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
- 37
- 38
- 39
SUMMARY: Is Hogwarts really as safe as Harry thinks?

WARNINGS: some mud & blood, kissing

DISCLAIMER: Lyrics are by John Lennon, first recorded in 1977.

CONSCIENCE:

A BROKEN WAND

“Harry, ya alright?”

A disgruntled “yeah,” came back at him along with a delayed, weighty sort of sigh. “Just frustrated.”

Draco knew that sound, knew what it meant—The Boy Who Couldn't Leave Well Enough Alone. Harry had been sighing all afternoon, discontent manifesting in so many little looks and gestures that made his thoughts overwhelmingly clear. Draco sighed, too. He knew what this was about.

The Chosen One had sat through that afternoon's prefect meeting with a permanent frown etched into his features, taut forearms exposed by his muggle tshirt and folded across his chest as an outward sign of his displeasure—as though they needed an indication beyond the chill of those narrowed emerald eyes behind round lenses. He'd leaned back in his chair, glaring at the Headmistress the entire time. The two had had words before the meeting; obviously it hadn't gone Harry's way and the man was still bristling over the snub now that they were back in their rooms. Draco had finished his schoolwork and was relaxing in bed, hoping Harry would finish the letter he was writing and join him soon. It was nearly time for supper and Harry had promised Weasley a game of chess after the meal. With the exception of Quidditch, prefect obligations and the occasional meal, the couple had remained sequestered in their quarters over the weekend. Tomorrow, Draco would go to classes—and Harry would confront Headmistress McGonagall with whatever plot that letter was cooking up.

“Yeh think McGonagall's makin' a mistake.”

Harry sighed again, twisting around on the sofa to look at Draco. The blonde lay sprawled across the bed with an especially squashy burgundy pillow thrown over his stomach, staring up at the shadows stretching across the spider-veined ceiling.

“I think she's underestimating Voldemort,” Harry scratched the back of his neck. “That's a dangerous thing. She could get everyone at Hogwarts killed.”

“So,” Draco rolled onto his stomach, trapping the pillow under his hips. He regarded his boyfriend with his chin propped on one hand. “Wot's Harry Potter gonna do about it? Charge in an' save us all? Brilliant plan, mon ange.”

The Chosen One snorted, setting down his quill. “I've learned my lesson about that—running into things without thinking. I have a plan. This is a letter to Dmitry, Nebojsa and the guys. I'm asking if they can bring Yuri or even Gregorovich to have a look at the wards. I'm not stepping on the Headmistress' toes and it'll make me feel like I'm doing something instead of sitting on my arse, waiting to be attacked.”

Draco didn't react to the prospect of Hogwarts coming under attack. It was a looming possibility but he'd kept it from entering his thoughts. If he thought about it—Death Eaters and Dementors storming the castle with him on the other side of the fence this time around—he might begin to feel that most alien of emotions... fear. And he couldn't be afraid, not now. He was responsible for the welfare of Gryffindor and all the other houses. If Draco Malfoy, defected Death Eater, looked the slightest bit frightened, the world would surely dissolve into chaos. He had to keep it together, even if it felt insane to walk around with a smug little smirk on his face; it was what was expected of him—and a Malfoy always aimed to please.

“An' how might yeh be gettin' this letter to them? Didn't ya say they're in Valaam?” Draco kicked a blanket off his foot. “We haven't had owls in or out since Thursday.”

Harry signed his name to the parchment before sealing it with a spell, a magical wax forming along the crease of his single sheaf of parchment. He slipped it into a dragon hide carrying case and crossed the room to the window. Draco slithered across the bed to find none other than Dumbledore's ruddy phoenix waiting patiently at the windowsill. The whole fucking castle was as Harry's beck and call, it would seem.

“Ya think the phoenix can get out?”

“Let's call it an experiment,” Harry grinned a little sadly, opening the window to get to the bird. He greeted it, offering an owl treat before hooking the weatherproof satchel over its long, red-feathered neck.

“Can you take this to Valaam, please?” he asked the creature, all politeness, stroking its gold-plumed head affectionately. Draco was jealous. He wanted Harry's hands on him like that before dinner. “The recipient should be Nebojsa Radić or Yuri Batushansky—whomever you find first. Does that make it easier for you?” he continued in a gentle tone, the phoenix nuzzling into his hand more like a cat than a bird. With a doleful trill, it took off into the cloudy sky. Harry pulled the window shut but watched the phoenix as it swooped off into the distance.

“If Fawkes can get out,” the brunet said, more to himself than anything, “then we might have a problem. I think if Fawkes gets out, then there's a chance other magical creatures can get in.”

“Other magical creatures?” Draco pondered. “The castle is warded against Dementors an' Inferi, tha' much I know. Wha' else did ya have in mind?”

“Well, I asked for Misha or Dima to come, too. I want them to test the wards in their Animagus form. There's no telling if there are other Death Eaters who've undergone the same ritual or whatever. I'd rather not take chances if this is something we can prevent. They know an awful lot about the Dark Arts—maybe they'll catch something the Order missed. It's worth a shot.” Leaning forward, Harry's forehead made contact with the cool glass of the windowpane. He was rubbing slow circles into his temples, glasses balanced precariously at the very end of his nose. The stress was getting to him.

“Why don't you come over here, baby?” Draco offered, patting the mound of eiderdown beside him.

“I...” Harry began. His mouth hung open, unsure of what he wanted to say. He looked tired despite these last two nights of rest.

“You have a headache, right?” Draco pressed, crawling to the edge of the bed to stop on his knees. He held out his hand out to Harry, beckoning. “Let me take care of it for you. You promised Weasley a game of chess tonight and you always keep your promises.”

Harry Potter took his hand, favoring him with a slow, impossibly handsome smile. Emotion softened his features, banishing the worry and doubt that came with his maturity. Green eyes sparkled in the lamplight. He looked like the little boy of eleven who'd rejected Draco all those years ago. Now he was a man—and there was a certain depth to his eyes, an understanding of magic and the world that only made him warmer, sweeter, more like home.

~ * ~

Ron scanned the Common Room before casting Muffliato.

“Malfoy,” he said quietly over the chess board. The prat was winning... again. Cunning ex-Slytherin bastard. “Those guys... who are they, exactly?"

“Those guys” gave Ron the creeps worse than a whole barrel full of spiders. He thought he recognized them from the Order meeting after Ravenwood—but not a one of those foreign blokes had given their names then. They barely spoke, just sat there brooding until called upon to demonstrate that fire spell of Harry's. Ron didn't like the looks of them at all.

Three of them had been waiting for Harry down by Dumbledore's mausoleum that afternoon. They'd looked murderous, standing out there in the drizzling rain like a couple of assassins sent by You Know Who himself. They'd greeted Harry and Malfoy with hugs and kisses on the cheeks, of all things. Though Harry had introduced the fellows, Ron would be damned if he could tell one Slavic name from another. With that classic casual wave, Harry had tromped off into the Forbidden Forest with them. That had been several hours ago. Now Ron sat by the window with Malfoy, pretending to play wizard's chess. Neither of them had their head in the game, each glancing out the rain-splattered windows, watching for Harry to emerge from the enchanted forest. He'd been gone since lunch and was now missing his dinner.

“They're mates of mine,” Malfoy said carefully, contemplating the board. “From Durmstrang. They've been helping Harry quite a bit, from what I understand. Saved his life a few times.”

Ron frowned. He was supposed to be out there, skiving off class to traipse through forests in the rain. He should be out there saving Harry's life—not those bohunks. He was Harry's best mate. But because he'd reacted to the sight of his best mate boning Draco Malfoy like any Gryffindor would—with absolute horror, mind you—Harry didn't trust him like he used to. That much was clear. Ron had offered to accompany him to the Forbidden Forest today but Harry just smiled and reminded him of his fear of spiders. Like he'd forgotten or something. “You stay in, mate,” Harry had said, clapping Ron on the shoulder. “It's nothing to do with the Horcruxes, just something I wanna take a look at. Why don't you stay dry? Draco says I'm bollocks as a chess partner. Mind him for me, will you? I'll be back before you know it.”

And so Ron was here, proving his mate-dom by playing a second round of wizard's chess with Draco sodding Malfoy when Seamus had a perfectly good bottle of Irish Mist up in the dorms which he was more than willing to share. Sodding friendships. Ron really loved Harry more than a best mate should, to put up with this pants.

“Yeah, but,” Ron protested. “Who are they? Who are their families?” Can I trust them with Harry? was certainly implied.

“Well, the wide fellow with the beard is Yuri Batushansky,” Malfoy drawled, moving his pawn within striking range of Ron's knight. “The Batushanskys supply potions shops and wand makers with hard-to-acquire materials—dragon hearts, unicorn hair, Vampire fangs. You know, that sort of thing. Dangerous work but they're quite reliable.”

“So they deal in Dark stuff, too,” Ron surmised, since someone like Malfoy knew about them.

“That's neither here nor there,” the git shrugged, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his scrawny chest. Honestly, did Harry like that androgynous, emaciated waif look? Ginny was curvy—maybe that had been the problem. “I suspect that certain aspects of the family business aren't strictly legal... but Yuri's a good man. He left the Death Eaters when his girlfriend was kidnapped. He has a much better chance of staying alive to find her by siding with you lot.”

Ron winced. He couldn't imagine how torn up and raging he would be if the Death Eaters laid a finger on Hermione. This Batishunsky guy was alright in Ron's esteem, shady family or not.

“What about the tall guy?”

“Chern?” Malfoy smirked. The expression made his eyes scrunch. “Chereshko Toleanu. I've known him for ages. Good chap. Queer as a corner, though. Lost his entire family defending Durmstrang from the Death Eaters. With his uncle dead, he stands to inherit the Cleansweep fortune.”

“The broomstick manufacturer?” Ron spluttered.

“No, Mrs. Scowers,” an annoyed tick rippled around Malfoy's left eye. “Of course Cleansweep broomsticks, you mad twatter.”

In retaliation, Ron took Malfoy's pawn with his knight.

“So who's the third bloke? The one who didn't talk much.”

“Mikhail Ionescue.”

Ron peered out the window, thinking as Malfoy considered the board. “The name sounds familiar. Wouldn't be related to the Potions Master Ionescue, would he?”

Malfoy nodded. “His father.”

“Those Ionescues are bloody Death Eaters, the lot of 'em,” Ron huffed.

Malfoy spoke very quietly, hands in the pockets of his school robe. “Their mother wasn't.”

Ron folded his arms across his chest. “How do you figure that, Malfoy?”

“Tihomir Ionescue had three sons,” he explained, counting each on a knobbly finger. “Vukasin, Dmitry and Mikhail. I had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Vuk while he was here for the TriWizard. We got utterly lashed one night and he told me the entire story,” Malfoy shook his head, looking a mite ill at the recollection. “His brothers were too young to realize what had happened but, shortly after Mikhail was born, Tihomir Ionescue murdered his wife and made it look like a suicide. It wasn't long after the Dark Lord's fall that Ionescue discovered his wife's political sympathies were less conservative than he'd been lead to believe during the war. He made her death appear to be the result of a postpartum depression. His sons grew up without a mother.”

“Merlin's beard, that's awful,” Ron cringed.

“Oh, it gets worse,” said Malfoy quite soberly. “Vuk told his brothers when he felt they were old enough. The three made a pact that when the Death Eaters invaded their school, they would use the confusion as a cover to make an attempt on their father's life. Patricide. They failed.”

Ron waited for Malfoy to go on. The skinny Head Boy looked lost in thought, staring off into the storm clouds. “So what happened?”

“The Potions Master came after them,” Malfoy said matter-of-factly. “They were fleeing Durmstrang with the rebellion when Ionescue caught up with his progeny. Vuk collapsed an underground passageway, allowing the rebels to escape.” Malfoy stopped there, wrapping his woolen school robe a little tighter around his bony frame. It was Harry's robe—Ron recognized the stretched out neckline and little potion burns on the sleeve. Harry always forgot to hold back his billowing robe sleeves when stirring potions. So did Hermione. Anyone who grew up watching their Mum stir a potion in the hearth would know better.

“So... Ionescue murdered his son,” Ron finished Malfoy's grisly story, shivering. “His first-born. His heir. That's just ghastly.”

“Still think Mikhail is a Death Eater? And Yuri and Chereshko?”

Ron ran a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell, were they there when it happened?”

Malfoy nodded tentatively. “All of them were in the passageway... heard the entire thing. I can't even imagine,” Malfoy folded his long hands on the table, looking at Ron. “Chern and Vuk were... lovers? Certainly more than mates, that much I knew. But to hear someone you love murdered by his own father—and you powerless to stop it? To have that sacrifice hanging over your head for the rest of your life?” Malfoy shook his head. “I couldn't handle it.”

It became clear that Malfoy was talking about more than these foreign fellows—he was talking about Harry, slyly informing Ron that under no conditions was he to allow Harry to do something so selfless, heroic and stupid as sacrifice himself like Vuk Ionescue.

“I agree,” said Ron. “I'd rather die myself than have Harry or Hermione do that for me.”

Malfoy sighed, his shadowed, sunken eyes falling once more to the chess board. “Glad we understand one another.” He picked up his squirming rook. “Oh. And checkmate, Weasley.”

- - -

Yuri and Chern took the lead, the taller man cutting his way through the thick underbrush with a conjured machete and the stouter, bearded wizard navigating with an undoubtedly more occult version of the “Point Me” spell Harry had learned back in fourth year. The Boy Who Lived tromped along a few meters behind with Misha. The Romanian had taken a few sips of whisky from a flask as they walked, his big dragon hide boots crunching twigs and dry leaves, heavy wool cloak brushing the dirt as he climbed over roots and fallen trees. It was remarkably dry this deep into the forest. They all had their wands out, ready for anything.

The two older men ahead were holding a conversation in hushed tones, speaking in the dialect of their native Moldova. Harry turned to Mikhail.

“So where's Dmitry? I sort of thought he might come with you....”

Misha shrugged his hulking shoulders. It was hard to remember the boy was just fifteen, what with those hooded honey eyes and thick limbs wrought with muscle, shifting beneath the cotton of his muggle shirt and denims. Good genes and a very early puberty, Harry supposed. Mikhail probably had facial hair as a first year. His voice betrayed his age, though—that soft, fluttery tenor with a rolling patrician accent compared to his brother's rib-rattling brogue.

“Fratele meu i Nebojsa are fighting. Ve couldn't find them.”

“Wot?” Harry spluttered, nearly tripping over a tree root.

The boy smiled crookedly, a shadow of his brother's rogue, sexual smirk. “Vuk alvays said that Nebojsa is just like our Mozher. She used to think that if she dragged you away somevhere to shout at you, no one vould know she vos angry. Nebojsa does that. Perhaps he thinks emotions make him veak.”

Harry nodded his understanding. Draco was like that sometimes.

“Any idea what they're fighting about?” Harry asked, accepting Misha's arm to steady himself as they climbed over an oak tree that had fallen in the recent storm. The sky was a very nasty sort of gray, though the pelting rain had let up for the moment.

“Our father, of course,” Mikhail sighed. “Nebojsa thinks the pair of you killed him.”

Harry stumbled, a pair of large, warm hands steadying him... and felt himself go pale, remembering. Had he killed Tihomir Ionescue? The man was more than a dangerous Death Eater—he was Dmitry and Misha's father. Vuk's father, too. Harry felt sick to his stomach. He took Misha's elbow, stopping him. The boy was nearly six feet tall and at least thirteen stone to Harry's ten. It was a long way up to look the younger fellow in the eye.

“I'm so sorry,” Harry said seriously.

“Don't fret, Harry. I'm glad. He vouldn't have stopped until he killed Dima.”

Harry's brows drew down. “Um... would your Dad kill you, too?”

Misha shook his head, the metal bar pierced through his eyebrow catching the light from their wands as they went deeper into the forest than Harry had ever gone before.

“The Dark Lord vants our next generation. My brother is exclusive to men, making him useless to them. It's me they vant.”

A few more things made sense, then: the way Mikhail had panicked at the sight of his father, the way Dima and the others were so protective of the boy. He was a target, like Draco. Harry felt a little guilty for calling Misha all the way out here... but he was with Yuri and Chern, after all—the eldest of the crew, already in their twenties and perhaps the most ruthless as well as most skilled in their respective fields.

Harry felt as safe in the Forbidden Forest with Yuri as he had with Hagrid as a first year. There was a physical resemblance there, too; Yuri looked like he combed his unruly black hair about as often as the half-giant and with similar results. And Yura knew his way around a forest. He found centaur paths and pixie nests Harry never would have noticed otherwise, pointing everything out to his companions, voice hushed and husky as he wound spells around them all. With his damp hood thrown up over his head, he looked less like a man and more like some sort of mythological spirit-guide, trusty warrior Chereshko at his side.

The woods were eerily quiet, as though the trees and very dirt beneath their feet sensed the breach. Harry was thankful they hadn't bumped into any wildlife as of yet. Perhaps Yuri was warding against that, too. The man's black-bearded face was a study in concentration as he waved his wand first this way, then that. At one point he pulled out a sort of amulet on a chord of red leather, muttering spells over it until the bone-colored shape glowed faintly.

“Close,” he muttered, holding the amulet out. It grew brighter. “Over there,” and he pointed to a clearing off to the side of the narrow path they followed. He nodded to Chern, who pulled off his pack and withdrew a dirty canvas sack. There were dark splatters gathering at the bottom—blood dripping from whatever was in the bag. Harry couldn't stop his face from contorting.

“Alright,” Yuri nodded to Harry and then Misha, his face unreadable beneath the darkness of beard, hood and shadow. “Let's give zhis a try.”

- - -

“I don't like this one bit,” Hermione fumed, pacing before the Common Room fireplace. Ron couldn't help but be reminded of last year when she used to pace before the hearth and fret exactly like this whenever Harry went out to tail after Malfoy. Except now that misbehaving Malfoy was sitting by the window clad in Harry's Gryffindor uniform from white-blond head to pureblood toe, watching the drizzle slap against the windows, his ferret face a careful blank.

“Harry said a couple hours,” Ron offered. “Maybe the weather slowed them down. I'm sure he's fine. He knows how to send a Patronus if there's a problem.”

“I know you're right, Ronald,” Hermione sighed, fidgeting with a lock of her hair just below her ear. “I just hate all this waiting. I feel like he's not letting us help him, like he's keeping things from us, holding us at arm's length.”

“For your protection, Granger,” Malfoy drawled from his seat on the window bench. “Lovely feeling, isn't it?” he snipped, clearly peeved. It was weird having Draco Malfoy in the Gryffindor Common Room. Everyone kept looking at him funny. Malfoy always stayed in his room; the ponce probably sensed he wasn't wanted. Maybe Harry had asked him to wait down here. That was the only thing Ron could think of that would get the prissy Head Boy to show his face down here with the plebes.

No one knew how to react to Malfoy's presence. It was awkward. Rumors were still flying from Saturday's Quidditch practice. No one knew what to think. It was clear enough that Harry wasn't sleeping in the boys dormitory. He and Malfoy showed up for meals together, eating side by side, Harry piling grub on the git's plate like he might not see food for another week. Malfoy always ate it, too. The prick was almost pleasant with Harry around—he didn't snap at people or deduct obscene quantities of house points for the most mundane offenses. Lavender Brown had already lost Gryffindor thirty points for necking with random blokes in the hall. Malfoy didn't exactly go out of his way to gain popularity... but everyone was certainly a little afraid of him. Ron suspected that was exactly what Malfoy wanted.

Not a single student, Gryffindor or otherwise, was brave enough to come right out and ask Harry if he was shagging Draco Malfoy. And approaching the dragon himself for confirmation would be like asking for a swift and ugly death, your body parts never to be found. It was whispered about, though, scribbled on bits of parchment and passed around classes all day. The rumor mill was churning awful fast for a Monday. No one knew what to think—the idea was too outrageous to be true but... there was the way they smiled fondly at each other over meals and in the corridors, the way Harry leaned to kiss the bloke on the cheek and whisper in his ear, making him snicker into his ghostly-pale hand every ten seconds. The silver-ringed hand hid his actual smile. Malfoy, fucking giggling. Ron very wisely kept his mouth shut. This was Harry's business: let him handle it.

Malfoy bolted up to his knees, pressing his pale hand and ferret face to the window, entire body gone stiff as a board under his hand-me-down robes.

“What is it, Malfoy?” Hermione said, kneeling next to him on the padded bench in order to peer out the window. Ron hurried over, leaning in above her head. Wiping fog from the window, he could smell her shampoo, brown frizzies tickling the underside of his chin.

“Bloody hell.”

Two ghostly shapes streaked across the grounds: a familiar silver stag accompanied by what looked like a huge dog—no, a wolf. The Patroni were moving at an incredible speed, the stag making for Hogwarts castle while the wolf tore off around the lake and out of sight. As Ron, Malfoy and Hermione pressed their noses to the glass, a burst of red sparks shot up from the Forbidden Forest. First one and then several, great volleys of light going up in the air until there was a wall of red swirling with the raindrops.

Gryffindors ran to the windows, parting the drapes and peering out in confusion. One of the younger girls shouted in alarm as yellow sparks appeared among the red, flying ever higher into the darkening sky. It was impossible to ignore. Another volley went off, this time purple and white, looking almost like fireworks. If he wasn't so scared, Ron might've thought they were beautiful.

Malfoy was absently rubbing the ring on his index finger. “Come on,” the man whispered, over and over in a sort of mindless chant. “Come on, poilu. Please.”

Four cloaked figured burst from the edge of the forest, throwing spells behind them as they ran. They bolted, full-out sprinting across the lawn. Two peeled off, heading toward Hogsmeade while the other pair ran after Harry's Patronus. Ron recognized Harry as the smallest body making for the castle, the hood of his cloak falling back as he ran through the rain. Malfoy let out a breath of relief—Ron did too, not realizing he'd been holding it. His lungs burned.

“What's going on?” demanded Denis Creevey, looking between Ron, Hermione and the other prefects in the room, eyes impossibly wide and dirty blonde hair flopping as his head swiveled for answers.

“Is there something wrong with the wards?” Ginny voiced, reaching for her wand. “Are we under attack?”

“I'm scared!” wailed Abigail Brown, Lavender's sister in first year.

Malfoy turned to the room at large, his face like stone, so pale you could see the bluish veins of his neck and the faintly purple discoloration around his eyes. He stood tall, taking control of the situation in every sense.

“We need to get the students back to their houses immediately,” he said quickly, monotone, nearly reciting Professor McGonagall's words from yesterday's prefect meeting. “I'll alert the portrait network. Granger, can you use that Patronus trick to get Longbottom back here? I believe he's out in one of the greenhouses. He can sweep the halls on his way up,” Hermione nodded, drawing her wand. “Weasley, we need to keep everyone calm and in this room. Can you handle that?”

“Yeah,” Ron nodded. Malfoy's voice was low, placid. He sounded a bit like Harry. It was eerie. Malfoy swept off in a swirl of school robes, leaving the smell of crab apples and Quidditch lawn in his wake. Ron looked around, taking stock of the Common Room. It was a bit after dinner, so more than half the house was already in for the night. Bodies were thumping down the dormitory staircases, adding to the din of questions and shouts as more magic poured from the Forbidden Forest. It wasn't like he had answers to any of the countless questions; if anything, they only made him wonder more. It was all he could do to keep people from running out the portrait hole. They seemed keen enough to mumble and fret between one another at increasing volume and pitch.

Malfoy was out talking to the Fat Lady when it started.

Fawkes came swooping around nearby Ravenclaw Tower, letting loose the most startling and powerfully magical sound. You could feel the walls of the castle vibrating with it, feel it behind your eyeballs and ringing up in the bridge of your nose. The sound was unearthly, a siren and a song. Some of the first years started to cry. Something was definitely wrong. It felt like, with each quavering note, a blanket was falling over the castle, snuffing out the outside world, isolating them for their own protection. This hadn't been part of the safety procedure McGonagall had described only yesterday. He wondered if this was something Dumbledore had cooked up and simply forgot to warn anyone about. It felt like they were being sealed in. It was almost suffocating, each trill louder and louder as the phoenix passed by Gryffindor Tower, flashes of red and gold feathers breezing past the high windows, almost blending with the curtains as the bird flew by.

A group of third and fourth year boys were making for the open portrait hole. Ron darted in front of them.

“We need to stay in one place,” Ron told them, keeping his wand in hand but down at his side. “We're best off together, right?” he spoke rhetorically, keeping his calm. One of the boys, Nolan, nodded up at him, realization settling into the boy's pudgy face. “Good lad. Think you boys can help me move word around? We don't have enough prefects and I could really use your help.”

“W-what would you need us to do?” asked Euan Abercrombie, looking nervous.

“Can you just go round and ask everyone to stay where they are until we hear from the Headmistress? If we need to make announcements, it's easier to do that with everyone together in one place.”

The fellows all nodded, seeing his logic. Having grown up with Fred, George and Ginny, he knew there was little point talking down to young people in a situation like this. They had brains, after all. The more you gave them information and something to do, the more useful and in control they felt. With everyone focused on a goal, there was less likely to be a mass panic. Hermione, Demelza and Ginny were already going around, comforting the younger girls who were by far the most worked up. If only Fawkes would shut it, the situation wouldn't be half as nerve rattling.

Ron took a peek out the window but Harry was already out of sight; hopefully he'd made it into the castle already. Malfoy left the Fat Lady's portrait wide open, standing in the middle of the corridor and waving students in with an impatient hand. The blond was all business, drawling “in you go” and “try to keep it down, please” as though this were nothing more than a drill. Malfoy had to be as freaked out as the weeping firsties but he didn't show it in the least. That was a Malfoy for you. At least the ponce was good in a crisis.

A harried-looking group came in from the library lead by Dean and Parvati—they'd obviously packed up in a hurry, books poking haphazard from their school satchels. A few still had parchment or quills in hand. They were all as pale as that parchment as them clambered in past their Head Boy. Neville climbed through the portrait hole next, bringing what appeared to be the last of the house with him. Malfoy signaled roundly to Hermione to get a head count, peering up and down the hall for any stragglers with his lit wand in hand. The Bloody Baron floated up to him and they exchanged hurried words. Soon the ghost was drifting off down the hall, leaving Malfoy biting at his lips. Ron watched as the wizard's chin rolled to his chest. He seemed to whisper to the red rose pinned to his chest, stroking a perfect petal with the pad of his thumb.

Ron worked at keeping everyone calm and still while Hermione and Neville went about systematic head counting.

Hannah Abbot and Wayne Hopkins came by, wands drawn, escorting a black-haired first year boy. Poor thing must have been down in Hufflepuff when the warning went through the portraits; the expression on the lad's snow white face was pure unadulterated terror. The wand-bearing prefects flanking him didn't appear to provide much in the way of comfort. Ron watched—the portrait hole like a picture frame around the scene—as Malfoy took a knee before the boy, holding teeny shoulders and looking him in the eye. Ron tried to read their lips—something about the boy's mother. He couldn't make it out. Malfoy soothed the little one, carding fingers through his thick hair. If Ron didn't know better, he'd say the kid was angling for a hug; what with the way he gave Malfoy the big-eyed, lip quivering “love me” look. The little lad sidled close as Hannah and Hopkins left, resting his forehead against Malfoy's and closing his eyes as the older boy continued in what had to be a comforting tone.

Ron turned at the clicking sound behind him—Colin Creevey was snapping photos, his camera lens swiveling from pretty Angelika Whipple peering out the window to point at Malfoy and the first year.

“Knock it off, Colin,” Ron chided.

“Yeah,” echoed Patrick Byrne, a burly sixth year fellow Malfoy had taken on as a first string Beater. “There's an appropriate time, mate, and it ain't right now.”

When Ron looked back, the first year was slipping out of Malfoy's embrace with a determined look on his face—Merlin, how that expression made the little thing look like Harry. With a nod and a very weak smile, the black-haired boy ducked up the stairs to the Heads' Suite. Malfoy had sent the boy to fetch something, probably just to give him something to do. Maybe the kid's mother was one of the Aurors guarding the castle? That made sense. Malfoy ruffled the boy's hair in parting, an oddly affectionate gesture... especially for this rather stoic new Draco Malfoy. The Head Boy certainly had a soft spot for that particular firstie, though the rest he couldn't give two figs about.

Neville came down from checking the boys dorm. “That's all of us,” he said loudly, leaning over the railing as he called out to the rest of the prefects.

Nearly Headless Nick floated in just as Malfoy closed and locked the portrait hole. Whispers passed between the ghost and the blond before Nick took off, disappearing through the thick stone walls. Lightning flashed outside the windows, making a few people jump. The storm was getting worse. Malfoy strode to the center of the room, raising an arm to get everyone's attention. He vaulted up onto one of the study tables so everyone could see him clearly.

“Quiet down,” Malfoy said at a normal volume, waiting for silence to fall. Every anxious face turned towards him, a few of the smallest still puffy and tear-stained. This isn't exactly the finest example of stalwart Gryffindor bravery, Ron thought, but Hufflepuff probably looks a lot worse. “Here's what we know so far: there's been a breach of the grounds. A small contingent, probably a scouting party, got in through the Forbidden Forest. We had a team out there reinforcing the wards. The team was able to activate several of our defensive shields—the lights seen a few minutes ago—preventing any additional threat from entering the grounds. Aurors are on their way from Hogsmeade. With the shields engaged, we are perfectly safe inside the castle. So we sit tight. Prefects, Form One.”

Form One was part of the new security protocols. Under it, prefects were responsible for gathering their house together, taking a head count and waiting for the all clear—it was the lowest measure. The second formation sequestered the students in their houses with several pre-elected prefects and staff remaining in-house while the others patrolled the halls and grounds. Hermione and Malfoy were the elected guards for Gryffindor House; being Head Boy and Girl, it made the most sense that they stay behind to watch the students and disseminate information. The only scary protocol was Form Three—a full-on evacuation of the castle. It was unlikely, McGonagall had promised, but provisions had to be made for even the worst of scenarios.

The coolness of Malfoy's voice was uncanny, his calm assurance like a Cooling Charm in August. His energy seemed to wash over everyone, the younger years especially. Just the way he said it, “Form One,” so blasé and detached, made you think the man was almost bored. Even those with no idea what Form One meant were nodding absently, retiring to conversation with a renewed sense of safety.

Malfoy leaped down from the table with a swish of robes. When he ducked his head, Parvati and Lavender fell to whispering, giggles passing between them in tittering, bird-like bursts. Apparently Malfoy had a pretty spectacular love bite under his starched white collar. Malfoy ignored the girls, instead meeting up with his dark Irish first year friend by the fireplace. The boy—damn if Ron could remember his name—had Harry's rucksack in hand. Malfoy dug through it, pulling out Harry's Invisibility Cloak and what had to be the Marauder's Map. So Malfoy knew about the map, too? Well, that made sense. Harry seemed to be turning over a new leaf where secret-keeping was concerned. The summer's spectacular rows—first over him and Malfoy shacking up and then Harry's succession of lies to the blond—must have made an honest man of him in the end. Harry could probably do with fewer secrets in his life. But there was that sneaky, deceptive part of his personality Ron had never really understood. Malfoy got it, though—bastard. Maybe they deserved each other after all.

Malfoy's head shot up, color suddenly coming to his cheeks, his eyes open and bright, almost blue. A second later he was racing for the portrait hole, unlocking it from ten paces, wand flicking wildly. The Fat Lady swung open to admit Harry; tousled, damp-haired and breathless. The brunet panted, one hand to the passage wall and the other clutching at a stitch in his side. He hissed as Malfoy approached. The blonde nodded sharply, turning back for the cloak and map only to hand them off to shadowy figures out in the corridor. Ron heard heavy footsteps as several people took off, pounding down the hallway, shouting between them—one voice squeaky and the other bone-jarringly deep. It could only have been Professor Flitwick and one of those Durmstrang fellows. That Harry was parting with his Invisibility Cloak gave Ron the shivers worse than Fawkes' waning song.

Harry hardly had his breath before dropping into the Common Room, Malfoy supporting him at the elbow as he wheezed after sprinting through the castle. The blond took a moment to Scourgify the mud from Harry's trainers, drying him a second later. Harry caught Hermione's eye, signaling to her with a jut of the head. He raised his brows to Ron, then Neville and Seamus, meeting each man's eye in turn. They all gathered around the portrait hole, pressing in close, listening as Harry panted.

“Going... to Form Two,” he said as fast as he could, pushing his glasses up his nose as he straightened. “I want prefects of age, plus any seventh years or old DA members willing. The Aurors will probably be enough but we're not taking chances, alright?”

“I'll use the portrait network! Just a second,” Hermione took off up the hidden stairwell to speak to the portrait of mad mystic Hadewijch the Flemish Beguine that hung beside her bed.

The guys separated at once, racing for the dorm to retrieve boots and cloaks. Even Malfoy made for the Heads' hidden staircase, disappearing after Hermione.

Up in the seventh year boys' dorm, it was a mad dash to get into cold-weather clothes. Waterproofing spells were hurled around the room indiscriminately, everyone getting each other's backs. Neville distributed what looked like barely ripened blueberries, saying they would improve night vision. With the nasty weather and the hour, it would be pitch black outside in the next twenty minutes. They tumbled down the stairs to the sound of raised voices.

“You think I'm just going to sit here while you run off and risk your bloody neck?!” Malfoy was shouting. He wore a black wool traveling cloak, wand in hand and positively screaming at Harry from across the room—pink-cheeked, bug-eyed and livid. The entire house was silent and staring. Harry was vibrating with rage, not holding back an ounce as he returned fire.

“That's exactly what you're gonna do!” he yelled right back, advancing on the Head Boy. He gave a great hiss of Parseltongue, sending a collective shiver around the room. It only seemed to make Malfoy even more angry—like he understood. But that was impossible.

“I'm going with Yuri,” Malfoy seethed, stepping close enough to jab his wand at the taut line of Harry's throat.

Harry seemed to pitch forward—and grow about a foot. The air around him warped like a sheet of plastic bent to breaking. He took a great breath, filling his lungs before bellowing in Malfoy's face.

“YOU'LL DO AS I FUCKING SAY!”

The room went dead, Harry's voice ringing up in the rafters.

Harry hadn't screamed like that since Sirius died—but something was different about this, much harder to watch. He wasn't red in the face, nor were his hands clenched to fists at his side. He was just leaning into Malfoy, right up in the other boy's face and staring him down with a deadly mien. This was new and powerful frightening. There was so much more to it than the words. Something swirled between the two of them, the air itself tightening, winding in on the pair as silent seconds ticked by.

Malfoy blanched, making to pull away but Harry got him by the silk tie, dragging him back. Harry growled something, a hiss of Parseltongue so low in his throat. It rumbled. Ron had never hear Harry's voice go that deep before. It was a dangerous hiss, menacing and strong. Malfoy's eyes slid shut; the blond's nostrils flared, breathing deep as he listened. Slowly, he nodded, resting his forehead against Harry's.

Harry cupped Malfoy's flushed cheek as they breathed each other, oblivious to the stares and whispers surrounding them. Malfoy had Harry by the waist, narrow fingers gripping at his cloak with red-rimmed knuckles. They only had eyes for the other, staring hungrily.

“Entrance Hall,” Harry said through gritted teeth. It took a moment to realize he wasn't talking to the blond but to his men on the stairs. “Five minutes. I'll meet you outside.”

Ron pushed Seamus, Dean and Neville in front of him, tossing Neville's hood up over his head. There was a reason he wanted to bring up the rear and it had nothing to do with the fucking show Harry and his stupid sodding boyfriend were putting on. People weren't going to wonder after this—they way they looked at each other was so plain, angry magic fairly crackling at Harry's fingertips, sex all but written across their near-to-brushing lips.

Ron took a wide path toward the portrait hole, blocking more than one person's view of the odd couple. He came up at Hermione's side, taking her hand in his.

“Don't, Ronald,” she tried to pull away. Don't go, don't do this or don't do what I think you're about to do—it was unclear. He gathered a handful of jumper from her shoulder, pulling her close, forcing her to meet his gaze. He'd never felt so strong, so insistent in his entire life. Leave it to Harry and ruddy Malfoy to bring this out in him.

“It's not goodbye,” he told her fiercely. “It's good luck.” And he kissed her to within an inch of her life... in front of the whole of Gryffindor. She squeaked and fell into his arms like a proper girl. And it was fucking amazing. No wonder Harry and Malfoy did it. What a rush!

The cheers, jeers and snippy remarks didn't quite reach his ears even as he pulled away, setting her right on her rather wobbly feet.

“Good luck,” she whispered. “Be safe.”

“I will,” he nodded. “Me and Harry, both.”

“Good,” she sighed, a hand ghosting over his cheek. “Come back to me, Ron.”

- - -

Harry kissed him one last time beside the fountain—hard and on the mouth, no room for anything but the meeting of lips in an impossible press that would have made even the stone lions beside them roar. Draco imagined he could hear the cubs mewling... or maybe that was his own choked sob, buried deep in his throat.

Harry backed away, Draco's bottle of bourbon tucked under his arm. Draco didn't understand at first. Then he saw the giant speckled Granian waiting for Harry out on the terrace, great grey wings blending in with the storming sky. Harry tucked the bottle inside his cloak, forced to use the stone balustrade to launch himself up onto the beast's back. There was no saddle, bridle or bit, forcing Harry to take up rain-slicked fists of the creature's mane before it spread its white-tipped wings and cantered right off the edge of the balcony. They swooped upward into the night sky a moment later, turning gracefully toward the front of the castle. Draco wished he could breathe a sigh of relief.

“I'm sure you told him to be careful,” said Granger's voice behind him. He could hear her arms folded so didn't turn to see it confirmed.

“Among many other things,” Draco replied flatly. “Who's minding the house?”

“Ginny.” Her tone made it clear she hadn't expected that to be her counterpart's first concern. It demonstrated how little she knew of him, even after these several months in proximity.

“If Harry's mobilizing prefects, I reckon it's worse out there than McGonagall wants us to believe,” Draco announced slowly, chewing his words carefully. “I think we should ward ourselves in.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Perhaps the two house elves in my chamber,” Draco snipped. “Which Harry summoned to do exactly that.”

Sure enough, Dobby and Kreacher poked their noses out from the Head Boy's chambers, two sets of bulbous green eyes fixed on Draco.

“Master should forget the brats, he should, and come inside,” Kreacher mumbled, wringing the edge of his grubby attire in an even more grubby hand. “Kreacher can't seal the tower.”

“And my chambers?” Draco posed tersely. “Those you can seal, elf?” That sounded like Harry's doing, alright; setting him up in a suite that could become a prison at a moment's notice. Fucking Wonder Boy.

“The Heads' suite, young Master Malfoy,” Dobby offered.

“Don't call me that.” He shivered. That squeak, that tone, that particular appellation reminded him of things he'd put away a long time ago. He didn't care to pick that up again, even in name.

“It's actually a fair idea, Malfoy,” Granger shrugged. Sure enough, her arms were folded across her stomach. Unusually full red lips stood as evidence of her and Weasley's upstaging downstairs. Draco was secretly grateful—Harry had a knack for making a ridiculous scene wherever his beautifully chosen arse went; never mind that Draco would be the one dealing with the resulting scandal. Whatever Harry Potter wanted, he got. That was the way things went in this very twisted little world. Still, even an evening shut up with Granger and a pile of Gryffindors was better than torture.

He summoned a sigh. “Fine,” he groaned.

“Wait—you'll do it?” Granger sounded shocked.

“It's as decent an idea as any,” he intoned with a shrug, beyond caring at this point. Whatever kept the largest number of students happy, safe and most of all quiet. The crying—Veela-buggering-troll-fellating-fuck, the crying! He lifted hair from the back of his neck, fingers ghosting over the bruise Harry's mouth had left that morning in the shower. He could do this—for Harry, he could. “Bring them up here and we'll seal ourselves in. So long as Patil, Brown and the Weaslette keep to your side of the foyer, I believe I might survive the night.”

A squinty little grin crossed Granger's face. “You know,” she simpered, flexing her knowledge like Weasley flexed his nonexistent muscles. “A simple Glamor Spell and no one would see—”

“Fuck off... Granger,” Draco sneered, the urge to spit 'Mudblood' almost overpowering him for a moment. Only the knowledge that Harry would be disappointed held him back—and wasn't that new? “I don't meddle in your love life, miniscule as it may be. Don't you dare presume to tell me what to do with my body.”

“I just—” she began.

“I don't rightly care,” Draco cut her off. “Unless you've forgotten, we have a job to do. So get the 'kiddies' up here—quiet ones in my chambers. You get the snot-noses and anything with lipstick. Agreed?”

“Fair enough, Malfoy,” Granger nodded once, curtly, before shooting an unlocking charm at her door and disappearing down the hidden staircase.

Draco let out a puff of air he hadn't been aware of hording, walking to the terrace and shutting the french doors before any more rain and cold air could seep into the anteroom. He dried the floors with a charm, looking up at the rising moon through the glass, sheets of rain and rolling clouds obscuring most of the starry sky. He thought he saw something dark at the edge of the forest, twitching in the shadows, waiting to get out. Tree limbs shook and it wasn't from the stiff evening breeze.

“Harry,” he whispered to the darkening night. “Wha' the fuck do ya think yer doin'?”

- - -

Hermione had never had so many people in her room before. The forth and fifth year girls were up in her spire library discussing, of all the ludicrous things, the new Weird Sisters album. There were at least six people on her bed, another half dozen crowded in the sitting area and a pair of third year boys engaged in a very half-hearted game of Exploding Snap at the foot of the bed.

“I want to go to Malfoy's side,” announced Abigail Brown. She placed her fists on her hips, glaring around at the older girls as though her cute face and vehemence would be enough to convince them to take her across the foyer.

“Why would you want that?” Lavender asked indignantly, trying to get her little sister to sit back down. “The house elves brought him the same tea and cakes as us, love.”

“You're truly much better off here,” put in Ginny, who was sipping tea while having her hair braided.

“But...” Abigail's big brown eyes began to fill with exasperated tears.

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

Abigail seemed to screw up her courage, taking up fists of her school robes before answering. “Kieran's over there.”

“Oh, Merlin!” Ginny snorted.

“Kieran Gweir?” asked Parvati. “Oh, he's such a little doll of a thing!”

“Isn't he just?” Lavender cooed. “I think he looks just like a miniature Harry Potter! And he's so shy and sweet!”

There was an unnecessary amount of giggles as most of the ladies agreed. Hermione tried not to roll her eyes. Gweir was a glassy-eyed boy quite small for his age; energetic and a bit of a trouble-maker, Gweir harbored an inexplicable and undoubtedly unhealthy attachment to Draco Malfoy. The dark haired boy was like Malfoy's shadow, following him around the castle, tugging on his sleeves and asking questions. Hermione suspected the only reason Malfoy hadn't told the pesky lad off was that uncanny resemblance to Harry.

Gweir had thought it quite a treat when Malfoy opened the door to his Head Boy's quarters, ushering the tiny boy in with a grandiose flip of the hand, complete with bow. Presumably Gweir was still there, tailing Malfoy so close that the blond bumped into him with every other step.

“Alright, Abby,” Hermione said, her curiosity getting the better of her. “I'll take you over there.” The girl actually clapped her hands, bounding up and racing for the door. Hermione caught the back of her jumper. “But you have to promise: no crying, no giggling, no anything that would set Malfoy off. He won't hesitate to send you back.”

“Oh, I know,” Abby nodded, hands on the door knob. “He's a right pisser, that Malfoy.”

“Abigail!” Lavender gasped. “Language!”

“Your sister's right, dear,” Hermione added. “You ought to speak like a young lady.”

Abby opened the door and started across the anteroom, swishing her fingers through the fountain. “But Malfoy talks like that sometimes and Kieran positively adores him.”

“Yes, well,” Hermione huffed. “Draco Malfoy is an adult wizard capable of making his own choices regarding his choice of language. Just because he's colorful doesn't make it appropriate.”

“Oh, you sound just like Mama,” the girl rolled her eyes, already at Malfoy's door and positively bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement. It felt wrong, that a child should be so thrilled to pay a visit to Malfoy, but there it was. “May I knock?”

“Help yourself,” Hermione shrugged. She steeled herself for another conversation with Malfoy—each one was a supreme effort in self-control. Malfoy was a little better behaved with Harry around but not by much. She hoped the ex-Slytherin would have the presence of mind to let this little first year girl down gently.

The door opened to reveal the pot-marked face of Patrick Byrne. Beyond, most of the Quidditch team was gathered around Malfoy's fireplace, a collection of younger girls curled up on the large fluffy bed with the dark-headed Gweir right in the middle, coddled and fussed over. The boy looked tried for patience, his eyes seeking help from Malfoy seated at the piano. The blond was playing an unusual tune, soft and lilting. He must have put up Silencing spells, as the anteroom had been all but silent save the trickling of water from the fountain and rolling of wind outside.

“Oi, Malfoy,” Byrne called. “Granger for you.”

The music stopped and Malfoy sauntered over. Many eyes watched his careful movement, a sort of court watching their king progress across the richly colored throne room. It was mightily strange that, at a time like this, half the house was clinging to a man bearing the mark of the enemy. Maybe it helped that Harry's trunk and coat were in the room, his Gryffindor robes on Malfoy's back.

“Yes?” the wizard raised a thin brow, his face a sculptured study of self-assurance and composure. Then he looked down, noting Lavender's young sister fidgeting beside Hermione. He sighed. “Ah. And the harem is complete. In you go.”

He stepped aside and Abigail shot forward, making right for Malfoy's bed and crawling over to sit by Gweir. The boy shot Malfoy a confused look, looking remarkably like Harry had after Cho Chang kissed him under the mistletoe. Boys.

“You too, Granger?” Malfoy chuckled, noting where her gaze had landed. He waved an arm, ushering her in. “Might as well. Why don't we try an' cram the entire bloody house in my quarters? I'm sure we could stuff a few in the loo....”

Hermione had to physically shut her mouth as Malfoy strode back to his piano, seating himself with a little flair of robes and a shake of his shaggy-looking white locks. She stepped in as the man began to play, taking in the warmth from the fire—balsam wood and birch with the faint scent of clove, as though someone had been baking. There was a crack of lightning near the tower and the younger girls squirmed, inching closer to Gweir. Malfoy raised his brows at the boy, almost smiling, cajoling with a series of eye-squints and a jut of the chin. The lad got the idea, putting an arm around one of the girls and a hand on the knee of another. Abby Brown rested her cheek against his shoulder from behind. Malfoy locked eyes with Angelika Whipple, the blondes exchanging knowing eye-rolls. Even at eleven, Gweir was still a bit more aware than Harry himself.

Hermione closed the door behind her, sealing herself firmly in Malfoy's territory.

Every possible seat being taken, she went to the piano to peruse a book of music left lying out—and was surprised to find it familiar. Harry must have bought Malfoy the muggle book, piano versions of nearly every Beatles ballad and love song. It didn't strike her as something a fellow like Malfoy would ever play on his own. Leafing through it, she found 'Real Love.' The song had been her parents' first dance on their wedding day. Every year, Dad would dust off his record player and the two of them would slow-dance in the sitting room, smiling at one another like in all their wedding pictures. She slid the book over to Malfoy when he'd finished the last movement of his wizarding piece completely from memory.

“Do you know this one?” she asked, pointing to the page.

He scrunched his face at her. “Of course not.”

“Oh,” she looked away. “Never mind, then.”

Malfoy heaved a very large and exasperated sigh before holding out a thin hand. “Give it here, Granger. I can read sheet music.”

With a little nod, Hermione set up the book for him, standing by to turn the pages when it came time. Malfoy stole a glance out the window, pale hands hovering over the keys.

“Coote,” he called to the boy who was observing Byrne and Colin Creevey play chess. The boys had throw pillows thrown down on the floor, the board resting on a pillar of Malfoy's textbooks between them. “Close the drapes? Awful drafty in here.”

Coote nodded and got to his feet, doing as Malfoy asked. Hermione barely caught the hint of frost gathering at the edges of the glass panes. It was too early in the fall for frost and hail, which could only mean one thing—there were Dementors on the grounds. Malfoy took up the chords with talented fingers, a ready distraction. He really was an excellent musician, for all his airs and personality defects. He played well, swelling and falling in all the right places.

Hermione hummed along with the melody before she began to sing.

“All my little plans and schemes, gone like some forgotten dreams,

Seems that all I really was doing was waiting for you.

Just like little girls and boys playing with their little toys,

Seems like all we really were doing was waiting for love.

Don't need to be alone....”

Malfoy interrupted her, hissing through his teeth, “Stop it, Granger, or you'll call the Dementors.”

So she wasn't the best singer and that note was a smidge high but... she stuck her tongue out at Malfoy and stepped away. Blushing, she watched Kieran Gweir disentangle himself from the gaggle of girls surrounding him, creeping over to Malfoy and taking a seat beside the blond. He laid a hand to the higher keys and began to play the melody along with the blond. Malfoy slowed down the tiniest bit, giving the lad time to read the music and move his fingers in time with Malfoy's long, slender ones.

When the second verse came around, Gweir sang it in the sweetest little boy soprano. Every heart save Malfoy's melted.

“From this moment on I know exactly where my life will go,

Seems like all I really was doing was waiting for love.

Thought I'd been in love before but in my heart I wanted more.

Seems like all I really was doing was waiting for you.

No need to be afraid, no need to be afraid.

It's real love. Yes it's real.

Yes it's real love. Yes it's real love.”

The girls clapped loudly over the boom of thunder rattling through the castle. Gweir was in good spirits as he turned to Malfoy, beaming. He gestured to the rose pinned beneath Malfoy's badge, speaking too softly to be heard over renewed chatter and the storm outside. Malfoy's face remained calm as he considered his reply; drawing his wand, he severed the first page of 'Real Love' from the music book. With a wave and a silent spell, the sheet of paper transformed into a golden pin—a miniature rose, identical to the one fixed to the Head Boy's chest except this one all in precious metal. Malfoy secured the pin to the boy's robe, earning a fantastic, face-splitting grin. The boy looked less like Harry when he smiled and more like himself, glassy blue eyes blinking his thanks up at Malfoy. The blond just ruffled the lad's hair and went into a wizarding duet, again playing slow enough that his young partner could keep up on the soprano keys.

Hermione leaned her weight against the back of the sofa, regarding the pair for a long time. Their relationship was unclear—more affectionate and genuinely caring than a mentor and student, that much was certain. They were almost like brothers or a parent and child, the way Malfoy laced his genteel, silver-ringed hands over the boys, teaching him to extend his fingers with the same ease with which Malfoy himself played. Gweir couldn't stop smiling to save his life, snuggling into Malfoy as the blond wrapped an arm around him to trill on the highest keys in conclusion to their most recent duet. The Gryffindor audience couldn't get enough, especially the women. Even the Beaters were applauding a bit, appreciative of Malfoy's skill in seemingly everything he picked up.

Malfoy was a good tutor. Before long, he had Gweir playing from the songbook on his own. First year girls laid out on their stomachs, chins in their hands and legs kicked up in the air as they watched Gweir and Malfoy with rapt attention. Hermione observed as first their legs drooped, then their eyelids. Moments stretched into hours and soon the younger students were fast asleep, empty tea cups and half-eaten sweets littering Malfoy's tidy quarters, pillows tossed about the floor and the bathroom door left wide open, spilling a long triangle of brighter light across the candle-lit room. A few students were still awake, most staring into the embers of the fire or lost in thought, hands folded quietly in their laps as they waited for sleep to claim them. Hermione felt her own energy waning as she added a log to the fire. Malfoy had stopped playing piano, walking a half-aware Gweir to the mahogany sleigh bed and tucking the lad in with the girls, a throw tossed over them. It was as close to tucking the firsties in as Malfoy would allow himself to get. Hermione read it in the wizard's face, lips a thin white line and shaking his head all the while.

Malfoy rushed over to Hermione, taking her elbow and tugging. “They're back,” he whispered.

A second later there was a great thud, like an elephant landing on the terrace. Footsteps could be heard pounding up from Gryffindor Commons. Together, the two Heads entered the anteroom just as Ron, Dean, Seamus and Neville burst out from behind the secret passage banner. The boys were impossibly muddied but otherwise looked unharmed, though it was hard to be sure through the grime. Neville gave her a thumbs up, Seamus beamed and Dean couldn't get the mud out of his eyes—it looked like they'd all taken baths in it. Ron was no better. Either it was his coloring or there was a hint of blood mixed with the dirt covering parts of his face.

“Sweet Salazar,” Malfoy huffed, aiming Cleaning Charms at them, pointed nose wrinkling.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed sheepishly, considering their appearance for what appeared to be the first time. “Filch is gonna kill us when he sees the tracks we left through the castle.” Neville laughed nervously, pulling his wand and helping Malfoy spell them and the floor clean. Ron didn't take out his wand, nodding nervously to the blond when he cast silent charms at the red head's face.

“So where's Harry?” Hermione asked, ignoring the minor cuts and bruises that were now visible. There was still quite a bit of dirt, too. Ron smiled at her and shrugged, pointing past the fountain to the terrace where Malfoy was looking. Harry stood out there in the rain, patting the neck of what had to be a Granian, its speckled back half again as tall as Harry. The beast rubbed its long face against Harry's before cantering off over the balustrade, flying into the storm clouds. Harry hobbled to the glass-paned doors, looking more tired than his comrades. His near-limp suggested he'd taken a fall at some point, probably off the back of that winged horse. Hopefully its hooves had been firmly on the ground when that accident occurred. Malfoy opened the door, slipping an arm around Harry's waist and taking most of his weight, all but dragging him into the foyer. It was easy, the pair being the same height give or take a few centimeters—and that was mostly unruly hair on Harry's part. His limp became more pronounced, practically sagging against Malfoy.

“Oh my God!” Hermione gasped. “Harry, are you alright?”

“Nothing a hot shower and a Pain Potion won't fix, right?” teased Seamus, winking at Harry.

“Right,” Harry agreed very quietly. “Thanks you guys. I appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Ron smiled broadly. “That's what we're here for.” The rest of the boys nodded before heading off to their dormitory to shower. Ron took one last look at Hermione, his eyes lingering on her face. A smile traced his lips, hands shoved in his robe pockets and hair dripping rivulets down his shoulders. “I'll swing by tomorrow morning, yeah? Before breakfast, fill you in.”

“How about tonight?” she offered suddenly. It seemed important to know what had happened out there, surely, but there was also the pressing need to know that Ron himself was alright. He could be hiding something—in fact, she was sure of it. “If you're not too tired, that is. Stop by once you're cleaned up. There's tea and cakes from the kitchens.”

“Alright, then,” Ron agreed with a sheepish grin. There was a blush evident under a few streaks of mud. Hermione could have floated back to her rooms but the sound of Malfoy and Harry's whispered conversation brought her back down to earth.

“Merlin's balls,” Harry swore within a groan, leaning against Malfoy just past the doorway into their room. “Our bed has been usurped by... are those firsties?”

“Don't ask,” Malfoy rolled his eyes, hitching up the arm which held Harry to his side. He had the soaking man around the shoulder blades, cradling under his arm to take most of his weight from his aching feet.

“Um, I can take care of it,” Hermione stepped forward. “I mean, I'm getting everyone out of my rooms, too.”

Malfoy's face appeared over his shoulder, looking back at her with scrunched features. He gave her a critical once over, clearly wondering why she would ever offer him any favors; truthfully, she was only concerned for Harry. But spending some “alone time” with Malfoy would put Harry at ease... and they certainly couldn't do what they usually did with a gaggle of Gryffindors around. Slowly, Malfoy nodded.

“How about we go somewhere, poilu?” the blond said to Harry, his voice oddly tender as he slipped into French, brushing sopping wet hair out of Harry's eyes. Several sentences left him in rapid succession, the foreign language sounding especially beautiful, comforting, the way it trickled off his tongue like honey wine, slurred and muzzy and the slightest bit sexual. With her limited French, perhaps one of every five words were discernible. Hermione stood transfixed, watching them in silhouette.

Harry sighed. “Can't understand you, love. Je ne comprends pas.”

“Right,” Malfoy snorted at himself. “I said we ought to go to the Prefects Bathroom, take a nice long soak. You'll talk about nothing while I rub your feet. Sounds nice?” he waggled his eyebrows, squinting much the same way he had at Gweir—suggesting with his silver gaze, subtly implying what Malfoys were clearly incapable of putting into words: affection, caring for another human being. It figured Malfoy would view that as a weakness. After all, caring was Harry's greatest strength.

Harry leaned against the blonde, touching their noses and foreheads. Water dripped onto Malfoy's cheek from Harry's wet hair, sliding down his gaunt face like tears. But Malfoy was smiling softly, mirroring the expression on Harry's face.

“Gods, I love you,” Harry whispered. And then they were kissing—tonguing, oblivious to their young audience. The noise in the foyer had disturbed the sleep of a few students. Those people sat silently, watching through puffy eyes as Harry and Malfoy snogged in the doorway, Harry in the blond's arms and pressing up so close. Hermione half imagined she could hear their teeth clacking as the kiss intensified, Malfoy's skinny hands clawing up Harry's cloak like spiders, water droplets flung out as their bodies came together in a wet squelch. Malfoy had Harry by the bum, the brunet's strong arm slung around the Head Boy's neck as much for balance as closeness. There came a wet gasp from the couple followed by a little squeak from within the room. Hermione caught sight of Samantha Young and Natalie MacDonald on the sofa, each holding back giggles as they nudged beauty Angelika Whipple awake. More and more bodies were roused, rubbing at their sleepy eyes and tuning in to the show.

“Boys,” Hermione cautioned under her breath. Harry moaned a bit, arm tightening around Malfoy's neck as his back hit the nearest wall with a muffled slam. The nearby portrait rattled on its hook. “Malfoy, take it somewhere else.”

Harry hissed something in Parseltongue, tonguing his way up Malfoy's pale neck. Malfoy laughed, slipping an arm from around Harry to Summon them each a change of clothes. Harry seemed to regain what little sense he'd been born with, looking about to see who-all was awake. He still slid his hand into Malfoy's, letting the blond pull him toward the door.

“Thanks, 'Mione,” he said.

“Ron is... he's okay?” she asked quickly, not knowing what else to say.

Harry shrugged. “He'll tell you 'bout it when he's ready. Night.”

“Yes,” Malfoy gave her a strange look, his pointed face unreadable. His voice was cool as ever; drawling, so different that the way he'd murmured to Harry only a moment ago. “Thank you for seeing to the House. Good night, Granger.”

Holding hands, whispers and hisses passing between them as easy as smiles and squeezes of the hand, the couple slipped out into the castle. Feeling her eyebrows rise for the umpteenth time, Hermione just shook her head. There were things in this world—strange, magical and fantastic things—that she would never understand.
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Conscience