress McGonagall. Do I make myself clear?” He not only managed even but disinterested. So many weeks ignoring Weasleys put to good use, after all.

“Cock sucking traitorous whore!” she shouted at him, the students behind her flinching as one. Faces poked out of compartments, drawn by the noise and her language. “I always heard you were bent that way! And now we know it's true. Slytherin's Prince reduced to Saint Potter's bitch! Who bends over for who?”

“Three weeks, Greengrass, and another hundred points,” he raised an icy warning brow to match the temperature of his words. “Care to press the matter?”

“Oh, I think I've said my piece.”

She stormed off, frightened-looking little ones scattering in her wake.

Draco let his eyes travel the length of the car behind him, noting the wide eyes and potentially gossiping mouths. Good.

“Back to your compartments, then,” he shrugged casually, wearing the mantle of authority with practiced ease. It actually helped to sense Harry every time he took a breath, that comforting scent filling his mouth and nose and worming right up to his brain. “Show's over.”

With very little grumbling and fuss, bodies returned to their respective compartments to whisper amongst themselves. Draco's eyes fell to the cowering first years wearing only school robes and parts of their uniforms, not yet having house colors to ascribe to their ties or the edging of their jumpers. He let out a long, pained breath that would have once pushed hair from his eyes; now it billowed over his forehead, barely ruffling the fringe of platinum blonde. This was the part of authority he hated—explaining himself when he had acted within morality, though not necessarily outside of self-interest. The situation could get dicey. He decided to take the high road and play it off as a responsibility to the school, Head Boy as an enforcer of school values and all that nonsense.

“I'm sorry you had to hear that,” he began neutrally, “not because you are young or impressionable but because the things she said were unkind and hurtful to Harry Potter, a man we all trust and believe in. Remember that these are difficult times and everyone deals with their emotions differently, as is their right; some worry or cry while others employ themselves with Quidditch, studies or perhaps a meaningful project. And some, like Miss Greengrass, spread lies and hate as a shield to protect themselves. Remember that here at Hogwarts we are tolerant of other people's points of view. Everyone is free to do and say what they please up until the point of hurting another person. Hurting one another will not be tolerated. We need to stand together if we wish to survive; no bickering or name calling amongst the ranks. Do you understand why house points were taken and a detention issued?”

A little one nodded and piped up. “Because she wished hurt and pain on you,” the girl said.

“That's right.”

“And the second time,” offered a small boy with unruly black hair, “because she said those things to make you feel bad about yourself. And sometimes feeling bad about yourself hurts more than anything else in the world.”

“That's very wise,” Draco replied, slightly taken aback at hearing that kind of wisdom from one so young. As a first year, the boy could have been as young as ten. “What's your name?

“Kieran Gweir, first year.”

Ah. The Gweir's were a pureblood family from Wales, not very well off and notoriously neutral. Draco recalled they'd mostly been Ravenclaws with a few Slytherins married in, not a Hufflepuff in sight for as many generations as he could remember—at least eight. Good family. With a name like Kieran, the boy must have an Irish mother.

“I wish you good luck in the sorting this evening. No matter what house you're placed in, they'll be lucky to have you. And... ten points to that house for a wise and discerning mind.”

The boy gave a polite nod, not quite smiling out of deference for the severity of the occasion. His companions' little faces clearly spoke of fear and awe for their dashing and dangerous Head Boy. It was probably best that way. Brushing past, Draco ruffled the boy's head of dark hair rather affectionately before he realized what he was doing. Startled, Gweir looked up at him with pretty blue eyes, Draco's fingers reflexively curled in his hair. No way out of it now. He tousled the boy's hair a bit, offering him a lopsided smile.

“Off yeh go, then,” he jerked his head toward the approaching trolly woman. “Fill up on sweets an' see if yeh don't puke 'em up on yer boat ride ter the castle. It looks like rain tonight.”

Grinning broadly despite the horrified looks on the kids' faces, Draco set off. It rained when he and Harry were first years, too.

Draco made it to the castle crammed in a rainswept, Thestral-drawn coach with no less than three giggling Hufflepuffs and a hoyden of a Ravenclaw fifth year bloke who kept staring at the Gryffindor-colored Head Boy badge on Draco's chest with his slatternly little mouth open. It took a moment to piece together that this was the cheeky fellow who'd groped him on the Express last year. Draco offered the boy a complimentary Malfoy sneer before gazing out the window at the lights of the castle. He cast a quick Repelling Charm before jumping from the carriage and making his way up the steps through the howling wind and rain.

The Entrance Hall was pleasantly warm compared to the mounting gale outside. The weather hadn't looked this bad when they'd left London but here it rained with a vengeance. The first years were likely chuffed to bits about being ferried across the lake by Argus Filch and Professor Grubbly-Plank in this bloody raging storm. Anyone who entered the hall without the protection of a Repelling Charm was pelted with bits of fluff and sawdust by Peeves the Poltergeist. Students shot curses and oaths, scampering for the Great Hall and trying to spell away the debris clinging to their wet robes. Draco quickly found an assembled group of teens sans house colors huddled near the stairs and looking about at the carnage. Draco approached the knot of transfers, his expression fixed with neutrality and a touch of impatience. He stood before them a moment, one hand on his hip as he surveyed. A few more bints than blokes, mostly twelve to fifteen years old, all looking a little unsure except for a pair of big fellows at the back of the group. Draco shrugged.

“Well, come on then,” he said at last, resigned and slightly impatient. He jerked his platinum head, signaling them to follow him down the hall to a nearby empty classroom. He held the heavy door and the students filed in, quietly taking seats and then looking to him to speak. At least this group was orderly.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” he said coolly, striding up the center of the room. Or New Azkaban, as I may begin to call it. He turned in an attractive swish of billowing robes. Then he reclined, rear against the sturdy instructor's desk at the head of the class. “For those who don't know—I'm Draco Malfoy, your Head Boy. I'm not sure how much you've been told, so permit me to provide you with a brief insider's view of the place.”

“Hogwarts has its four houses. If you're the sort who uses your head you'll end up in Ravenclaw or Slytherin. If you stuff your head between your legs, it's Hufflepuff. And if you ignore your head all together you may rightly find yerself in Gryffindor... like me. Yeh'll each be havin' a discussion with the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. Make yerself clear an' yeh'll probably get wha' yeh want. Any wishy-washiness on yer part an' it'll be Hufflepuff, mark my words. The house yer sorted into will determine yer friendships an' socializing fer the remainder of yer time at Hogwarts, so do choose carefully. Our houses harbor extreme rivalries—none more so than Slytherin an' Gryffindor, I'm afraid. Ya won't find intramural Quidditch leagues; instead, house teams play a handful of matches a year an' competition is intense. If any of yeh fly worth a damn, I suggest ya inquire to yer future house captains fer further information. We need some new talent 'round here, so don't be shy... unless yer a Hufflepuff. Then shy and awkward will out.”

“I reckon ya oughtta learn yer way 'round the castle. There are plenty a' trick stairs, hidden passages an' walls tha' pretend ta be doors fer a day out a' boredom. Quaint, I know,” he rolled his eyes and got appreciative chuckles from several students, “but there ya have it. Until ya know with certainty where yer goin', follow someone from yer house. It won't look unusual an' it's better than costin' yer house points fer tardiness or perhaps wakin' up in the Hospital Wing gratis our dear poltergeist, Peeves.”

“As fer the grounds,” Draco ran a hand through his shortened hair, getting used to the feel. His hair hadn't been this short since second year. “The Forbidden Forest is, say it with me... forbidden.” A few melancholy voices chimed in. “Good, yer catchin' on. I highly recommend ya steer clear o' the place. Last I heard there was a horde of angry centaurs running amok, some foul thing addicted to unicorn blood,” that earned him a few shudders, “an' a flying car Potter crashed a few years back tha's gone native. I also suggest avoidin' the Whomping Willow. Yeh'll know it when ya see it. The rest of school grounds are accessible before nine o'clock curfew. Be sure ta check reservations fer the Quidditch pitch before ya go waltzin' out there. House teams have priority before matches an', as I said, competition is always fierce.”

“You may be comforted to know tha' meals here are also communal an' served in two hour durations unless otherwise noted. Yeh'll receive class schedules from yer Head of House tomorrow morning at breakfast. Pay attention in classes an' yeh may earn yer house points toward the annual House Cup. Slack off an' yer housemates may have yer hide. As a prefect as well as a student, I must state in no uncertain terms tha' truancy is not tolerated; if yer gonna do it, be smart enough not ter get caught.” A few good-humored chuckles went up. “If I catch any of you lot on my rounds I'll not be pleased. I believe we understand each other there.” The room seemed to be warming to his casual persona and so he went for his real point.

“When in doubt, follow the lead of yer classmates,” he said slowly, making sure to meet every last set of eyes in the room. This was rather Slytherin advice to be coming from a Gryffindor Head Boy but see if that bothered Draco Malfoy any. “Yeh may notice tha' the teaching style could be called... selective. Don't comment, yeah? Wha' might be considered Neutral Magic is unspoken here. Protego only fer shields, basic non-verbal spells, an' don't even mention Legilimens or Rune Fortifications unless ya want yer head taken off. Ya might study some theory in upper years but theory will be the end of it. Anything ya know ya keep ter yerself. Am I clear?”

Slowly, heads nodded. A few gave him understanding, even appreciative grimaces. There would be Slytherins in this group, he was quite sure of it. Slytherins and Ravenclaws. They'd taken his words seriously but with a grain of salt. He couldn't ask for much more.

There was a tapping at the door. Draco touched a hand to the pocket of his robes, opening the door non-verbally. A shaky looking Creevy stood with his fist poised to knock, flummoxed as the door opened by way of old magic. It was only the old pureblood families who believed in that type of showmanship, after all. Creevy wouldn't have encountered those types in his lifetime were it not for Hogwarts, the melting pot of wizardry.

“Malfoy?” the boy spoke quite tentatively, inching into the room; apparently Gryffindor colors rendered Malfoys unrecognizable from a distance of less than ten meters. Draco gave a solemn nod, pushing off from the desk to stand tall at the front of the classroom. “Headmistress McGonagall says she's ready for them to come in.”

“Excellent,” Draco said, gesturing for the group to follow him as he exited the room. Creevy reached out, handing Draco a folded sheet of parchment bearing the exact location and password to his chambers. He incinerated the parchment with a flick of his wand. “Look lively, you lot. We're off.”

- - -

Not feeling much like the pageantry of another welcoming feast—and the blatant stares of his classmates while he listened to another tired limerick and pushed food around his plate—Draco made his way up six flights of stairs to Gryffindor tower. No wonder Longbottom had lost most of that puppy fat from first year! And the way Gryffindors, especially Weasley and Harry, dug into breakfast most mornings made sense now. Draco feared he'd need new trousers by Christmas to accommodate all the thigh muscles he'd be building while making this trek several times a day. Wouldn't you know his quarters were on the far side of Gryffindor Tower; not quite as far as the Professor Flitwick's office but damn near. On the bright side, the view from his bedroom promised to be fantastic. There were no windows in the dungeon, making the initial weeks of first year a near claustrophobic experience, trapped in that foreign, underground space with the children of purebloods he otherwise socialized with a handful of times throughout the year at the right parties and galas. He had his own rooms now and felt no need to socialize with his new house. It was a sort of new beginning.

He reached the bust of Paracelsus and spoke the password, wondering if the house elves knew to bring the trunk labeled as Harry Potter's to the Head Boy's suite or if he'd have to go over to the boys dormitory and retrieve it. A large wooden door materialized beside the statue, a heavy-looking door with iron girders and hinges nearly the size of his wrist. He spelled the door open, noticing a very small picture frame tucked behind the bust. Very clever—it supported the portrait network so that the occupant of whatever painting hung in his room could run down and check who was knocking for admittance. When he stepped into the anteroom, several torches along the walls sprang to life. The stone floor ran in a slope instead of stairs and Draco began to climb, detecting the pleasant sound of gently rushing water ahead.

The foyer itself was a respectable size, made cozy by several red velvet banners with gold tassel trim hung upon the walls at regular intervals. He prayed the Gryffindor theme wasn't echoed in his bedroom. A large fountain sat in the center of the room, the design a male and female lion with the female crouched low protecting her cubs and the male reared on his hind legs, rising over her back to frighten an unseen foe. The jets of the fountain were the male's bared fangs, his mane at once grand and wild. It was an interesting piece—show-stopping to be sure, set against glass French doors leading out to a large terrace. There were two sturdy doors, one to each side of the fountain. He sent a probing spell to the door on the right. The spell came back that the room belonged to Granger so he was the door on the left. He opened his door, casting a spell to light whatever candles, lamps or fires he'd been provided.

The room came alive with soft light. He couldn't help the awed hand that traveled to his chin. These couldn't be his chambers; they looked... already occupied, lived in. By someone with ruddy excellent taste.

So the walls were red, but a very tasteful deep burgundy that offset the molding and made the room like a cathedral hidden inside a cave, the ceiling high and composed of large stone slabs with countless cracks of age. The furniture was sturdy; two overstuffed leather armchairs, a puckered love seat in beige and a cherry wood sleigh bed in place of the standard four poster with a dresser to match. His trunk sat at the foot of the grand full-sized bed. Seating was set in an arc around a large stone fireplace with a door to one side, presumably leading to his private bath. The wall opposite the fireplace was all windows with lovely, chocolate brown draperies. A quick peek in the bathroom showed gold-veined marble, a large shower and his own linen supply. The cupboard was stocked with anything he might ask for—bottled Headache Potion, Pepper-Up, quality soaps, shaving supplies and Italian talcum powder. There was even a familiar jar of chamomile lotion that soothed his windblown skin after too many winter Quidditch practices. And the towels were luxurious, just lovely. It was like a carbon copy of his washroom closet back at Malfoy Manor. Unnerved, he extinguished the light and headed back to the main room.

He went for the bed, an inviting mass of white eiderdown and squashy pillows in every shade between blood red and brown, silk and brushed suede and cashmere. He threw the comforter back. The sheets themselves were pristine white and flowed like water under his hand, nine hundred or perhaps a thousand thread count and certainly not school issue. And now he saw a low table by the windows stocked with glassware and liqueur, wines and even a bottle of champagne. Someone had certainly gone through a great deal of trouble to insure he felt at home.

He unbuttoned his robe, turning back to the warmth of the fire. His view had been blocked by an armchair when he came through the door but now he had a head-on view of the blaze. It was quite an excellent fireplace. And then his gaze fell to the ottoman.

No less than three dozen red roses sat there in the firelight, bundled together with a bit of string that looked about to burst with its bounty. They were perfect roses, candied red and impossibly plump, every last one in a fragrant state of bloom. And they'd been carefully de-thorned he noted as he picked up the bouquet. Unable to resist, he buried his face in the sea of red petals, taking a hearty sniff.

And suddenly his heart was lodged in his throat, beating a chaotic rhythm to choke him, ridiculous feelings stabbing at the backs of his eyes like thousands of needles even as he screwed his eyes shut, silken petals pushing at his face as he slumped to the nearest chair. It was a good thing they'd had their thorns removed or his hands would be bleeding, the way he gripped at those stems with fingers tight and clammy.

The roses smelled like Harry. Every time the man cast Lusum Arboris, the product retained his scent. It was a simple mistake that Draco had never bothered to correct; a very dark, quiet part of him liked that the occasional house plant bore his lover's scent. It was a quiet reminder that The Boy Who Lived wasn't entirely perfect. And it was fitting that the dreary old house should contain something of its owner—his scent, even, and his name on the wall.

Out of curiosity, Draco lifted one rose from the rest and released the Transfiguration. He'd taught Harry on bits of cellophane, old quills and tissues but the spell could turn any small object into a piece of flora. Sure enough, the rose shriveled down to a slip of parchment in his hand—a scrap decorated with Harry's spiky, untidy scrawl. Draco stared at that penmanship, wondering how in the hell he could have chosen this flower first, this flower of all bloody flowers.

I promise to love you, the parchment said. The words were dashed off, as though in a hurry to get the thought down before he lost his nerve. Draco reached for another flower.

I promise to make you smile.

What a sap. He plucked the next flower from the bundle; it was longer, well-thought. Draco focused on breathing through his nose, flattening it against his palm as he read the words scrawled across the bit of parchment.

I promise not to expect you to act like a muggle. You're a wizard through and through and I love that about you. Even when you're trying to hex me! Chances are I deserve it.

I promise to kiss you hello and not goodbye because apparently you hate that.

I promise to protect you.

If he kept going like this he wouldn't have any roses left that smelled like Harry. He couldn't help pulling just one more from the collection laid across his lap.

I promise to shag you into the floorboards one day.

And that was too much. Shaking hands drew up over his eyes, thumbs pressing his temples. The fire had warmed his skin and was working on the fronts of his legs. The heat was nice when he felt so cold, so alone.

He would sleep without Harry tonight—an undoubtedly alcohol-induced sleep wrapped in the man's pajamas and cuddled in the bed he'd so clearly had outfitted with Draco's happiness and comfort in mind. It wouldn't be a good bed until he had his lover in it, shagged out of his mind and sweat soaking the sheets. When had he become so codependent, so disgustingly needy? It was un-befitting of a Malfoy. But was he a Malfoy? He didn't know what he was anymore.

Harry's. He was Harry's. And that would have to be enough.

He got up and made himself a bourbon rocks, I will protect you Transfigured back into a budding red bloom with the stem snipped off and fixed to his lapel. Perhaps Harry would protect him from Hogwarts, from whispers and looks, from his Gryffindor brood. Perhaps Harry could even protect him from himself. He was willing to give it a shot.

- - -

He'd donned a uniform jumper against the rainy chill but kept his blazer, red rose displayed for all to see. He let himself into the house commons by way of a passage hidden behind one of the red banners strung up in his fountain foyer. Gryffindor's common area was comfortable at least, with squashy armchairs gathered around the fireplace and many tables and chairs for studying, carpets draped all over to cushion one's feet from the cold stone floors. The walls were adorned with house Quidditch paraphernalia, an occasional painting and many photographs of previous students and professors, all placed haphazardly along the walls with absolutely no sense of order. He supposed the Weasley's pig sty would look something like this, patched and frayed and scented with woodsmoke, cinnamon and tea. It would do in a pinch but Draco vowed to keep to his own well-appointed quarters, just the same.

He found the exit—a portrait rigged on hinges to cover the massive hole in the stone wall. He swung the portrait out, it's subject squawking at him. He ignored the painted woman, positioning himself at the mouth of the passage. He leaned against the inside of the short tunnel, folding his arms across his chest and crossing an ankle as he waited. He kept his chin up, face placid and unreadable, the slightest arrogant smirk allowed to curve his lips. He needed to look calm and in control, slightly imposing, as Granger and the first years rounded the corner. The little crowd was due at any moment if Draco had timed his own ascent correctly. He swallowed, brushing an infinitesimal speck of dust from his front and adjusting the rose, caressing a soft petal with his thumb.

Granger rounded the corner, the unmistakable noise of awed firsties in her wake. She held her lit wand aloft, blueish light traveling down the walls to land on Draco in the passageway. The witch gave a start, as did several others. A thick knot of older students were only a few meters behind and they began chattering amongst themselves as soon as Draco's lean form came into view. From their worried looks, they seemed to think the Prince of Slytherin had infiltrated their house and commandeered some poor sod's tie. Granger shushed them, assuring it was no prank.

“Delightful,” he muttered, looking out over the stunned faces. Way to start a tenure of authority. Granger explained to the first years that they must provide the password to this painting, called the Fat Lady, to gain entrance. The Head Girl lectured on the importance of keeping the password secure; indeed, she prattled on until nearly the entire house was waiting out in the drafty hall, some listening to Granger but the majority staring slack-jawed and slobbering at the platinum blonde standing calmly at the mouth of Gryffindor territory. No one dared enter while he stood in the passage way.

“Finished, Granger?” Draco snapped after a time. “I suspect the entire house has caught cold standing out here. Everyone in. Take seats for announcements—which I promise will be brief,” he concluded in a business-like tone, turning and stepping down into the common room. He stood by the fire until as the Gryffindors trooped in.

“Smaller ones up front!” insisted an auburn-haired fifth year girl. Draco recognized her as Robins, a Chaser on last year's house team. He watched the first and second years come through the parting crowd, noting a certain dark head amongst them.

“Oh, Gweir,” Draco sighed heavily, shaking his head at the boy. Black hair and blue eyes sparkled back at him as the first year shrugged, tugging at his his collar. “This is what ya get fer lion-hearted bravado, my young friend. Slytherin won't touch either of us after this.”

“That's alright,” Gweir replied with a quiet shrug. “I didn't fancy following in my Dad's footsteps, anyway.”

Draco laid a hand on the boy's sturdy little shoulder, looking into his face. He couldn't think of any Gweirs who had been in Slytherin. The pieces slipped into place, then; the raven-haired boy was a bastard, an illegitimate child come to Hogwarts bearing his mother's surname. The Sorting Hat couldn't have placed him in Slytherin even if the boy belonged there—Slytherin house didn't hold with that type of riff raff. Gryffindor was the boy's best option.

“Tolerate Gryffindor, then,” Draco advised, a hand slipping up to the boy's cheek a moment before drawing away. Merciful Gods, this boy looked like a young Harry. He had to get hold of himself before he did something stupid—like call the boy the wrong name or try to hug him again. His situation was precarious. He could feel the eyes of his new housemates upon them. “It might not be tha' bad. Now off! Find yerself a seat. I'll be quick 'bout this.”

The students were already settled, Granger seated in a chair a few meters to his right with her arms folded, Weasley standing guard just behind her. Her expression read that start-of-term policy reviews weren't standard operating procedure in Gryffindor Tower as it was in Slytherin. Well, they had a thing or two to learn about their new Head Boy. Draco drew a thick scroll of parchment from his robe pocket and gave a comment-free read-through of house rules before tacking the scroll up beside the fireplace.

“Anyone with questions should bother Granger,” he concluded with a curt nod, sweeping aside the tapestry that concealed the secret passage to the Head suites. He heard the commotion of bodies rising, chatting, heading up two sets of spiral staircases to their respective dormitories. A hand on his shoulder halted his hasty escape.

“Mr. Malfoy,” announced the unmistakable tone of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. “I should like to have a word with you regarding the negative state of Slytherin House points.” Draco turned to face her with an even expression, knowing the eyes of his new housemates were ever upon him. “Two hundred points from Slytherin and a month of nightly detentions all before the Sorting Hat has sung? I understand the desire to begin your new life at Hogwarts with a bang, but I'm not sure this is the right—”

“Professor, would you care for a night cap in my chambers?”

“Mr. Malfoy, you are extremely unorthodox,” she fussed, looking away.

“If you could spare a moment of your time, Headmistress, tha's all I need,” Draco insisted. “The business is not the sort of thing my young friends need overhear again.” His eyes shot between the Headmistress and the lingering clump of first years, Gweir's dark little head among them.

“If you insist,” McGonagall said slowly, gesturing for him to lead the way up to his quarters. She looked about curiously at seeing the fine state of his rooms but refrained from comment, merely folding her hands together as Draco fetched himself another bourbon.

“A glass of wine, Professor?” he offered over his shoulder. “Or perhaps a martini? I have gin, vodka....”

“Mr. Malfoy,” she cautioned with her voice. “While I am willing to overlook your collection, do not press your luck. I cannot abide by this type of punishment if I am not made aware of the offense.”

With a fortifying sip of liqueur that scorched beautifully on the way down, he turned to face the former head of Gryffindor house. Draco repeated, word for word, the words Daphne Greengrass had spoken to him in the presence of first, second and third year students. McGonagall paled considerably.

“I never thought I'd see the day when two hundred points and a month's daily detentions might be considered lenient....” she muttered, shaking her head sadly.

“What can I say? I was feeling gracious,” Draco shrugged. “I know her family. Just... don't let it get 'round that I've gone soft? There's a chance to salvage my reputation, here.”

“Mr. Malfoy, I don't believe either you or I shall ever be the subject of that malicious rumor,” she smiled ruefully.

“Madam, Hogwarts hasn't been so tightly run since my Great, Great, Great Grandfather on my mother's side,” Draco smirked back, swirling his drink with a consorting eyebrow raised. “And may I say that—between yourself, Granger and I—we may yet give old Phineas a run for his galleons.”

For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French

Ni moi sans vous, ni vous sans moi - “Neither me without you, nor you without me” from the lai “Chevrefoil” by medieval poetess Marie de France
- 25
- 26
- 27
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