Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
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SUMMARY: Harry copes, adapting to life without Draco.

DISCLAIMERS: “A Bird's Song” music and lyrics by Ingrid Michaelson, self-released in 2005.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the launching point of the Beretta off-shoot, a section of Harry-centric shorter chapters following our intrepid Wonder Boy as he searches out Voldemort's Horcruxes and finds his way to being a man. I had originally intended to write only Draco's perspective, the original Conscience; however, after some prodding from a few insistent readers who shall remain nameless, I saddled up the timelines and set to work. Beretta will add a previously unanticipated 200k to the piece's collective length, bringing our projected estimate slightly over 500k when all's said and done. For those of you who love taboo and a dash of sex in your violence... this is for you.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

A BIRD'S SONG

When I would play my song

You used to sing along.

I always seem to forget

How fragile are the very strong.

I'm sorry I can't steal you

I'm sorry I can't stay

So I put band-aids on your knees

And watch you fly away

I'm sending you away tonight

I'll put you on a bird's strong wing

I'm saving you the best way I know how

I hope again one day to hear you sing

You know we're not so far away

Get on a boat, get on a train

And if you ever think you're drowning

I'll try to slow the rain

“A Bird's Song”

Ingrid Michaelson

It was the sugar biscuits. They were just lying on the table, tucked in a wicker basket with a white kitchen cloth folded around them and draped over the top to keep them warm. Harry's hand ghosted over the fabric, not quite touching. They were still warm. Heat radiated from the little basket, condensing against his palm. Draco had made them less than half an hour ago. And now he was gone. He'd left the jar of currant jam on the table, too; a dirty spoon set atop the lid and a few crumbs on the table's surface. There was a swipe with no crumbs, as though Draco had cleaned up after himself in a hurry and missed half his mess. Harry was tempted to leave it there.

He could eat a biscuit. He could eat all the biscuits, devour every last one... but it wouldn't bring Draco back. And they would probably leave him with a stomach ache if he ate them all at once. So he fixed himself a small biscuit with plenty of jam and made his way into the hall. He'd figure out what to do with the biscuits later. There was always lunch.

He found himself wandering into the front parlor; or, as he thought of it, Draco's music room. Harry's shirt and denims were still on the floor by the piano and the room was stuffy and smelled slightly stale. He couldn't bring himself to air it out just yet; the smell reminded him of Draco, that the blonde had been in this room less than ten hours ago and exactly what they'd done. He went to the piano, licking jam and granules of sugar from his fingers. He played a few notes on the instrument's soprano keys before something caught his eye—a smudge on the smooth, lacquered lid. Several smudges, in fact. He leaned closer. There were fingerprints everywhere; and there in the very center was the precise, greasy imprint of his ass.

Harry checked his watch. The Hogwarts Express didn't leave for another three whole minutes. If he Apparated right now....

No. Hand shaking slightly, he stroked the smudge on the piano where Draco's knees had rested last night, rested between his thighs as they made love on the lid of the piano courtesy of a few rather outstanding Sticking Charm applied to the instrument. He remembered the look on Draco's face, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut and worrying his lower lip, hips pistoning, giving it everything he had. Then he remembered the look on Draco's face not ten minutes ago when he'd mouthed for Harry to go, please go, and not make things any harder than they had to be. Draco wasn't very good with goodbyes. Harry going back now, watching the train pull away, would only make it infinitely harder. For both of them. Harry knew it but the knowledge didn't make his ache to Apparate any less.

Draco brought out his impulsive side. And this very new, tender side. It felt like a part of his chest had been ripped out when Draco got on that train. He kept telling himself it was for the best but a small, nagging, very weak part deep inside still wanted to go with Draco, go to Hogwarts and pretend there was no prophecy, no Dark Lord to defeat and no world to save—only him and Draco, their last year at school, Quidditch and NEWTs and weekends to go drinking in Hogsmeade. It was cruel and unfair that he'd finally found something he wanted to fight for only to have to turn around and fight. Two weeks with Draco hadn't been enough. But what could he do? He'd sent the man to where he'd be safe, sent him off with a couple bags of gold and what felt like half the contents of Harry's wardrobe, half the contents of his heart. Draco would be alright. Harry wondered if he could say the same for himself.

He hauled himself up the stairs to his room, unsure of what to do with himself. He'd thought to get out of the front room with its smell of sweat and passion; if that was his goal, he was headed in the wrong direction. Their bedroom smelled much the same except this room boasted their tangled sheets still damp from that morning and a pair of Draco's pants that had missed the hamper. The white pile of fabric stared up at him from the floorboards, an unspoken challenge. Are yeh gonna lose it, Potter? Gonna throw yerself on the bed an' have a good cry? A good cry-out didn't sound half bad. He was so clearly miserable. He looked again to the bed, reaching out to take Draco's pillow in his hands. It smelled like him.

A sudden impulse ran through him and he acted without thought.

“Kreacher.”

The house elf appeared with a snap.

“You're not to change the bed sheets until I tell you so, understood?” Kreacher nodded, looking between the bed and Harry with a small sneer, eyes narrowing. “I want you to clean the front parlor today and unlock the door to the dining room. Then you're to work on repairing the third floor bathroom until further notice. And you'll fetch Dobby from Hogwarts.” Kreacher looked at him, head quirked, processing that Harry was in fact issuing orders like Draco usually did. “Actually, get Dobby now.”

In less than a minute, Dobby stood before him and Kreacher was skulking down the hall, mumbling about his upstart dirty-blood master under his breath. Ah, normalcy!

“Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby squeaked happily. “You is wanting me, most kind and wonderful sir?”

“Er, yeah,” Harry scratched the back of his neck, retrieving a small sack of sickles and galleons from the bedside table. “You remember Draco Malfoy, right?”

Dobby's eyes fixed on the floor. Hands behind his back, he shuffled his feet nervously but nodded.

“It's okay, Dobby,” Harry offered. “He's a friend of mine now. And he's going to be staying in the new Head Boy's quarters by Gryffindor Tower. Since you used to work for the Malfoys, I was hoping you could help me out with... well, a bit of a surprise for him. Why don't you come sit with me?” Harry gestured to the edge of the bed. Dobby's eyes went quite wide.

“Harry Potter is so immeasurably kind! Dobby is always saying so. Inviting Dobby to sit down like a wizard instead of an elf—”

“It's nothing,” Harry shrugged, seating himself on the bed as Dobby clambered up beside him. “I mean, I'm asking you to do extra work. The least I can do is offer you a seat while we talk.”

“Harry Potter is the best of all wizards,” the elf chirped, mostly to himself. He wrung his fingers in his lap before looking up at Harry in that sickeningly adoring way.

“Er, don't mention it,” Harry gulped. “Anyway, you know the sort of things Draco likes, what he used to keep in his rooms at Malfoy Manor. And you can have a look at his room in the castle. I was hoping you could take this,” he handed over the sack, “and maybe make his school room more to his taste. Extra pillows or Quidditch posters or whatever he likes. And better sheets,” Harry added, looking at their crumpled bedding. Draco dove into their bed most nights, sighing as the soft sheets touched his even softer skin. School sheets were a tad less than luxurious. “Don't worry about how much they cost; get whatever the Malfoys would've gotten—better, if you can find it. I want him to be comfortable. I want him to feel like he's at home.” Hogwarts had always been his home; now it could be Draco's, too.

Dobby looked a little worried, holding the sack of gold with both hands.

“The young Mister Malfoy is liking spirits, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said slowly.

“Oh. Well yeah,” Harry shrugged. “Can you get those?”

“Dobby can, sir,” the elf nodded. “To please Harry Potter, Dobby would— ”

“That's okay,” Harry offered quickly, holding up a hand to quiet the elf. He remembered Dobby bashing a lamp against his head at Privet Drive and wasn't in the mood for a repeat. Or worse. “Just your doing this is taking a huge weight off my mind. He's... he's real important to me.” Suddenly Harry's throat was tight—too tight to go on. Gods, he chastised himself, don't break down in front of the barmy house elf!

“Mister Harry Potter?” Dobby inched closer, gazing up at him as Harry blinked rapidly and looked away. “Is you being alright, sir?”

Harry tried to answer. All that came out was a soft grunt and a sniff. Dobby gasped, a knobbly hand over his mouth. The sack of sickles and galleons fell to the floor.

“Harry Potter sir is in love!” he squawked. “He is, he is! He loves the Malfoy boy!” This seemed to make Dobby unreasonably happy. Fat tears gathered in his greenish, bulbous eyes.

“You can't tell anyone, Dobby,” Harry warned, voice as constricted as his throat. “It's a secret. He'll be in loads more danger if people find out, do you understand? No one can know!”

“And the young Malfoy returns Harry Potter's feelings?” Dobby pressed, leaning forward with a very wistful look on his face and hands pressed together with hope.

“Yes,” Harry admitted, only slightly embarrassed to be talking about his secret affair and deep feelings with anyone, let alone a house elf. “We're... I don't know exactly. I guess we're seeing each other. He's...” Harry couldn't bring himself to say the word “boyfriend” no matter how hard he tried. “We're together,” he offered lamely.

“Then the young Mister Malfoy is a very smart wizard, that he is, to return the affection of the most great and gracious Harry Potter!” Dobby nodded approvingly, rubbing his hands together in glee. “We will have a very big wedding at Hogwarts and—”

“Wait, what?!”

“A wedding, sir! Harry Potter's wedding!” the elf said as though he were daft instead of the little creature in a tea towel and several knit hats. “The Boy Who Lived is in love! He will marry his love, of course.” Then Dobby's expression fell quite dramatically. Maybe he realized they were both boys? That seemed to have escaped the elf's notice. Then again, Dobby wasn't the most rational magical being Harry had ever encountered since learning he was a wizard six years ago. Dobby's tiny face became stern and he shook a warning finger up at Harry. “Harry Potter does intend to marry this Malfoy, yes he does, doesn't he?” The last two words were practically growled. They weren't much of a question, either—more like a demand.

Harry wasn't sure whether to be frightened or laugh wildly. Draco would jump off the Astronomy tower if he knew his father's barking ex-house elf was guarding his honor.

“Uh, Dobby?” Harry began carefully, gingerly moving the skinny finger out of his face. “I don't think Draco exactly has marriage on his mind right now. His father's going to disown him when he gets out of prison and I'm sure there are a few Death Eaters who'd like to kill him. It's really not a priority. And we're both boys so... is that okay?”

Dobby gave him a pained look before his little chest deflated and he sighed quite morosely, feet swinging off the side of the bed and bumping against the mattress. “Dobby was looking forward to a wedding, he was. But Harry Potter will get married later?”

“Er,” Harry swallowed against his dry mouth. What could he say to that? The tapestry downstairs said he and Draco would end up together. And when he really thought about it, he wasn't at all adverse to the idea of him and Draco together, patching up number twelve and going on dates in London, picking out robes at Madame Malkins or stopping by Flourish and Blotts. It actually sounded rather wonderful; perfect, even. Endless days of Draco's cooking and piano playing, taking him to Quidditch games and discussing the match for days, learning to play the piano and spending evenings reading by the fire. There wasn't anyone he'd rather spend his time with, rather sit around and be lazy with, rather make love to and cuddle up with every night.

“If he wants to, I guess,” Harry offered in a quiet voice. “It's not all up to me.” And wasn't that the story of his life.

- - -

He couldn't stay in the bedroom and Kreacher was cleaning the parlor. It wasn't lunch time yet and he'd put the sugar biscuits in the ice box before they caused him to implode in an absolute mental collapse. He stood in the doorway of the dining room with his hands on his hips, surveying the damage.

The room was a disaster. What had once been an elaborate dining table was in splinters. The largest piece intact was a thickly carved leg and it protruded half-way into a nearby wall. Bits of chairs littered the floor with their fabric and stuffing pulverized. Sections of wall paper were scorched, others ripped right off the walls. There were also holes that poked through to the wooden posts, displaying the house's innards. It looked like a tornado had ripped through the room. Perhaps it had been Walburga Black—no, there wasn't enough dust. It must have been Sirius, furious with Dumbledore for keeping him locked up in his own house. That was the only thing Harry could think of. Sirius must have destroyed the room in a rage. Why hadn't anyone repaired the damage?

A project was a project.

He conjured a few heavy tarps on the entryway floor and a few more in the unused parlor. Anything worth salvaging would go in the entry. Everything else went to the tapestry room to become kindling. He stripped off his shirt, set a Cooling Charm and went to work.

It took him close to five hours to clear the room. He was panting and drenched with sweat by the end. He'd also perfected the charm to remove splinters. And he had fire wood to last several winters. He discovered a few bits and pieces of Black family silver in the rubble; having escaped the paws of Mundungus Fletcher, Harry decided to at least polish them and display them in the kitchen or something where he and his guests could enjoy it. He also found a small room accessible only through the dining room. It held a mostly empty book shelf and two big leather arm chairs, all very dusty. The room had the lingering scent of cigar smoke. A small cupboard in the corner proved his suspicions. It had once been a gentleman's room in which to partake of brandy, cognac and after-dinner cigars. Very old fashioned, very posh. Most of the liquor bottles were still half full or better. He wondered if they were any good. Getting pissed wasn't a good idea in his state but it would be nice to know if he had some stellar brandy bumping about just as it was good to know he had extra towels stored in the linen cupboards. He was getting to know Grimmauld Place. It was his house, after all. He lived there.

Now the dining room was gutted and cleaned. Harry fixed himself a quick lunch as he surveyed the pieces of silver to be polished. A few small candle sticks, two dozen silver chargers and a few ornate serving bowls. It was something to tend to once he wore himself out. The cleaning had left him winded but oddly energized. It took him a moment to figure out why. He and Draco were always having sex—he'd become used to a fair amount of exercise over the course of the day. If he had energy, he might as well keep moving. He cleaned his dishes by hand before heading upstairs and finding a pair of sweat pants, a tshirt and trainers. A jog in Regent's Park would be just the thing. He snagged his hooded nylon jacket on his way out the door. It looked like rain.
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Conscience