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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
- 28
- 29
- 30
SUMMARY: Harry discovers many secrets. The elements begin dropping into place.

WARNINGS: issues of non-consensual voyeurism, suggestion of Sirius/Remus, rather violent thoughts towards a house elf

DISCLAIMERS: “Snakes & Ladders” music and lyrics by Basia Bulat, released by Rough Trade Records in 2007.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

SNAKES & LADDERS

So we play a game of snakes and ladders

Gambled our mistakes, didn't know what could come after

Threw away the cards—who thinks it could matter?

Oh, who believes in fate, anyway?

When only you could be the one

To win out over me

When it isn't just a game

It's the way we come undone

“Snakes & Ladders”

Basia Bulat

In the safety of darkness, Harry collapsed. Downy pillows and the feel of crisp, clean sheets met his nose as he landed face first on the bed. He'd finally allowed Kreacher to launder the bedding after three weeks of sex sheets. They'd come to an arrangement, he and the ornery elf. Every Monday afternoon Kreacher would strip the bed—and every Monday morning, Harry would remove the case from a certain pillow and tuck the bit of fabric safely in the closet, placing it on the side that still held a few of the blonde's things in order to reabsorb the man's scent. Harry would sleep curled around that pillow every night. Some nights it was a light, fitful sleep and others it was the bone-tired sleep of the dead. Tonight would be one of those nights. He'd been worked to the point of exhaustion and then some.

Mad-Eye Moody was a slave driver and Harry couldn't be happier. Almost every Auror at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had stepped forward, saying they had a trick or two up their sleeve which The Chosen One might be interested to know. Moody together with Kingsley Shacklebolt had taken up the task of sifting through the offers, divining those which might be useful to Harry and passing along their recommendations. But it was Harry's call and he learned what he saw fit, a great deal would have sent Mrs. Weasley straight to St. Mungo's if she knew the half of it. Fred and George were in states of jealous fits, insisting Harry was privy to the deepest Ministry secrets even when he denied it vehemently. Harry's lessons were often complex, practically as well as theoretically. Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror's Office, had gifted Harry with a complete set of training text books. Harry spent many hours with his nose in those books, often curled up by the fire in the dusty old parlor and sipping wine or tea, depending on the hour.

Today's session had been especially intense, a practical demonstration of all known forms of the Incarcerous Spell and how to repel them. The witch teaching him was nimble and impossibly quick. She had no qualms about correcting his mistakes. It seemed that even without her wand, she could worm out of every charm Harry threw, divesting herself of her bulky robe in order to show him exactly how she twisted her delicate wrist or nimbly manipulated her long legs in order to escape. There was no magic to it at all, only flexibility and a certain genius for wriggling one's way out of trouble. Fred and George would've fallen head-over-heels for this woman. Her methods were forward and hands on—but always with a playful smile twinkling in her blue eyes. Harry found her charming and devastatingly pretty as well as awfully young to be so accomplished. She couldn't have been older than twenty six. Her name was Special Auror Margaret Gweir, yet she insisted he call her Margie.

Harry massaged the insides of his elbows, cool fingers glancing over the livid red rope burn there. It turned out the most effective way to restrain a body wasn't at the wrists, like muggles did with handcuffs, but at the elbows. With your arms pinned behind you thus, your hands couldn't reach up to the ropes and a decent swish and flick was nigh impossible. The only way out was wandlessly and non-verbally. Margie had stood over him, wand in hand, insisting that he attempt it whenever she bested him. Each time she refused to release him until he'd at least tried.

Harry wasn't sure if he was more tired physically or mentally. Ever since that first day without Draco, he got up and ran every morning. If his lessons were wearing him down, running was picking him back up, psychologically. Running was almost like sleep—he could lose himself in the steady rhythm of his trainers hitting the pavement, the rivulets of sweat running down his chest and back, the crisp fall air sharp in his lungs as he pushed himself, challenged and engaged his body in this entirely physical task. The first two weeks had been the hardest, forcing himself from bed and into sweat-clothes, sore and achy and knowing what he was about to do would only make the tingling burn a thousand times worse. He taught himself to ignore it. Now he rose mechanically, sometimes before sunrise, and jogged up to Hampstead Heath. It was roughly eleven kilometers there and back. The first time he'd barely made it, gasping for breath as he collapsed on the dewy grass, his muscles screaming and joints throwing a righteous fit. Now he regularly made it up Parliament Hill to Highgate Ponds at a respectable pace. He passed the same joggers every day, the same Indian woman with her dog and the red-haired man who reminded him a bit of Arthur Weasley, jogging behind a stroller with his two often sleeping toddlers. At first these muggles gave his panting, miserable form a pitying smile. Slowly, they became a part of one another's routine. The woman with her dog always waved as he passed on her left. The ginger man was Callum, his daughters Kendra and Alicia. He usually caught Callum at Willow Road Playground and saw the single father as far as the football pitch before going their separate ways with a “good morning” or a “see you tomorrow.” Only the most committed regulars came when it rained. Their silent nods approved Harry's determination the first few times he stepped out on rainy mornings, soon drenched both inside and out. He learned to enjoy the bad weather mornings. The rain washed away all the grit, all the sweat and toil and he could open his mouth and drink the rain. And it reminded him of getting caught in the rain with Draco, the first time he'd said “I love you.” He didn't mind the rain anymore.

He tried not to think of Draco when he ran. He tried not to think of himself or Voldemort or anything. It was his time to just be. He had one job in the world and that was to run, to press on, to put one foot in front of the other no matter what. He could fall apart in the shower, a mess of raw throat and jelly legs, knowing he'd accomplished something before toast and tea, accomplished something with only his body; no magic, no Order, no Aurors, no help—just him. He didn't think. He just did. And it felt good.

He thought about running again tomorrow morning. His body would hate him after the contortionist torture of ropes, leather and chains he'd suffered but it couldn't be helped. His body would forgive him. His mind wouldn't.

He freed himself from the last of his clothes, sliding under the sheets and pulling Draco's pillow close. He settled it under his chin, wrapping arms around the sack of feathers and drawing his knees up to spoon his little pillow doll. He breathed deep, breathed of autumn and apples, sage and salt, lawn and lemons and magic. And he dreamed, dreamed of storm-colored sunny skies lit with purple and pink clouds, twin sunrises and great flying gusts of wind that lifted him up and away.

- - -

The doleful hoot of an owl on his bedside table woke him. Harry's instructor for the day, an Auror named Williamson, had been called away in the night to investigate another incident of violence and vandalism in Diagon Alley and would likely be engaged with the matter for several days, leaving Harry with apologies and his day suddenly free. A quick Tempus told him it was still too early for his run and so he rolled over, holding Draco's pillow to his chest as he began to drift back to sleep.

“I miss him,” a woman's voice carried to his ears as though from very far away.

“I know, dear heart,” replied another female, equally far off. “Imagine how he feels.”

“Indeed,” a third voice spoke, this one with a gravely purr to it. “I can only hope this one doesn't start crying his eyes out like that wolf.”

“You didn't have to hover about and listen,” the second voice scolded matter-of-factly. The woman gave a short bark of laughter that sounded oddly familiar.

“All over that mangy dog,” the woman with the gravel voice tutted. “No idea how that mutt could have sprung from your pedigree.”

Wait. That bark of laughter. A dog. They were talking about Sirius. Phineas' mistress and at least two other female portrait subjects were milling around inside the painting of a Quidditch pitch above his bed, talking about Sirius. And a wolf. A wolf who cried over him. It had to be—could only be Remus Lupin.

Harry sat bolt upright.

“Goodness!” the soft-voiced woman exclaimed, a hand pressed over her breast. She had white-blonde hair and pointy, delicate features, a bit like Draco.

“Didn't mean to wake you, dollface,” Sylvestra said to Harry, gesturing vaguely with her cigarette.

“You were talking about Sirius Black and Remus Lupin,” said Harry, shifting in the covers to squarely face the three women in the painting. “The dog and the wolf. What about them?”

The blonde woman blushed rather sweetly. Harry liked her gentile manners. She had to be related to the Malfoys—it would explain where Draco got his looks, the rest of the Black family being dark-haired with much heavier features. Then again, Sirius had grey eyes just like Draco. He'd never thought about it before but there was a slight resemblance between his boyfriend and deceased godfather, especially in certain aspects of their personalities—a certain precociousness, excitability, recklessness and boundless energy. Not wanting to be left out, short fuses and hot tempers, barks of laughter, cynicism and unerring wit. Yes, they had been family.

Sylvestra and the pudgy woman were exchanging looks.

“Out with it,” Harry pressed. “What do you know about them?”

“We... used to watch them,” the delicate blonde confessed.

“What do you mean, 'watch them?'” Harry's gaze narrowed. “You spied on Mr. Lupin when he stayed here?”

The rotund woman smoothed her elaborate robes with heavily jeweled hands, the rings like casings for her sausage fingers. Slowly, she shook her head, unwilling to really meet Harry's eyes. “We watched them as we watch you and your boy,” she clarified at last.

“My what?” Harry felt his guts shift as the information processed. They meant Draco. His “boy” was Draco. These women, shadows of their living selves, had sat there spying on him and Draco making love—probably got off to it, as much as portraits could get off.

“Wait,” he spluttered. “The same way....” The last puzzle piece dropped into place. They'd seen Sirius and Mr. Lupin having sex?

Frozen, Harry forced himself to consider it. Sirius had been out of Azkaban for two years before he was killed at the Department of Mysteries. Granted, the man had been living underground but he'd never made passes at Tonks or Hestia Jones or any other attractive witches in the Order. And Sirius had been so relieved that night in the Shrieking Shack, learning that Mr. Lupin had wanted to believe in his innocence when leveled with the worst imaginable charges. Harry remembered their embrace. He hadn't thought anything of it then, the way they clung with shaking limbs, laughing wildly. He'd thought they were dear old friends reunited. He'd never considered the two could have been lovers. Mr. Lupin was seeing Tonks now, though. Maybe he was bisexual, like Draco. It would certainly explain why he'd fallen apart after Sirius' death, throwing himself into work for the Order, completely disregarding his own health and safety in order to do something, feel helpful, feel like he was making a difference. The more Harry thought about it, the more his brain couldn't deny that it was feasible... and maybe even made sense.

“They...” Harry struggled to form the words around his swirling thoughts. “They loved each other, then. Like me and Draco?”

“It is difficult to say,” the pudgy woman offered stiffly, her weight shifting from one foot to the other.

“I think they did,” said the pretty blonde witch, giving Harry a gentle, almost reassuring smile. “I always thought they were lovely together. But not as lovely as you and yours.”

Harry blushed furiously, choking on an inhaled chunk of air that was like lead in his throat—a bullet lodged in his windpipe, strangling him. These woman, specters though they were, had watched them in the act, seen Draco at his most vulnerable. All those times he had brought the arrogant, disinterested and proper Malfoy heir to his knees, to a quivering Draco mess of tears and moans and pleas, all those times had been witnessed without his knowledge, without his consent. He felt violated. Worse, he felt as though Draco had been... molested, taken advantage of. Those moments were for the two of them, not these stupid, tittering shadows of souls. He felt the rage boiling up inside of him, the magic crackling at his finger tips.

“Tell me,” he seethed. “Does Avada Kedavra work on portraits?”

“We're sorry,” the blonde woman pleased. “We didn't mean any harm—”

“Get out,” Harry snarled. Snakes of blue lightning danced between his fingers, licking his palms with a wheeling, satisfying hiss. The sweaty sheets sizzled and steamed at the sudden heat. He didn't care if he burned a hole right through the mattress. “Now. And if I catch one of you so much as ogling Draco on his way to the shower, I've got a very nasty bit of Norse Dark Magic with all of your names on it, his ancestors or not. Are we clear?”

The three women nodded in frightened unison, faces pale and, in one case, jowls quivering. They darted quickly from the pitch, robes billowing, disappearing beyond the edges of the gold gilt frame. Harry lay back down, trying not to think of how many times those painted figures had watched him in bed as he slept, watched him masturbate or heard him moan sucking Draco off, watched each time they lain together in the Biblical sense. Had they been there that first time, when he was tied up and screaming his lungs out, accidentally disintegrating every pane of glass in the room with the force of his release? He shivered, pulling blankets and pillows closer until he lay in a sweet, spongy cocoon. They'd done it to Sirius and Mr. Lupin, too. Remus. The two of them, probably in this very bed.

Maybe he should invite his former professor over for dinner or something. A part of it was his own sick curiosity. He wanted to know whether the two had really been together, been in love. But the bigger part of him wanted to know if the werewolf was okay, wanted to tell him about the violation of his privacy and offer some kind of apology on behalf of the musty, wretched old house. He needed to make things right. That was his curse, The Boy Who Lived to Love Everybody. It was probably just like Draco said: because no one ever loved him as a child. Draco would laugh at his bleeding heart altruism, saying it was only a sheep's wooly skin worn by the wolf in him that wanted to delve into someone else's secret life and splash around in their discomfort and misery to feel better about his own measly existence. He didn't want it to be about that, though. It was Remus' choice whether or not to confide in Harry. Harry found himself smiling as he drifted off to dreams, realizing that if he sat there and smiled his gentle, Chosen One smile, just about everyone wanted to confide in him. Gryffindor and Slytherin working as one. What a delightful combination.

- - -

Draco had taken most of Harry's quills and parchment stock with him to Hogwarts. Harry managed to find some antique writing supplies inside the desk in the windowless little library. He dashed off a quick owl to Remus, asking him if he was free for dinner that evening. He worded his request vague enough to sound as though he had questions related to his training but nothing so important that it couldn't wait to be shared over a casual meal that evening. He sat staring into the flames long after Hedwig had taken off.

He had so much to do. Hermione suspected that the mysterious R.A.B. was none other than Sirius' brother, Regulus Black. The three of them had long ago searched the moldy house from top to bottom with no luck uncovering the true locket Horcrux. They worried that it had been discarded over the course of many extensive cleanings the house had undergone. Harry even remembered Draco, two months ago, rounding on him in the dusty parlor. “How much have you and your filthy Mudbloods thrown out?” he'd snapped, grey eyes flaring dangerously. Draco knew there were dark and dangerous things in this house. They'd found a lot of the trash stored in the magically extended attic, mostly in great garbage bags undoubtedly dug through by Mundungus Fletcher and Kreacher. Thinking heavy thoughts, Harry glared at the stone around the fireplace carved with detailed snakes curling up the pillars holding up a dark wood mantle piece. It was hopeless.

“Fucking hell,” Harry hissed, not realizing he was speaking Parseltongue as he stared at the stone snakes. They seemed to move, coiling tighter around their columns as if alive. He ignored it, thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him. He'd only had a few pieces of toast after his morning run and shower, a half-finished cup of tea gone quite cold at his elbow.

“What am I supposed to do, summon the ruddy thing? Just, 'Accio Slytherin's Locket,'” he announced sarcastically. His hissing was met with a small, hollow thwump. Head perfectly still, his eyes roved the room. Number twelve was an old house. It made funny noises all the time. Those noises often came from the walls or the floor, sounding like bits of metal flying around, smacking into things as though summoned by magic. It was positively ludicrous to think that...

“Accio Slytherin's Locket,” he repeated in snake tongue. And there again was the thwump sound, as though the locket were beneath the floorboards, flying upwards and making contact the thick wooden floor. He got up from the desk and went to stand by the fire, repeating the spell a few times to pinpoint where the hollow noise was coming from. It was a section of floor right in front of the fireplace. He shoved the threadbare rug aside, testing each board to see if it was loose. No such luck. He was about to blast the floor open when a thought struck him. He looked to the snakes decorating the fireplace, concentrating.

“Are you hiding something?” he asked them. The snakes didn't answer but they did move, slithering along the columns. “Go on, then. Open for me.”

Just like the hidden entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, the entire wall with the fireplace let out an almighty grating sound, expelling a horrid amount of dust before swinging open to reveal a plain stone staircase spiraling down into the cellar. Brushing dirt from his tshirt as he stood, Harry took a deep breath. And then, wand lit, he descended the stairs into the secret room.

The first thing he noticed was that it stunk like several dead, rotting trolls. The little room absolutely wreaked. The second thing he noticed was that it was full of trash—bits of broken furniture, rags, pieces of rotten food, newspapers and what looked like a bike tire were all jumbled together in a kind of grotesque, slovenly nest. At the center of the rubbish lay Kreacher, curled up with what could only be an antique floral-patterned dress of Walburga Black's.

Harry looked down and there it was: Salazar Slytherin's locket, Voldemort's Horcrux winking up at him through layers of dirt and grime. He crouched, picking it up. This was a little too easy. No traps? No poison? No Inferi? No crippling fear for one's life? The locket felt cool and heavy in his hand, nothing inherently evil about it. Perhaps the Horcrux had already been destroyed? He wasn't going to bank on it, though. He would set up a containment field like he'd seen Draco do, vacuum-sealing the locket in one of those glass bells until he could do something about it.

He trotted up the stairs, wiping his dirty hands on his denims. He needed another shower.

Where should he keep the locket? Here at Grimmauld Place, for sure. The house was under a Fidelus Charm and only a select few could even get in, what with the way he had the floo restricted and McGonagall's extensive wards on the place. He didn't want the locket in his bedroom. And the kitchen was a big fat no—he ate in there. Horcruxes and food preparation just didn't sound like a good mix. The old parlor, then. That's where the locket had been originally. He didn't use the room that often, except... oh, the fireplace was in there. He used the fireplace in the little library room for floo calls because it was a nice, private space. Most people floo-ed into the house through the fireplace in the otherwise unused parlor. If he put the Horcrux in there and someone from the Order stopped by, he'd be forced to explain what it was, why the seemingly innocuous piece of jewelry was under such heavy wards. They'd think it was another thing like the roses, think he was in danger. And if anyone went poking around in there, they'd see the tapestry. He and Draco were supposed to be a secret but there was that ruddy wall-carpet, proclaiming his intentions to anybody with eyes in their head. He would have to shut down the floo connection in there and seal off the room. People could floo with the fireplace in the library. That fireplace was the entrance to the secret room but, unless he had another Parselmouth over for dinner, he wasn't too worried. The only living Parselmouths he knew of were himself, Voldemort and the Serb, Nebojsa. Chances of a drop-in from the Dark Lord were slim and Nebojsa was with his partner Dmitry and the others, tucked in an Order safe house in Madrid. So he'd order Kreacher to clear out the secret room in the cellar and then seal off whatever loose floorboard or hole in the insulation the elf had utilized to crawl in there to begin with.

Harry paused. He heard muffled words from down in the room—Kreacher muttering in his sleep. He stepped back into the narrow, spiraling stairwell, focusing his hearing so he wouldn't have to endure the smell again.

“... married his way in, upstart Master did,” the elf muttered, tossing and turning, rubbish nest crinkling and crunching beneath his scabby little body. “But that doesn't matter now. No it doesn't, Mistress. Kill him, Kreacher can. Kreacher will! Kill him dead and to the husband goes the house, to the Malfoy child. A Marked one, my Mistress. One of His own. Your house once again in cherished Dark hands....”

Oh God. Kreacher really was trying to kill him with that awful stew weeks ago. Kreacher wanted him dead so that he and Grimmauld Place would go to Draco. Apparently Kreacher thought they were already married or something. Then again, the elf had practically walked in on them fucking. Maybe for house elves, that was proof enough. On the other hand, with Dobby planning his and Draco's wedding before he'd even proposed, Harry was beginning to wonder if house elves had only a remote understanding of human love and marriage. Did house elves even have marriages or did they reproduce asexually? Harry had no idea. Maybe he just had two of the barmiest house elves in England.

Either way, he couldn't wait until Kreacher snuffed it. Hermione be damned, he'd take that elf's head and install it in the bathroom. As a urinal.
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Conscience