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
- 27
- 28
- 29
SUMMARY: Draco settles in at Hogwarts. Once he's is comfortable, a wrench enters the works. Professor McGonagall observes the dynamics of the boys' relationship and finds herself oddly pleased.

WARNINGS: Ron being a mighty ginger pillock with Harry away, Draco suffers a slight existential collapse, unnecessary after-fluff to make up for it

CONSCIENCE:

THE STATE OF THINGS

Harry wouldn't give him a drink; he had that entire bottle of rum and he wouldn't give Draco one bloody sip. Draco lunged for him again and again, and every time the raven-haired boy dodged, shedding articles of clothing as he forced Draco to chase him down the halls and stairs of Grimmauld Place. Kreacher wandered by, a candle stick in each hand, glaring daggers at Harry—some things never changed. But Harry was being a bloody prat. Draco wanted a drink and Harry wouldn't give it to him. He discarded his own shirt, working up a sweat pursuing his laughing chosen lover. Draco threatened; he whined and whinged and moaned and threw the occasional hex, all of which had no effect. Vince and Greg stood in the entry way, laughing as Draco wrestled with Harry up on the landing. Why did Harry have to be so stubborn, so fucking difficult? Why couldn't Draco have what he wanted?

He woke sharply to the pathetic sounds he was making in his sleep, careening dangerously off the edge of the mattress, both hands reaching out into the darkness, fingers outstretched. He only had time to throw his hands down before he fell out of bed, landing hard on his side. He'd almost chased a phantom Harry all the way to a cracked skull.

Draco heaved a mighty, harrumphing sigh, scrounging for his wand case at the side of his bed. A quick Tempus Spell revealed it to be half five—a wholly ridiculous hour to be up as he'd only passed out near two o'clock. The bottle of bourbon still sat on his bedside table along with an open book.

He had a devil of a head so going back to sleep was right out. Perhaps a visit to the prefects bathrooms and a nice long soak in the tub? The thought was summarily dismissed by the time he woozily sat up. Sitting up had not been a good idea at all. He wouldn't make it down the first flight of stairs without a Hangover Potion; besides, Moaning Myrtle always said what a gossiping slag that mermaid was and he didn't want anyone knowing a thing bout his physical condition. Sure, he was a bit leaner than in years past but not on the wrong side of skinny. It was the Dark Mark on his arm, the scars lacing his body. Then there were the purple bruises mottling his collar bones—beautiful, chosen-mouth-shaped bruises. The ones on his upper arms were yellowish green and shot through with brown, a criss-crossing network, the outlines of strong fingers decorating his pale skin. And the reddish, tooth-shaped scabs around his left nipple—those were the most amazing. Sacred, even. He couldn't have the world knowing about them. He could've spelled the marks away but then he wouldn't flinch every time a person other than Harry went to touch his arm, sneer whenever a hand got too close to his face. Thank the Gods none of the Gryffindors were crazy enough to attempt clapping him on the shoulder. He'd practically dislocated it throwing Harry on top of the piano two nights ago. But it was worth it, the little aches and pains. These minor injuries, cuts and colorful bruises were tangible reminders that he hadn't imagined the last two weeks. It made his toes curl on the cold stone floor, just thinking about those nights in their big, comfortable bed... or afternoon surprises in the hallway... or the time Harry had made him coffee only—

A very long, hot shower would be necessary. Along with the wank of a bloody lifetime. He found himself a quality brand of Hangover Potion in that most merciful medicine cabinet before losing himself under jets of hot water for the better part of an hour, washing leisurely, shaving most meticulously to pass the time. He watched the sun rise before trimming his side burns and styling his hair, brushing his teeth and applying lotion to his face, neck and hands. He packed his school satchel with extra parchment and quills, double checked his textbooks and miniaturized one of Harry's roses so that he could tuck it under his Head Boy badge. Today he wore I promise to make you smile.

At last it was a respectable hour for Draco Malfoy to show his face at breakfast. It was a meal he rarely attended but, as Head Boy, he needed to be there in case students had any problems with their schedules that Professor Firenze was unable to see to or unwilling to be bothered with, the lucky sod. Draco took his private exit and made his way down to the Great Hall, ignoring the confused looks that were shot his way.

Chatter died down to a whisper when he set foot in the Great Hall, dozens of heads swiveling his way with hands rising like the sun to shield their gossiping mouths. Let them. They had nothing on him. He was striding for the Gryffindor table when a swath of orange and a cackling laugh interrupted his path; Peeves, just the joy of Hogwarts he had the patience for this fine morning. Hand to the wand in his robe pocket, he cast a certain spell the Poltergeist would feel. It had taken him ages to adapt the hex to work on more than disobedient house elves but he now found it to be the best waste of a summer to date.

“Did you have something of interest to say, Peeves?” he asked evenly, twisting the hex vindictively.

“Only...” the Poltergeist gasped, clutching at his pudgy little hips and making it look like a courtly bow. “A good morrow to Ganymede. Where-oh-where is Zeus?”

“Oh, my little Peevsie Weavsie,” Draco cooed, leaning forward dramatically and pitching his voice low. “Yeh shouldn't a' said tha'.” A final swirl of the spell sent the Poltergeist whirling, rebounding off a nearby window and bouncing out of the hall, holding his rump and yowling in pain. Draco brushed his hair from his temple with a perfectly manicured hand. No one called him a catamite, a boy purchased from his father to be carted around, decorated and fucked and set on display; at least, no one called him a catamite and got away with it.

- - -

Hermione accepted her Daily Prophet from the delivery owl, feeding the bird a scrap of toast from her breakfast plate as she unfurled the paper and set about scanning the headlines. That story about the Didiers yesterday had her reading with extra care. Perhaps Harry had been right that there was something going on with that family. She of all people had experienced that when it came to Dark wizards and secret plans afoot, no one had a better nose than Harry. There wasn't much about the Didiers in the newspaper today but she scanned every article just the same. Harry was training with the Aurors and might not have an opportunity to read the paper thoroughly.

Ron elbowed her when Malfoy entered the hall and she gave him a snort of ascent. The best tactic was, of course, to pretend like Malfoy wasn't there; after all, that was what the boy did to everyone else. She still had trouble thinking of Draco Malfoy as an adult, a man capable of making his own decisions and his own way in the world. He still acted like a spoiled brat—except now his protector was Harry Potter instead of his monied, Death Eater father. Most people didn't know how intimately Harry and Malfoy were involved. Malfoy hadn't done anything incriminating yet but Hermione wondered how long the petulant child could keep his smart mouth shut.

Ron tapped her shoulder and she ignored him until he moved on to whisper to Neville and Seamus.

“Wanna see something hilarious?” Ron offered the other boys, leaning conspiratorially and waggling his eyebrows. Seamus nodded enthusiastically while Neville shrugged. “Okay, watch this.” Ron puffed his chest with a large breath, watching Malfoy across the room and seeming to time his next words. They were pronounced quite loudly, meant to carry over to Malfoy walking by the foot of the Hufflepuff table.

“Oi, Harry! You're here early!”

Malfoy gave a violent start, his head darting around so fast and in every direction that he overbalanced and slammed into the Hufflepuff table, going down hard on his bum. The blonde was on his feet a second later, righting his robes even as a vivid blush bloomed in his pale cheeks. Malfoy's teeth clenched as his crazy-eyed gaze settled on a chortling Ron Weasley. Half the Gryffindors were laughing as well as a few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.

“Twitchy little ferret, isn't he?” Ron gasped between giggles, Seamus slapping his arm as he laughed along. “Oh, come on, 'Mione! You have to admit it was pretty fucking funny.”Ginny nodded her agreement from further up the table, her face pink from laughing along with her girlfriends.

Professor Sprout was passing by. She looked between Ron's guffawing and where Malfoy had fallen on his ass, putting two and two together. “Three points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley,” she chirped, hands on her hips.

“Wha' for?!” Ron whined.

“What for?” Professor Sprout parroted, displeasure clearly written on her face. “For nearly giving Mr. Malfoy a heart attack!” She fixed Ron, Seamus and the laughing Gryffindor girls with a stern look before walking off to the staff table.

“If we weren't both prefects I'd be docking points, too,” Hermione sniffed. “That's unacceptable behavior, Ron.”

“You're saying we can't pick on Malfoy?” Ginny spluttered.

“I'm saying it's defeatist to pick on the Head Boy,” Hermione corrected, pitching her voice low so Malfoy wouldn't hear from the seat he'd taken. “It sends the wrong message to the other houses.” Not to mention that what Ron had done to Malfoy was especially cruel.

Malfoy, eves dropping from further down the table, discretely flipped Ron the bird.

“Damn it,” Ron growled, chewing his bottom lip. “You don't think he'd tell Harry?”

Hermione shrugged, sipping her tea before turning a page in her newspaper. “How should I know? Eat your breakfast and leave Malfoy alone. What's he done to you recently?”

“I've never seen the younger years more orderly,” Neville put in in the blonde's defense. “I think Malfoy scared the right piss out of them last night. Prefect duties are looking pretty easy with him as Head Boy. He'll do all the intimidation for us.”

Ron, very begrudgingly, had to agree.

- - -

Draco reached for the pumpkin juice, knowing it to be Harry's favorite. He drew his hand back with a sharp intake of breath—Harry's little promise ring had shocked him! His left hand still smarting, he went for the pitcher with his other hand. Again, the ring sent a bolt of pain up his arm, growing more and more intense the closer his hand got to the pitcher. Alright, I get it, he thought. Time to make an ass of myself.

“I think there's something wrong with the pumpkin juice,” he announced. Quite a few people looked at him. Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley turned around in their seats the next table over and Longbottom gazed curiously down the length of the table. “Anyone feeling off?”

A mousy-haired girl raised her hand, her head on the table and pillowed in her arms.

“Natalie, what's wrong?” another girl asked, laying a comforting hand on the brunette's back.

“I feel so tired,” the girl said in a weak whisper.

“I'm awful drowsy,” said Peakes, the broad-chested Gryffindor Beater with a head of blonde curls.

“Me too,” added Coote, the other Beater. The pair of them looked as though they could hardly keep their eyes open.

“Putain de bordel de merde,” Draco muttered to himself. “Then there's something in the juice. No one drink the bloody juice!” he called down the table. A few students echoed the alarm. Granger stood and moved toward Draco's end of the table, worry etched in her features.

“You,” Draco pointed to Demelza Robins, “get Professor Slughorn. Ask him to meet us in his office. Go!” The girl was up and off in a flash, dashing for the staff table.

“Malfoy, what's going on?” Granger asked, standing behind him as he directed students to remain calm and not to touch any of their food for now.

“Pumpkin juice, I think,” he replied. He hovered his left hand over a plate of toast before picking up a piece—nothing. He reached for a tray of bangers. Nothing happened when he touched the serving tongs. When he tried to lift Natalie's glass from across the table, his hand gave such a jolt that he cried out, pulling it back to his chest.

“Just the juice?” Granger confirmed. He nodded, rising.

“That one there,” he pointed. “Let's get it to Slughorn's office, let him have a look at it.”

Granger stared at him a moment, confused. Draco rolled his eyes, still shaking the lingering ache from his hand.

“I can't touch it, Granger. You'll have to carry it.”

“I never thought being Head Girl would provide this level of excitement,” the witch said under her breath, huffing as she leaned over the table to retrieve the pitcher. A few students held their breath as Granger lifted the pitcher and took off with it, Draco in her wake. They made their way to the dungeons, finding Professor Slughorn's rotund form waiting at the open door to his office, worrying a sleeve of his robe in pudgy fingers.

“Is that it?” he called as Granger drew near. “Bring it here, then. Let us have a look-see.” He indicated a work table set up inside the room. Granger placed the ceramic pitcher on the table, backing away quickly as though glad to be rid of it.

Professor Slughorn set to work, extracting a bit of the juice into several vials and testing each with a bit of potion or, in one case, a bezoar. The juice in the vial didn't react, so at least it wasn't poison. Slughorn's tests went on for another twenty minutes before he reached a conclusion.

“Veritaserum,” he announced. “And Lettlock berries. An unusual combination—I confess I'd never thought of it but the sedative effects might work in a questioner's favor....” the man mused.

“Lettlock berries are fairly common but Veritaserum is quite difficult to brew and very expensive to buy,” Granger said. “Whoever did this, they weren't messing around.”

“Whoever did this doesn't know us very well,” Draco sighed. Granger poked him in the sore shoulder until he elaborated. “Fine! We both have a tremendous tolerance for Lettlock berries. I'll bet that entire pitcher wouldn't be enough to knock us out.”

“If I might ask,” Slughorn spoke over his shoulder as he cleaned his work station. “How did you know the pumpkin juice had been tampered with? Veritaserum is quite undetectable. Was it the Lettlock, then?”

“Uh, no,” Draco said slowly. He wasn't about to tell a Professor that his sense of smell and taste were still off due to a night of depressive binge drinking. He held up his left hand, instead, showing the black stone ring on his index finger. “It was this, actually. A gift from Harry.” Shit, the Christian name was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Slughorn turned, brushing his hands off on his voluminous robes as he regarded the ring on Draco's finger.

“You mean Harry Potter?”

“Yes,” Draco was forced to admit. “I believe he's placed quite a few protective charms on the thing, though he wouldn't say which ones.”

Granger gave a little snort—whether because she didn't believe Draco or because that kind of abject stubbornness was a trademark of The Boy Who Lived, Draco couldn't tell.

“That boy's a very bright wizard,” Slughorn replied amiably. “Going to make even more of a name for himself, you mark my words! I see great things happening for him.” The man was clearly thinking of Harry as another shiny object to add to his garish collection. A retort came to Draco's lips before he could stop himself.

“I'm not so sure, Professor,” he drawled with the tiniest of shrugs. “Harry's shy. He likes the quiet. An' his privacy, too. I think after all this business with the Dark Lord is over, he'd be just as happy ter go off somewhere in the country an' be left alone.”

“What makes you say that, my boy?”

“He told me,” Draco said dismissively, turning slightly away to avoid the man's gaze.

“He confides in you?” Slughorn questioned. Draco didn't answer, eyes on the open doorway. “I've read the papers but something tells me I'm missing something. Am I right, Miss Granger?” Slughorn's gaze rounded on the witch, his hands on his hips. She cracked immediately.

“He and Harry are together,” she blurted.

“Granger!” Oh, he could have hit her. It was a miracle he restrained himself or he'd have detention for weeks. “What part of the phrase 'dangerous secret' do you not understand?”

“I beg your pardon?” Slughorn interjected. Granger flushed, folding her arms across her chest and leaving the situation to Draco.

“Potter and I are together,” Draco sighed, carding a hand through his hair with his eyes fixed on the Professor's knees. “Harry... he's my boyfriend.”

Sweet Salazar, why was that so hard to say? It was a very silly word, “boyfriend.” It didn't say a thing about what was between them, everything they'd gone through and how both of them were so utterly changed by it. How his heart had stopped in his throat when Weasley shouted Harry's name—his heart was in his throat whenever he thought of that stupid prat with his thatch of unruly hair and fiery green eyes, thick skin and strong hands and secretive, devious, churning mind. He saved me from torture and certain death; now I bone his brains out. The thought was silly. As though he could pay back a life debt with sex, no matter how mind-alteringly good! And Harry would rescue just about anyone, he cared that much. He was just that type of person. He wouldn't want repayment for something like that. He didn't want praise or adoration or glory—doing the right thing just kept Harry going, put that cheeky, dimpled grin on his face and made his eyes go all sexy and far-away. He was sweet. He cared with his whole being when Draco couldn't care at all. That was just who Harry was.

“Oh!” Professor Slughorn let out a puff of air, taking a step back as his head shook ever so slightly, processing this piece of rather stunning information.

“Of course we'd appreciate your discretion, Professor,” Draco offered with a little wave demonstrating an understanding between them. Slughorn's eyes followed the ring on his hand, brows furrowed a bit. Yes, the ring was on his index finger—though Harry was that kind of sentimental prat and never hesitated to mark Draco as his property in equally physical ways. That evidence remained secure beneath his robes. “Headmistress McGonagall is aware of our...” Arrangement? Predicament? Oh, hell! “Relationship. My re-sorting into Gryffindor has eased the situation but, with the threat of the Dark Lord, Harry felt we'd both be safest keeping our involvement a secret. If word got out, things could become quite dangerous for Harry. And for Hogwarts.”

“Certainly,” the professor replied with a steady, knowing nod. “Yes, certainly.” Slughorn bumbled about, retrieving an envelope from a stack of parchment on his desk. It looked suspiciously like an invitation. “I'm having a dinner next Thursday, seven thirty. Nothing special, of course, just a few students joining me in my private quarters. I'd be delighted if you could attend, Mr. Malfoy.”

“I would be delighted,” Draco simpered, an ace up his sleeve. “Unfortunately, I'll be assisting Professor Flitwick's choir rehearsal that evening,” Draco said smoothly, even managing a convincingly put-out expression for the professor's benefit. “But I'm honored by the invitation just the same. Thank you for thinking of me.” Because you never thought of me before, Draco added mentally. Slughorn only invited him because of what—or, rather, who—he put in his mouth. It was a low compliment.

Draco dismissed himself with a quick bow, Granger trailing him out the door and into the corridor.

“You got off lucky, Malfoy,” Granger said with a put-upon sigh.

“Lucky?” Draco drawled. “Hardly. Have you heard school choir recently?”

“Come to think of it, no. I haven't,” the witch mused, falling into step beside him on the trek back to the Great Hall.

“And there's good reason for it. Auriculo Absum, Granger. A slight but important step away from Auriculo Amittö. You may need it.” Draco increased their pace. He hadn't eaten a thing and his stomach was growling.

“I don't know either of those charms,” Granger admitted, lengthening her strides to keep up with him. She was half a head taller but Draco still had longer legs.

“Auriculo Amittö is a hex, actually,” Draco explained in a bored tone. “Makes a person's ears vanish. Permanently. Auriculo Absum is a variant that serves as an earplug spell, muffling one's hearing without the ears actually disappearing. The counter-curse is Auriculo Refero.”

“Quite useful,” Granger replied. “Thanks, Malfoy. Sometimes I wonder why we don't learn more practical spells. An Earplug Charm would be tremendously useful.”

“Yes, well,” Draco sighed. “Perhaps you should've gone to Durmstrang.”

Granger stopped, staring at his robed back as he continued up the dungeon staircase and into the Entrance Hall.

“Malfoy!” she shouted. “Did you just teach me Dark Arts?!”

Draco snorted. “Neither here nor there, Granger,” he called over his shoulder. “Though breakfast is straight ahead. Are you coming or not?”

Draco conducted a very interesting conversation with Peeves during his free period. He cornered the Poltergeist in his favorite haunt, the Trophy Room on the third floor, to see how much Peeves actually knew. Those cryptic remarks from breakfast took on a new meaning, Ganymede having been Zeus' pederastic lover who served as wine bearer to the gods.

Peeves asserted that his remarks were meant only as a warning about the pumpkin juice. Peeves claimed to have seen a student at the entrance to the kitchen that morning, talking with the house elves. He couldn't recall who the student was, even under Draco's rather creative means of questioning. Peeves either wasn't human enough, alive enough or cognizant enough for Legilimens, Draco realized to his intense disappointment. The information was still useful and so he dashed off a report to Professor McGonagall with the details of the drugging incident at breakfast along with Peeves' ramblings. Her reply was for Draco and his prefects to remain on-guard as she and the staff investigated the matter further.

Natalie McDonald, Ritchie Coote and Jimmy Peakes were released from the Hospital Wing after a few hours of observation and their juice-induced state of uncomfortable truthfulness caused quite the stir over lunch. McDonald's crush on Harry Potter was no longer a secret, while Peakes asked a pretty blonde third year girl on a date next Hogsmede weekend. It was all so Gryffindor, Draco thought he might lose his lunch and promptly excused himself, chuckling all the way back to his quarters.

Once he had his schedule memorized, Draco readily fell into the mind-bending lull of boredom that was life at Hogwarts. It was remarkably easy to attend classes as though the summer—as though all of sixth year—simply hadn't happened. NEWT classes were smaller and contained students from all four houses. He could easily sit with a Ravenclaw. They were the best of the lot, treating him exactly as they had before. The Ravenclaws were polite but reserved, distant. He often sat beside Terry Boot or Anthony Goldstein, no more than a request to borrow a quill passing between them during the intensive, hour or longer lectures. This was fine by Draco. He'd survived on less socialization last year. He found he could bear the solitude with the refuge of his private quarters and the knowledge that Harry would arrive next week.

The staring, pointing and whispering still got to him, though he never let it show. It must have been like this for Harry when he first started school, again with the Chamber of Secrets second year and once more during the Triwizard Tournament. Draco had no idea how Harry ever put up with it. Draco supposed half the appeal was his having been ripped from Slytherin, the house which represented everything he stood for as a person, and crammed in Gryffindor—which made about as much sense as the circulating rumor that he was dating some Hufflepuff girl named Laura Madley. There was gossip that he'd faked having the Dark Mark, faked being a Death Eater—the logical Ravenclaws quickly quelled this one with the simple fact that the Ministry of Magic wouldn't be fooled by anything less than a genuine Death Eater turn-coat. Still, he put effort into insuring that his left arm remained covered at all times. Just because he had the Dark Mark didn't give anyone the right to see it.

The one rumor that still made him chuckle proposed that he was not Draco Malfoy at all but in fact the one and only Harry Potter, Wonder Boy himself under glamor spells or perhaps even Polyjuice Potion, returned to Hogwarts for some secret and undoubtedly noble purpose. A group of first years from every house had approached him Saturday afternoon on the grounds demanding to know if it was true. He flattened his shirt collar, clearing his throat rather grandly before revealing the best Harry Potter impersonation on Slytherin record.

“I guess you've found me out, then,” he spoke in quite a fair impression of his lover. Two nearby Ravenclaws did double-takes. “I am Harry Potter. Can I trust you all to keep my secret?”

The group broke out in peals of laughter, falling on each other as they dissolved in fits of giggles and glee. “You really are Harry Potter!” a few exclaimed.

“He's not Harry Potter,” a spirited little voice piped up. Draco looked about, connecting the voice to the dark head of tiny lad Kieran Gweir hovering off to his right. “You're just mates, like it said in The Prophet. Right, Malfoy?”

Draco tried not to smile; a slight smirk snicked out just the same. “Alright, so I'm not Harry Potter,” he readily admitted. He pitched his voice a few shades deeper, adding a tell-tale blustery growl. “That's because I am Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic, at your service.” He made a grand bow. The kids laughed just as hard at this impression as they had at the last.

“No?” he asked in the Minister's voice. A great chorus went up, asking if he could do this politician or that Quidditch player. He cleared his throat noisily, pinching his throat a bit right above his Adam's apple—the voice wouldn't come out high or nasal enough otherwise. He pitched his airflow up through the soft palate, affecting a familiar authoritative tone. “Then perhaps I am Minerva McGonagall, about to give you all detention this instant!”

The students only giggled harder. A clump of third years joined in, pausing on their way back to the castle to listen. He even detected heartfelt snickers from a pair of Gryffindor girls walking by, arm in arm. Yes, his McGonagall was pretty damn good.

“Still don't believe me? Perhaps I'm...” he cast about for another easily recognizable voice he could impersonate for his young audience. He'd done this as a way to pass the time in Slytherin commons—snide parodies and prancing, overblown satires of so many people in his life! If he heard a person's voice enough, he could manage at least a passable imitation. If he practiced, he could often get it spot-on. He could do his parents, every Slytherin in his year, the Golden Trio and most of the Hogwarts professors—but his specialty was Severus Snape. This crowd of first years wouldn't recognize the voice, so he did another that would hopefully bring back fonder memories for the older students lounging nearby. “Albus Percival Wolfric Brian Dumbledore!”

A great cheer went up. He basked in it—his Dumbledore truly was outstanding. The man had annoyed Draco so much in life, his had been the first voice perfected back in first year.

“And now if you'll all excuse me,” he continued in the half-brained barmy little sing song he always heard when the old Headmaster opened his gob, “I must be off! Have a sitting for a new Chocolate Frog Card, you see, and they always make my nose look too pointy. Mustn't keep the photographers waiting!” he called over the fuss, Harry's Firebolt clutched in his left hand. He'd intended to go for a practice flight to stretch his muscles and perhaps start building back all he'd lost during the trials of the last year. That was before he was mobbed by the outrageous eleven year olds and their silly rumors. Now he just wanted to escape and Quidditch was an afterthought. With exaggerated groans, the children consented to release him. He swung the tail of his broom at a few rumps which got them moving along.

“Is that really what Harry Potter sounds like?” Gweir asked, following Draco toward the pitch. “I've never met him, so I wouldn't know.”

“Most people think so,” Draco shrugged.

“What do you mean?” Gweir prodded.

Draco let out a groan. He was tempted to tell the raven-haired first year to piss off... but he looked so much like Harry, Draco found it literally impossible to back-sass. He'd have to look into why that was so. Talking back to Harry had been an excellent way to pass a summer! He couldn't lose that edge just because the sod gave him sultry savior eyes that made his knees weak. Even this mini-Harry put the brakes on his snide come-backs, imbuing him with an odd sense of patience. He'd really have to get that checked out.

“Harry doesn't always speak the same way, I suppose,” Draco said after a contemplative moment. “He's different in public than amongst friends. What I did back there—tha' was his public voice. Harry's a bit of an oaf when others are around. He gets nervous an' stupid things fly outta his mouth.”

“Oh,” Gweir replied. “I know what that feels like. I say stupid things in front of my grandmother. She scares me, though. She yells a lot.”

“I'm sure she's a very nice woman,” Draco said neutrally, approaching the pitch. Was he going to have to take to the air to be rid of his little shadow, this cloying reminder of his poilu?

The boy shrugged, trudging along. “I dunno. I've only met her a couple of times. Holidays.”

“Had yer flying lesson from Madame Hooch yet?” Draco asked, changing the subject as he gestured skyward with his broom handle.

“No. Not 'til next week,” the boy whined sadly. “I don't see what the big deal is, though. I'd say most of us have at least been on a broom before!”

“It's for the students who grew up with non-magical families,” Draco explained, walking through the tunnel-like archway that led directly onto the grassy field. “They need ter be exposed ta flyin' if they're gonna fit in.”

“That makes sense,” Gweir said, hands in his pockets as he trailed along at Draco's side. “But muggle-borns can't really be as good at Quidditch as people from wizarding families, can they? Hassan Mostafa says that a player has to train his entire life, even from infancy, in order to be truly great.”

“Mostafa's full a' shit,” Draco said plainly, setting his broom to hover beside him as he gave the first year boy a single raised brow. “I've been on a broom since I was three. Then Harry Potter walked in havin' used a broom ter sweep the ruddy floor his first eleven years o' life an' I got my arse handed ter me. Epically—royally handed ter me, kid,” he leaned, catching the boys gaze until he nodded, grasping just how annoying that defeat had been six years ago. “Flyin' can be an innate talent, something tha's in ya from yer parents an' grandparents, woven inta yer magic—the same way Longbottom missed the gift a' Potions.”

Determined to destroy the castle, the bumbling fool had taken up remedial potions this term. True to form, he managed to smoke out half the dungeons the first week of term. And it had been a partial week: Longbottom was that hopeless. Draco didn't know why the twit even bothered at this point.

“It helps if ya start early, it really does. But there will always be someone better than you, someone who makes wha' ya strive for seem effortless.” His voice went rougher. “Ya jus' have ter practice tha' much harder.”

“Is that why you're out here the first weekend of term? To beat Harry Potter?”

“Or maybe I fancied gettin' away from nosy gits like you, eh?” Draco shot back, mounting his broom with a smile. Gweir took a step back, giving him room to take off. “Sit in the stands if ya like,” Draco offered. “Take notes.”

Laughing like the kid that he was, Gweir took off, tearing up the stairs leading to the stands and then running along the benches, pacing Draco as he took a warm-up lap. If he threw in a few unnecessary swoops and dives, it was only because it set his captive audience to squealing and clapping so loud he could probably be heard on the other side of the grounds.

~ * ~

Draco slammed the door to his room with a mighty bang. It felt so good, he did it again.

There was a woman in the painting on the wall beside his bed. When he slammed the door, the baby in her arms awoke and began bawling, assaulting his ears.

“Fuuuuuuck!” Draco screamed, reaching in his school satchel for a text book to chuck at the painting. The woman and her baby were away by the time his book hit the canvas. He pulled another book and threw it, too. And then another. When he was out of NEWT books, he realized there was something in his room that shouldn't be. A large, suspiciously piano-shaped something.

He yanked at the cloth covering it. Sure enough, it was the trunk piano from Grimmauld Place, already set up in his room. An armchair had been moved over by the window to accommodate the parlor grand, two meters long and a meter and a half across. What it was doing here bewildered him, his anger simmering under the cold wave of discombobulation. Draco did not like surprises; he hated feeling out of control, out of the loop. And this had him gaping like a slack-jawed buffoon, his lack of control so overwhelming it was palpable. He fucking tasted confusion.

Alright, there was a bit of sealed parchment bundled up in the scraggly cloth he'd tossed. He pulled the paper free, immediately recognizing the unruly handwriting dashed across it.

Harry. It was always Harry these days. As he read the note, he felt the heat pooling in his stomach. It came up his chest in an angry wave like bile, nipping and burning at the back of his throat, begging for escape.

“You fucking piece of shit!” Draco shouted to no one, the letter crumpling as he dropped fists to his sides, raging at the walls even as the sound of his own voice bounced back at him, harsh and ringing. “If I ever see you again I'm going to kill you my damn self—fuck the Dark Lord, I'm killing you, Potter! You self-absorbed, weakling, cowardly,” he gasped for breath, raging, “can't tell me to my face bastard son of a whore! End of the month my sweet miserable arse! Just say it! Tell me you're never coming back and get it over with! I hate you!”

He threw the crumpled, wadded up letter across the room, letting it slice through his words that hung curdled in the air. He gave a scream of unadulterated rage, his whole body shaking.

There was a knock at the door.

Fuck, Granger. He'd forgotten she also had the hour after lunch free on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was Thursday and there she was. Harry was supposed to be here tomorrow and now he wouldn't be. Draco had become unhinged and Granger heard the entire thing. Hell—if he was going to be perfectly honest, anyone in the seventh floor corridors this side of the castle probably heard him! He turned and opened the door to see her pinched, anxious face framed in bushy brown hair held back with a length of gold ribbon. Behind her, the fountain trickled placidly.

“Malfoy, is everything alright?”

“He sent me the piano,” Draco spat, fingers clenched around the wood of the door. “As an apology. He won't be here until the end of the month.”

“Oh,” Granger started. Then she peeked over his shoulder, getting her first glance at Draco Malfoy's bedroom. No one was invited into his private chambers with the exception of Headmistress McGonagall last week. That seemed like a long time ago now. “Your room is rather lovely, Malfoy, with the piano and everything matching. And are those roses? From Harry?”

“Go fuck yourself, Mudblood,” he hissed, slamming the door in her quickly contorting face and locking it with a charm she'd never be able to disable unless her name was Bellatrix Lestrange and she, too, wanted him dead.

Slowly, he sunk to the floor, collapsing somewhere between the door and the piano with a muffled, desolate “oouf.” Harry wouldn't be here until the end of September, possibly early October if things continued to go well. And Draco was so happy that things were going well for dearest Golden Boy, that everything was working out for him while Draco's life was becoming shit, worse than shit, unbearable with the whispering and the rumors and now the pointing and the outright, utterly inappropriate questions. They wouldn't be doing this if he was still in Slytherin and he knew it to his bones, to his seething, calculating core. And he blamed Harry for all this mess because it had to be somebody's bloody fault and it sure as fuck wasn't his.

“Malfoy,” Granger's voice came sickly sweet through the cracks in the door. “If this is about that song....”

Oh, the song. He'd completely forgotten about that waste of magical spark that went by the name of Peeves the Poltergeist. He'd attended his morning classes with the little menace in tow, throwing things at him only to bounce off the impregnable Repelling Charm he'd erected. But it wasn't the bits of parchment, broken quills and other miscellaneous garbage aimed at his person which had gotten to him. No, it was a new little tune Peeves had invented just for him. He had a feeling it would become the next “Oh Potter, You Rotter” which had worked its way to something like an astonishing forty three verses back in second year. Students were humming it in the corridors by lunch, sheets of parchment with lyrics making their way round the castle so that when Peeves arrived to serenade Draco as he marched with his head held high back to Gryffindor Tower, everyone he passed in every hallway was singing along. At least it felt like they were all singing along—and dreadfully off key, at that.

“It's your song, Malfoy!” Weaslette had crowed over the noise of her girlfriends clapping along to the jaunty tune. The Dragon Song. Dear sweet and merciful Gods, he could still hear it in his head. He closed his eyes with a moan, resting his cheek against the cool stone floor as the waves of humiliation and horror washed over him.

Oh, he tried to kill the Headmaster

on the pitch there's no wizard faster

Called so by his mum

when he sucked on his thumb

He's the Dragon! And here he comes!

Out of the dungeons, sour

he ascends to Gryffindor Tower

With n'arry a hastle

He'll rule this fine castle

The Dragon—he comes, he comes!

The Dragon has still got some fight

—heard he bit his rescuing knight!

Oh, he'll lop of your head

until you are dead!

The Dragon, The Dragon! He comes!

In the lap of luxury he was born,

Now from true love, he's torn!

Shall we see him wed?

Or just taken to bed?

The Dragon comes, he comes!

The fourth verse had developed between his second class of the day and lunch. He knew exactly who he had to thank for feeding Peeves such sensitive information. There were a handful of people who knew about his relationship status—let alone the tapestry at Grimmauld Place that all but screamed Wonder Boy's valiant intentions—and only one of whom would be willing to blow his cover, willing to destroy his semblance of peace and Harry's shot at relative safety all for a stupid schoolyard prank. Auriculo Absum, the earplug spell, didn't even help because he could read the words on countless lips as he made his way through the corridors, Peeves proceeding him like a conductor of a pantomime band or the grand marshal of their twisted, two-man parade. He could hear the voices even louder in the silence of his mind. Nothing was safe—not his rooms and not silence and not Harry. They were all going to be found out and doomed. He looked at the legs of the piano past the heavy folds of the draping cloth, gathering up a corner and pillowing the coarse material under his head. The cold of the stone floor was seeping into him through his robes, making him content to lie there and become as stiff and unyielding as the stone. He looked at his beloved piano at which he'd spent so many peaceful, daringly happy hours that summer, Harry seated beside him and doing his bleeding-Gryffindor-heart best to let his blunt fingers dance over the keys as Draco's did. He'd fumbled and futched his way along, smiling so warmly at Draco the entire time instead of looking at the even landscape of black and ivory where his eyes belonged.

He was such a sweet man. And he was going to die. They were all going to die. Slowly and painfully. So what did it matter if Peeves and Ginny Weasley were outing them—whatever they were? What did it matter that Weasley and Granger and even the heart-breakingly sly and effervescent Kieran Gweir were all going to die horrible deaths at the willing hands of his father, his aunt and uncle, his Lord whom he'd served and the man who'd been willing to torture him beyond the natural limit of his life, too? What did it fucking matter? If there was no Harry, there was no hope. Draco knew why they followed him now. It wasn't because they thought he would succeed. No, it was because they knew he would fail but needed to follow him anyway, chose to believe in him after everything was lost. Maybe Draco only felt it stronger because he was sleeping with the handsome walking tombstone. But he felt it now. Harry was goodness and kindness and love. And even when you'd never had a single one of those things in your life, you just had to believe that they existed somewhere. That out there in the vastness of the cosmos, there was something better. Maybe you'd never get it; maybe your children would never get it and your grandchildren would only dream of it, but the fact that it was out there was enough. It was like music from another room; just because you'd never play it, never take it as your own didn't make it any less real.

Okay. He was a convert. He believed in Harry Potter.

He was humming the song without a name. Humming and curled up in a little ball on his bedroom floor in the middle of the day, rocking slowly and clutching with tension-filled fingers, one hand holding the rough cloth to his face and the other coiled around his badge and the rose he wore today, I promise to shag you into the floorboards one day. Well, he was fucked and a right blubbering mess on the floor and it was all Harry's fault—promise kept, darling. Good job.

“Malfoy, if you're having some sort of mental collapse,” Granger called through the cracks in the door, all feminine sweetness. He wasn't having any of it.

“Don't pretend to care, Granger. It doesn't suit you.”

“Over the summer Harry had reason to suspect you were suicidal,” the witch pronounced, her face likely pressed against the door judging by the muffled quality of her voice. “If you're having thoughts about hurting yourself it is my duty not only as Head Girl but as a human being to—”

“Fucking hell, woman!” Draco shouted, casting the coarse fabric aside and flopping onto his back. “I'm not going to kill myself! I wouldn't be able to kill him. Counterproductive is what tha' would be. Logic, woman—try it some time. Not even gonna think a' leavin' this earth til I have my hands wrapped 'round his worthless throat, squeezin' the bloody pulsing life out of 'em.”

“Alright, Malfoy,” Granger said in a warning tone. “I'm taking you on your word, here.”

“Will yeh leave me alone or do I have ter start playin' tha' jazz opera the Chosen Bitch is so fond of?” Draco snapped. He heard muttered oaths before the witch's door clicked shut at the other side of the fountained foyer.

At last he was a little more alone. And he had at least an hour until he was due for his next class. He would be assisting in Professor Flitwick's Muggle Music Studies course. He dragged himself to his piano bench, tugging the crumple of robes out from under his bum as he sat and cracked his knuckles, wiping briefly at his nose. He might as well warm up.

~ * ~

Minerva massaged her temples gently, looking to the kind face in the green flames of her fireplace. For such a good-natured young man he was infinitely stubborn. He was beginning to try her patience.

“I really think a leave of absence is best, Professor,” Potter repeated. “The Ministry has actually been helpful—and that's a first. They want to see Voldemort finished and they're willing to try just about anything. I may not even need the whole year to do what I need to.”

Minerva heaved a sigh. At least the boy wasn't withdrawing from school completely, as she'd feared. Order members had been in and out of Grimmauld Place these last three weeks, training the boy in Merlin only knew what—whatever they thought necessary before he went out into the field at their sides. She still felt this was all too much to be asking of a seventeen year old but Potter was an adult, legally, and nothing if not determined to throw himself into the fray. The least she could do was provide him with whatever instruction he saw fit.

“When do you expect to return to Hogwarts?” she asked, touching the side of her head where a migraine was swiftly blooming.

“I'm not sure,” Potter gave an apologetic shrug. “There's a lot going on at the moment. If I had to guess, maybe in a week or two. But I can't give you any kind of regularity. I'm sorry,” the boy offered, his sincerity apparent by his expression and tone. “I know I'm not making things easy on your end.”

“I understand. I'll have a suitable room in the guest quarters held for you.”

“Oh, there's no need. I'll just stay with Draco.”

“Potter, you know I cannot condone—”

“Headmistress?” he interrupted, voice quiet and firm. “Tough shit. He won't stand for my sleeping anywhere else—and I fear his wrath far more than yours. Why not turn a blind eye and let it be one less thing on your over-full plate?”

“Sometimes I think you should've been in Slytherin,” she muttered, more than the heat of the fire on her face. When had Potter become so commanding, so suave? This was a very new side to the young wizard; a supremely disarming side, at that.

“Speaking of Draco,” Potter went on as though she hadn't spoken, “I wanted to recommend him for Quidditch captain in my place. He's the best-qualified in the house. It could also be a public vote of confidence from me but also from you and the rest of the staff. And I'm sure his ego could use it.”

Silently, Minerva thought the blonde's ego was the last thing Potter should be concerned about. The balloon of hedonism and hubris surrounding the boy had never been bigger, by her estimation. It was a marvel he could fit his swollen head through single doorways.

“I'll pass your recommendation on to Professor Firenze.”

“Thanks,” said Potter with a grin. “I do appreciate your looking out for him. I know he's a handful.”

“Potter, you have no idea,” she rolled her eyes, checking the clock on the mantlepiece. Any second now. There—a jangling sound alerted her to the presence of a student on the staircase leading up to her office. “But while I have you here, there was one additional matter I ventured you would wish to discuss....” She stalled until a platinum blonde head poked around the door to her office. She waved the Head Boy in bruskly, gesturing that he should take her place by the fire. She slipped back to her desk to observe.

Malfoy rushed to the fireplace, falling immediately to his knees and leaning as close to the flames as he could manage.

“Draco!” Potter shouted.

“Harry!” Malfoy said softly, happily. “It's too good ta hear yer voice, mon ange.”

Minerva observed them together. With the way Malfoy had been strutting around the castle, all bluster and charm, she'd expected this sexual relationship of theirs to be as juvenile as their social relationship had been while at Hogwarts. Instead, they were mature, affectionate; loving, even. Their soft expressions reminded her of newlyweds. It was very clear they missed each other, hated being apart. Perhaps Malfoy's confidence and bluster had been an act; if so, she'd certainly been fooled. She sat stunned. Both had grown into men beneath her nose. Their caring, easy banter hid the intense story passing between their fixed gazes. They looked only at one another, seeing nothing but the other.

She tuned back in to their conversation. Potter has informed Malfoy about his decision regarding Quidditch captaincy and they moved to discussing members of the house.

“How's Ron holding up?” Potter asked. Malfoy's shoulders stiffened.

“How would I know?” Malfoy scoffed, snipping, “He barely asks me to pass the pumpkin juice.”

“Draco, is he dealing with it?” Potter insisted. The firmness of his tone put her in mind of a patient, practiced father speaking with his difficult child. She found the characterization fit them both eerily well. Potter held out, silent and waiting, until Malfoy cobbled together an acceptable answer.

“He's still angry. But he misses ya,” Malfoy replied, looking away in embarrassment at the way he was being treated. Minerva suspected the blonde welcomed a level-headed authority figure after the bombast, occasionally cruel man he had for a father.

Potter nodded his understanding. “How about you, love? How are you holding up?”

“He's still angry,” Malfoy repeated, “but he misses ya.”

Potter laughed before inquiring about Percy Weasley, who had taken over as Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts courtesy of the Ministry of Magic, of course, when not a soul—witch, wizard or otherwise—would take the cursed position.

“Oh, he's quite unbearable! Gryffindor's last true Head Boy, as he reminds me daily!” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “He's tolerable as a professor, I suppose. The younger ones seem ter like 'em well enough, no complaints, so I can't fault him. But jus' the same... he's not as good a' teacher as the great Harry Potter.”

Minerva suspected that phrase had some hidden meaning for them. Both boys blushed the minute it was said.

“What's this concern about the younger ones?” Potter asked, redirecting the conversation.

Malfoy explained that the younger Gryffindors were restless, especially upset by Potter's continued absence. Malfoy expressed his frustration, not knowing what to do or say to make them feel safe.

“What was it ya used ta do?” the blonde questioned, leaning on one arm, free hand toying with the edge of the hearth rug. She never thought she'd see the day a Malfoy looked at home on the floor.

“Dunno. I hardly ever talked to them. Well, maybe the Creevey brothers, but only because Colin followed me around all the time wanting to take my picture.”

“Tha's a huge help, Scar Head.”

“I'm sorry,” Potter offered up in honesty.

“It's fine, hun,” Malfoy shrugged off his concern. “I'll think a' somethin'.”

Minerva was forced to interrupt. It was nearly curfew and Malfoy needed to return to his lavishly appointed suite.

She watched as Potter kissed his fingertips, ready to blow a kiss at the Head Boy in parting.

Quickly, Malfoy cast a charm so the flames won't burn him. Sticking his face directly into the fire, he kissed Potter's fiery image. Minerva couldn't help shaking her head as she bid a blushing Draco Malfoy good night. Potter had achieved another miracle, and this was a first—melting a few too many years worth of ice which encased young Malfoy's heart. Perhaps the future wasn't so dismal, after all.

For The Curious: Translation of Malfoy's French

putain de bordel de merde – (vulgar) holy fucking shit, God damn it
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