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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.

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SUMMARY: Malfoy is in Potter's house: ensue trio freak out.

A TECHNICAL NOTE: Malfoy's birthday has been moved toward the end of June for better flow. In cannon, his birthday is June 5th. I have adjusted it to about the 20th, keeping him a Gemini—but just barely. Harry is still a Leo.

CONSCIENCE:

THE FOLLOWING MORNING

“Ugh,” was Ron's opinion.

“I hate him!” was what Hermione had to say.

“I can't believe he's in my house,” Harry said quietly. He, Hermione and Ron were gathered in his room, discussing the events of a few hours ago. Ron—the lucky sod—had been able to sleep through it all. Harry only wished he could be so fortunate.

“So, what do we do now?” Hermione asked from beside Harry, curled up in his bed covers with a cup of tea. “How long is he here for?”

“McGonagall said until she can make other arrangements,” Harry replied. “The Ministry is involved, I guess because he's still underage or something.”

“So it'll be awhile,” Ron put in sullenly. “Wish Fred and George were here....” But Fred and George were both very busy running their joke shop, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Harry would often receive gift packages from the twins containing their latest gizmos and gadgets, but their social calls were becoming less and less frequent. Fred and George could always make Harry laugh and he regretted their current absence in his life.

“Honestly, Hermione, I'm not sure what to do,” he admitted. Over the years, Harry had come to appreciate the level of trust and honesty that he shared with Ron and Hermione; especially in such uncertain times, it was comforting to have that bond of friendship and support to fall back on.

“Maybe we can lock him in his room,” Ron suggested wistfully. “Or, better yet, the real Moody can make us another ferret!”

“While I am as keen to relive 'Malfoy the Amazing Bouncing Ferret' as much as the next witch,” Hermione said with a tight smile, “I doubt the real Alastor Moody would ever do such a thing.”

“Was just a thought....”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed wistfully, looking around his room for about the thousandth time since he had moved from the Dursley's to Grimmauld Place. He had taken Sirius's old bedroom because it made him feel safe. The old, heavy furniture, posters and pictures adorning the space made him feel closer to his godfather and his parents, made him feel less alone in life. He'd always have Ron and Hermione, but at times he longed for a parent—a father to advise and motivate him, a mother to comfort him and shield him from harm. The old wizarding house simply reminded him of all the things he'd gone without for so long. Sometimes he would sit in his room for hours on end, looking through stacks of faded old pictures or simply staring at the ceiling, searching for a greater presence to guide him. There was so much left to do, so much he didn't understand....

“Harry? Are you alright?” Hermione asked gently, touching his shoulder. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Alright,” Harry said, torn from his reverie and a little dazed.

“Can I get a cup too, please?”

“Of course, Ron,” Hermione smiled at them both as she closed the door behind herself. As soon as she was out of earshot, Ron left his roost atop Harry's school trunk and approached the bed conspiratorially.

“So,” he whispered, “what are we really gonna do about Malfoy?”

“Er,” Harry was caught off guard, “I have no idea, like I said.” He paused. “Why? You got any ideas?”

“Beyond tarring and feathering? Nope.” Ron smiled broadly. Harry chuckled and shook his head.

“Well, I doubt we'll have to be alone with him very much,” Harry offered in a relieved tone. “There are always people around—because they're afraid to leave me alone for all of five ruddy minutes—so I'm not going to worry about Malfoy until I have to.” Harry wore a pensive expression as he continued. “We've got bigger things to worry about right now: I'm pretty sure the Death Eaters were torturing Malfoy. He could barely stand when they dragged him in last night and he was really messed up, just... bleeding everywhere. I mean, it's Malfoy, but just the—”

“Malfoy?” Ginny Weasley's voice floated in from the hallway as she passed Harry's room. “What about that dirty, greasy, slimy git-face?” she asked calmly, her ginger head peeking into the room.

It was admittedly very awkward for Harry to have his ex-girlfriend living in his house, let alone having her entire family there to supervise. Truth be told, the ones who would be in need of supervising were Ron and Hermione. They were being very stealth about it but Harry had noticed the way they looked at each other when they thought the coast was clear. Harry had somehow seen it coming since their fifth year. His best friends were about to get together just as he and Ginny had broken up. He realized their not-so-mutual break-up must be making things awkward for Ginny, too. She was handling it well. She always did.

“What?!” Gin roared. Evidently Ron had told her about Malfoy's asylum-seeking arrival while Harry had been lost in thought.

“So Malfoy's here, right now, lurking around the house, eating our food and spying on our conversations?” She checked the hallway discreetly before slamming the door shut. “Merlin's beard!”

“The Order took him in thinking that he might have information,” Harry explained. “He's a confirmed Death Eater.” Ginny hurried over, seating herself on the edge of his bed to listen. “But I just don't see Voldemort trusting Malfoy with anything important—anything at all—after he failed so badly on the first go with Dumbledore,” Harry mused. “I'm not sure what the Order's up to. I mean, they've lost contact their main spy and, strategically, that makes things hard for them, but I just don't see any real point to taking Malfoy in. Unless they want him to go back and spy, he's going to be pretty useless in the long run.”

“Malfoy's been useless from the beginning!” Ron put in enthusiastically.

“Slimy git,” and a shrug was Ginny's input.

“Talking about Malfoy again?” Hermione was back with the kettle and a tray. She conjured an extra cup for Ginny. “I took the liberty of checking in on him when I passed his room,” she said slyly, pouring tea. “He's still pretending to be asleep. I think he'll hide out for a day or two before he testing the waters.”

“Let's hope so,” Ginny said, taking her cup from Hermione. “The less we see of that albino ferret-face the better.”

~ * ~

Young Mr. Malfoy is known by his closest friends as a great many things: whiny, manipulative, immature, wanton, egotistical, recondite, irascible, bilious, bombast, choleric, vain... truly, those who know him well could continue on for a fair while, yet one attribute not appearing on that very extensive list was maladroit. Moving among varied social circles came easily to young Mr. Malfoy; he could flatter, cajole and charm with the best should he find it worth his wile. And in his current condition—still suffering the lingering effects of mind-shattering torture and confined to an ill-decorated suite in the home of his sworn mortal enemy—it was going to take a considerable amount of charisma and rhetoric to extricate himself from this predicament; that, or a minor miracle. Whichever involved less effort on his part.

Draco paced the length of the bed chamber with only a slight limp. He passed the two twin beds, the wardrobe and the empty picture frame on the wall time and time again, wracking his brains for a solution to what was shaping up to be the worst catastrophe he had ever had to slither, worm or cajole his way out of. Perhaps he could simply owl Mother and Aunt Bella, informing them that he'd illegally Apparated off the grounds against the Dark Lord's express commands in order to shag his lady-friend and would be home before supper for his scheduled torture session—they would surely remember how their hormones had been at that age! Then again, at his age his parents had been formally engaged and Aunt Bellatrix was probably off killing real people, having graduated from small, furry animals at the age of seven. Perhaps they wouldn't understand. An alternative approach might be necessary....

No matter how many lies or excuses he could conceivably pass off to the lovely ladies of Malfoy Manor, he remained trapped by four walls, a locked door, and untold numbers of Potter-worshiping do-gooders beyond. He shuddered.

Someone was knocking impertinently on the door. Anyone familiar with the ways of a Malfoy would have known not to bother him before nine o'clock without biscuits and a tremendous amount of coffee, but no one was familiar with Draco Malfoy in this house—with the exception of his Great Aunt Walburga Black, who was, of course, dead. He adjusted his shoulders to a stance of confidence, arrogance, and all-that-is-utterly-Malfoy before pulling open the door with an air of grace and well-practiced indifference.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall was doing a good job pretending to be pleased by the situation. “I was wondering if we might have a few words.” She stepped into the room. “Are you feeling better after the potions I sent?”

“Yes, thank you,” he replied curtly, clasping his hands behind his back as he had seen Father do so many times in business dealings. It took a few seconds for him to realize the significance of this action. He released his hands, instead pushing them into the pockets of his borrowed trousers in a fair imitation of Potter's standard slouch. When in the enemy's territory, it is often safest to blend in. “May I ask you a question, Professor?”

“Certainly,” she said, conjuring a straight backed wooden chair and seating herself upon it. Draco sat on the edge of the spare bed.

“We're at... I can't remember the address per-say, but this was once the home of my mother's relatives, the Blacks, was it not? I remember seeing—or hearing, rather—my Great Aunt's portrait in the hallway.” McGonagall nodded. “How is it that all of... you are here, of all places?”

“Well, Mr. Malfoy,” she pronounced curtly, “up until a year ago, this house belonged to a cousin of yours, Sirius Black. He left the estate to his godson.”

“Potter,” Draco supplied easily.

“Yes. Mr. Potter has allowed us to use his home as part of our organization.” She took a breath, as though about to change the subject.

“Professor?” Malfoy got in before she could reopen her mouth. “What is your 'organization' called? I've never known...” and he frowned. Admitting his ignorance was unpleasant but necessary for survival. At least Professor McGonagall wouldn't have him beaten for asking too many questions. And that created in Draco an awkward but not entirely unwelcome feeling—comfort. He vowed not to get too used to it.

“We are called the Order of the Phoenix,” she said.

“Alright, then,” Draco's face went from inquisitive to impassive in a trained instant. “Why are you really here, Professor?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Malfoy?”

“You're not here to answer my questions, Professor,” he said matter-of-factly. “I'm not stupid—I'm a Death Eater, you know—well, I was.” He flinched minutely. “You're not here to answer any questions of mine: you're here to interrogate me.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall actually smiled at him. “Our tactics are somewhat different than those you may be accustomed to. I am not here to interrogate you: I am here to inquire after your comfort and to ensure you of your safety here.”

“I'm comfortable, thank you. What about my safety?”

“By this time, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will know of your defection. He may have Death Eaters searching for you even now with orders to bring you back, dead or alive. It depends on how much you know. For the time being—as well as for your own protection—I must ask you to remain in this house until all this has gone through the proper channels.”

“What channels might those be?”

“The Office of Misinformation, as well as the Auror's Office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We're encountering some difficulties because you are still technically underage. I am using every resource at my disposal but I fear it may yet be some time before the Ministry recognizes your defection or provides any measures of protection.”

“So I'm locked up with The Boy Who Refuses To Die Quietly. Is that all?” he folded his arms, closing off his body language and hoping she would take the hint.

“No,” she replied. “I'm afraid I'm going to need your wand.”

There was an exclamation of wrath and utter fury heard throughout the house.

- - -

Draco was pacing again. McGonagall had left with his wand and a very smug look on her face.

It would have been fair to say that young Mr. Malfoy was, at this point, a bit undone. Frazzled is simply not a strong enough word to describe the length and force of young Mr. Malfoy's pacing, the voracious twitching of the muscles surrounding his left eye, nor the chaotic state of his nerves. He felt as though he would never be whole again. That is, until....

“What?!” Potter's scream of twin fury rent the morning air. “I have to stay here?! With Malfoy!?!”

It would seem as though Professor McGonagall had given Potter a similar ultimatum. Somehow, young Mr. Malfoy felt exceedingly better.
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Conscience