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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
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SUMMARY: The Boy Who Lived To Stick His Nose In Things has an informative encounter with Remus Lupin.

WARNINGS: mention of the Sirius/Remus pairing, an emotionally-charged altercation

DISCLAIMERS: “Cherbourg” music and lyrics by Zach Condon, 2009.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Much of this chapter and story in general undoubtedly deviates from information provided in Deathly Hallows. That's probably because I haven't read it and don't care to. I think it's more fun to imagine, anyway. I often found Rowling's characterizations a little flat; this is my attempt to round them out a bit, give them some tactile humanity grounded in the complexities of an adult reality. I could never write childrens novels—I'm too fond of sexuality, the human condition in all its grittiness and glory. “Happily Ever After” just doesn't do it for me. This chapter—indeed this story—isn't so much about darkness as it is about determination in the face of a disbelieving world.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

CHERBOURG

I will lead the way, oh, lead the way

When I know

And I'll sleep away, oh, sweep away

What I don't

Well seize the way, oh, seize the way

No, I won't

I will lead the way, oh, lead the day

When I know

“Cherbourg”

Beirut

Dinner with Mr. Lupin was really quite pleasant. He kept asking Harry to call him Remus. They sat at the worn kitchen table, Remus complementing Harry's home made curry and Harry refilling their wine glasses every so often. Remus kept sighing and saying Harry was growing up before his eyes, looking so much like his father but acting more like his mother now he'd come into manhood. That one made Harry blink and lean back in his seat.

They spoke at length about Harry's parents, about James' success in the Auror training programs and his mother's mysterious work as an Unspeakable. They'd only been twenty one when they died. James had gotten his first big promotion and Lily was still on maternity leave when they'd gone into hiding. Ever the watchful Auror, James would prowl the grounds of their little cottage in Godric's Hollow every morning, checking on the wards and seeing that all was well and his little family safe. Lily would not be kept from her work by a silly nuisance like You-Know-Who; she continued her charms research, often with a Quick Quotes Quill scratching while she changed Harry's nappies. They were cheerful people, pleasant and kind, young and very much in love. They didn't let their persecution by the Dark side get them down. Lily especially felt that children could sense emotions in adults and she didn't want their happy child suffering from his parents' unease. His parents had fought like cats and dogs during their Hogwarts years—and then one day they found comfort in one another and decided not to waste any more time in shouting matches. All it took was one look from Lily and whatever smart remark had been on James' tongue was no more. He swallowed his schoolyard ways because he loved Lily, didn't want to upset her. He valued her good opinion over anyone else's. Harry couldn't help but thinking his parents' relationship sounded a bit like his and Draco's, each putting their shit aside to really see the other, value them as a person and hold them in highest regard. He hoped his parents would be okay with his choices but there was really no way of knowing.

He was surprisingly tipsy when he rose form the table. Remus wasn't much better off. Taking a step toward the man, Harry took the elbow of his tattered old robe and gave a gentle tug, saying, “I'd like to show you something.” He lead the way down the hall.

Remus stood slack-jawed at the sight of the gutted dining room. What had once been a disaster area was now spartan and heavily scented of cleaning products, soap for the carpet and walls, polish for the now gleaming wood floor. And in the far corner on a sheet of heavy canvas sat the frame of Sirius' flying motorbike. Harry had found the parts jumbled up in Kreacher's nest and brought them here, hoping there was a shot at reassembling the thing. He didn't think he could actually get it running without assistance but he was doing what he could, using spells to straighten out the metal frame where it was twisted, rags doused with cleaner applied to all the dusty, greasy gears and workings until they were recognizable. The pile resembled a vintage motorcycle instead of garbage. Remus gaped.

“Where did you find...?” he muttered.

“The cellar,” Harry replied, shrugging. “Kreacher was using some of the parts as mattress springs. I commandeered them, much to his disappointment. It doesn't run or anything but I thought, with a little help from Fred and George, maybe Alastor Moody, it might work again. Could be useful; you never know.”

“I think Sirius would've liked that,” Remus said tightly, nodding once.

Harry leaned against the door frame, regarding his former professor turned friend.

“Remus,” he began. “About you and Sirius. I... well, I was talking to some of the portraits and I learned something rather disturbing. Er, maybe disturbing is the wrong word—it just really bothered me, is what it did. Either the Black family had no code of ethics and decency, which is possible, or the spell animating their portraits doesn't include a conscience. Either way, I caught a couple of the women spying on me in bed last night. And it's not the first time they've done it. They mentioned... um,” and here he faltered, running a hand across the short hairs at the back of his neck and looking awkwardly at Remus' knees. The man's robes were awful tatty. It looked like Mrs. Weasley had been repairing the hems with thread that didn't quite match the faded color. You could only tell if you looked really hard. And Harry was staring uncomfortably.

Remus wasn't saying anything. Fuck, he really had to be curious, didn't he? He'd already stuck his foot in the pond—might as well dive in.

“They mentioned the two of you having sex. You and Sirius. So were you together?”

Remus's hair was a very dark brown in the poor light, his skin moon pale in contrast. It was the middle of the moon's cycle, though. He'd been caught completely off guard.

“We... I,” the man stuttered, gesturing listlessly before folding his arms across his chest.

“It's okay,” Harry said vaguely. “You don't have to tell me. It's none of my business, really. I guess what I really want to know is if he was happy. After everything that happened to him, my parents being killed and him sent to rot in Azkaban for something he didn't do, then cooped up in here... he's the one who trashed this room. It would be nice to know he had some comfort after all that.”

“It was nothing formal,” Remus offered quietly. “He... approached me at school, sixth year. I knew there were others. I knew there were. I tried not to take it as a compliment, that he would be interested in me despite....”

“Your furry problem?”

“Yes,” Remus chuckled. “Your father was always made light of it—they both did.” He kept looking into the room instead of at Harry, lost in his memories.

“Maybe it was a compliment,” offered Harry. “He wouldn't jeopardize your friendship if he didn't have feelings.”

“His emotions ruled him after Azkaban,” Remus said harshly. “He was a different man after that.”

It's none of my business, it's none of my business, groaned the voice in Harry's head. Still, the words flew out of his mouth. “But you loved each other, right?”

“I don't know, Harry.” Remus sounded so... hopeless. Like he really didn't know, after all this time.

“How can you not?” Harry protested despite the voice of temperance in his head. “I mean, that's the strongest emotion there is. When you love someone, don't you just feel it?”

The slightest, saddest smile twitched Remus' thin lips even as he hung his head.

“You're young, Harry,” he replied. “You have yet to experience the many types of love that exist in this world; brotherly love, parental love, love for one's country, blind love, romantic love... it can be very confusing, even at my age. It takes a lifetime to unravel one's feelings.”

“Then how could you—” Harry cut himself off abruptly. He knew what it was to get physical with someone for whom he held only the most basic regard. Who was he to judge? So what if Remus and Sirius had fooled around, maybe caring for each other or maybe not? There was no law that people had to be in love to have sex—even really good sex. Hadn't Draco had great sex with Jack the muggle even though, as Draco would later confess, his feelings for Harry were already starting to grow, to become something more than respect and friendship? No, love and sex were hardly synonymous, as much as he'd like to believe they were. “Never mind. It's none of my business. But I apologize on behalf of this ruddy house that your privacy was violated like that.”

“They're just portraits, Harry,” Remus assured him, voice sounding more normal by the second. “But thank you.” He laid a hand briefly on Harry's shoulder. “I'll show myself out. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

Remus smiled gently before withdrawing his hand, turning to make his way down the hall. He stepped into the parlor to use the floo.

“Wait!” Harry called after him, tripping over his own feet as he made for the dusty old room before the door shut. If Remus went in there, he might see the Horcrux—or the little “addition” to the Black family tree. That wouldn't end well. Harry sprinted down the hall. “I disconnected the....”

Shit. Too late. Remus was looking at the tapestry, his wand tip lit and head tilted to the side in close examination. The Horcrux of Salazar Slytherin's locket in its bell case was all of two meters away. Remus didn't seem to notice, his attention focused solely on the family tree. Maybe, if he remained distracted, he wouldn't notice, wouldn't ask questions. Harry braced for it.

“Harry,” Remus pronounced, voice pleasantly slow and even, a curious expression playing on his lips. If Harry wasn't madly in love with Draco, he'd say the werewolf's voice was melodic just then—sexy, even. “What's this?”

“The future, I'm told,” Harry shrugged, knowing full well it would infuriate his former professor. It was the type of flippant remark which a younger version of James Potter would've offered. He cringed when he saw Remus' face contort. At least when he turned to let Harry have it, he turned his back on the Horcrux.

“The future?” he repeated, voice going deep. “Or the present? This says you've gone and married Lucius Malfoy's son.”

Harry met Remus' honey colored eyes, his own defiant. “Maybe I will,” he drawled. “And he has a name, you know. It's Draco. He's not his father.”

“No,” Remus replied, his breath huffing at Harry's uncharacteristic show of adolescent irritability. “But he is his father's son, Harry. You can't ignore the tradition this young man comes from, what he believes, everything he represents—”

“What? What does Draco represent?” Harry shot back. “That no matter where you came from or who your family is, there's always a second chance to do things right? That people can turn their lives around if you show them a little kindness instead of judging and condemning them? That if you take the risk of believing in someone, they can surprise you?”

“Harry, are you in a relationship with Draco Malfoy?” Remus gestured to the tapestry, disbelief still etched in his features.

“Yes,” Harry said readily, chin up. “Not like it's anyone's business but yes, we're together.”

“And is this your idea or his?” he waggled a finger at the silvery line of marriage twined between their embroidered names.

“Both, I'd imagine,” snapped Harry. “Why should it matter?” Despite himself, he was reaching out for this man's opinion. Was he that desperate for approval, like Draco always said? Did he need a father figure so badly that he'd accept any person twenty years or more his senior telling him what he should and should not do? Enough was enough. He may have been Dumbledore's man but Dumbledore was dead. The old wizard would always guide him, but Harry was his own man now. He took a deep breath, tasting a sudden sweetness of freedom in the air. He felt light, ready for anything.

Remus spoke first. “Have you heard of something called Stockholm Syndrome?”

Okay, he hadn't quite been ready for that.

“It's a psychological condition that can occur when a person is held captive either for long periods of time or under extremely stressful circumstances,” Remus continued through Harry's dumbfounded silence. “When their captor also becomes their caretaker, seeing to their needs and survival, the person can develop an affection for the captor they perceive as most gentle-hearted, most kind toward them.”

“I know what Stockholm Syndrome is,” Harry interjected abruptly. “So what exactly are you saying? That Draco developed a crush on me because Ron punched him, Ginny taunted him and Hermione gave him muggle books that drove him batty? That he's only interested in me because I tried to show a little compassion when his world was going to shit?”

“Anything is possible,” Remus went on with an irritating shrug, always in that pleasing voice that made him sound younger in the darkness where you couldn't spot his gray hairs and the weary lines around his eyes and mouth. “The Order has a rather sad history of shoving depressed and angry men in this house against their will.”

“Draco isn't Sirius,” Harry asserted quickly. “And neither am I.”

“Oh, Draco is very much like Sirius,” Remus chuckled, an almost mean-sounding laugh. “Perhaps he was placed in Gryffindor for you to keep an eye on.”

Harry let out a frustrated growl. “Make up your fucking mind, Remus!” The man took a step back at Harry's language—and likely his intense burst of emotion, too. He'd never spoken that way with the werewolf before. “First you tell me he's only interested because I'm some kind of benevolent jailer, then you're encouraging me to be his bloody keeper! It's almost—wait, I get it,” Harry slapped his thigh in mock-revelation before pointing up at Remus. The man was still taller than him. “You think Draco's going to run around on me just like Sirius did to you. You want me to back off before I get my sweet little Gryffindor feelings hurt? You back off, Remus. You're not my father.”

“I'm glad I'm not your father!” Remus bellowed. “You'd be over my knee so fast, boy! You're in no condition to be thinking about marriage—you're seventeen! You don't know anything yet! And that Death Eater is all wrong for you! You don't know what you're doing, what you're getting yourself into, young man! I've half a mind to beat you silly!”

Harry suddenly realized that Remus wasn't just yelling at him. He was yelling at Sirius, too. Those two had had some serious unresolved issues. Having dealt with Draco's outbursts in the past, Harry was able to keep his own anger in check—barely. Screaming back wouldn't do any good here. And Remus didn't actually want to hurt him. No matter what he might say or how hopping mad he got, Remus wasn't the type of man to take his hand or belt or a switch to any person's backside. He was just angry and scared, lashing out at a friend who loved him because Harry was the only thing close enough to reach, to blame for the painful memories swirling in his head. Instinctively, Harry knew what to do.

He reached out, putting a hand against Remus' neck. The man was beet red and burning up, pulse racing against Harry's hand.

“It's okay,” Harry offered quietly, just tracing calming circles with his fingertips on flushed skin and meeting his gaze until things seemed to cool in those honeyed depths. “It's okay.”

“It is most certainly not okay,” Remus scolded under his breath, pulling Harry's hand away by the wrist. He turned his back to Harry and gave a very heavy huff, trying to reign in his erratic, marathon breathing. “Harry, you can't marry a Death Eater.”

“Draco's not a Death Eater,” Harry asserted firmly. “So if that's your only objection—”

“He's a Malfoy,” Remus pointed out, spinning around as he did, hands fisted in the pockets of his robes.

“You can't judge a person by their house, their family or even their friends. If those type of superficial assumptions were true, Peter Pettigrew would have been a right decent human being,” Harry snorted. “It's choices in life that make the measure of a man. What you're given doesn't matter—pureblood traditions or eleven years of Uncle Vernon's belt—what you do with it is the only thing that counts. And right now Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, is using every trick up his sleeve to preserve the morale of a bunch of twelve year olds. Does that sound like a man unworthy of love?”

Remus had nothing.

“It sounds like Sirius made some stupid choices along with the good ones. We can't all be perfect,” Harry said slowly. “The world's not just made up of good people and Death Eaters. Sirius told me that once. There's got to be something in between. Draco's in between and that's his right. You can't make people be what you want. You can change minds... but hearts? Not so much. I'd like to think those stay the same.”

“You do realize you're saying a Malfoy has a heart?” Remus remarked, a hint of a browbeaten smile on his face.

“Sounds crazy, I know,” Harry rolled his eyes grandly. “But I'm the bloody Chosen One. Go with me on this one.”

Remus' hands flopped listlessly in his pockets, his eyes flicking helplessly around the room. He didn't see the Horcrux at his back.

“Did he teach you to disarm people like this?” Remus accused quite suddenly. Harry laughed a little ruefully.

“No. Draco's the master of disarming. I think I've just gotten better at picking out what people are feeling, not just what they're saying. Everyone else is easier compared to Draco.”

“So he's an Occlumens?”

“Yeah. But that's not it,” Harry bit the inside of his lip so the frustrated sigh couldn't escape his mouth. “He never says what he means. And every other word has a double or triple meaning with him. Conversations are riddles. Two weeks with him was like a crash course in detecting hidden messages. Normal people are kinda... refreshing.”

“Normal people?” Remus parroted, an incredulous brow raised. He practically had a hand on his hip, like it was an insult to be grouped with the main population.

“Come on, Moony,” Harry leaned against the wall, giving the graying man an easy smile. “Draco's so fucked up he makes Voldemort look only mildly disturbed.”

“And that's what you want?” he questioned, not saying a word about the use of his old nickname. Or the use of Voldemort's name.

Damaged goods? “Yup.” Harry's grin only grew.

“Why?”

A good question. One that deserved a good answer. Harry thought a moment, not avoiding Remus' gaze in order to demonstrate he wasn't afraid, only contemplating.

“Simple,” said Harry. “I can make things better for him. I can make him happy.”

“And... he makes you... happy?” Remus sounded a little disbelieving, still. Harry offered the most confident, reassuring smile he could. He was probably showing dimples.

“So happy I could scream.” Sometimes he did, when he was running in the rain at half six and no one was around to hear him. He would just shout and scream into sodden wet nothingness because, in spite of everything, he was actually happy for the first time in his life. It was frightening, to be that joyful in the face of what some might consider his certain death. But he could feel it even now; a hot, fluttery weight in his chest bursting to get out, to break free and sprint all the way to Scotland like he had wings on his shoes and springs in the soles of his feet. Draco made him feel like he could do anything. And he would; for Draco, he would.

“I'm not sure I've ever been quite that happy,” Remus chortled, shaking his head from side to side. He brushed a fringe of mouse brown hair from his eyes. “I'll just have to take your word for it, then.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

He showed Remus to the floo in the library room. With a puff of powder and a shouted destination, he was away. Harry collapsed back in the lone winged armchair—the chair where Draco had sat gibbering in French with the Sorting Hat on his head. Harry remembered the man's violent reaction to his re-sorting. He'd threatened to slap the blonde if he didn't get over himself right quick. Even then he'd had some small modicum of control over Draco; a respect born of mutual, begrudging admiration. He couldn't explain how natural it felt, looking out for Draco like that, knowing his state of mind before more than a few words could pass between them. He could understand Draco perfectly now; there was no awkwardness between them, no doubt or indecision. How many people had that?

Feeling indulgent, Harry pulled out his wand and summoned his pack of cigarettes. In short order he was lighting up without guilt. A glass of wine here or a smoke there wasn't going to kill him—Voldemort was. He could have this small modicum of comfort in the dark, empty parlor. He watched as smoke from his parted lips billowed out into the dusty, unmoving air. The only compass he had to follow was his heart and it was beating a steady rhythm; drink a little, smoke a little, love a little, it said. Know what life is, what love is. Before it's too late.

He breathed, smoke in, smoke out, steadily building in a chalky cloud around him. This was his life, his war. If he was risking his life, he'd risk it for what he wanted.
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Conscience