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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: Phineas Nigellus is bribed, the Order is called to order, and Draco... well....

WARNINGS: deviousness

CONSCIENCE:

THE BLACK FERRET

Young Mr. Malfoy sat with his back pressed against the door, flicking dung bombs at the desk on the opposite side of the room. He had not bathed nor groomed since his arrival and was quite a sight. His current state of denigration—disheveled, reeking of dung bombs and body odor—ensured that no one came to bother him. They had sent members of their Order to interrogate him but he had not cracked; he merely took the plate of food from their hands and slammed the door without a word. Some very bright individual had had the idea of delivering his meals via house elf; an idea for which young Mr. Malfoy was secretly thankful.

He had discovered a stash of dung bombs in the bottom of the wardrobe. He was grateful it was such a large bag. He'd entertained himself for the last few days but his stash was now running low—he had been in his room for nearly a week according to the elf and the only literature present was Hogwarts: A History and Quidditch Through The Ages, neither of which provided the right type of stimulation: the mind-numbing, coma-inducing, time-speeding-up kind.

As he aimed another dung bomb at the windowsill, there was a loud sound like a man clearing his throat. Draco started, searching the placid room for whoever had made the noise; the sound had come from within the room, not outside in the hall. That much he knew.

“Ahem.” There it was again. Draco jolted to his feet, the remaining dung bombs clattering to the floor and rolling under the nearby bed.

“Who is it? Who's there?” He demanded pompously of the empty room.

“Ah, young Master Draco,” the man's voice said calmly, very near. “I came to inquire as to exactly how long you intend to disgrace the noble name of Malfoy.” The voice was coming from the portrait on the wall. Draco neared, reaching instinctively for his wand before recalling that McGonagall had yet to return it to him.

“Show yourself,” Draco demanded sharply.

A squat little man wearing Slytherin house colors sauntered into the portrait and seated himself respectably, fixing Draco with a glare as solid as his substantial size.

“You look terrible,” the man said severely.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Your greatest advocate,” the man responded. “I am your Great-Great-Great Grandfather on your dear mother's side, Phineas Nigellus. And you,” he fixed Draco with a very dirty look, “are rather disgusting.”

Draco's mouth worked for a response but couldn't find one.

“Now,” Phineas commanded, “you will bathe, dress in the clothing you have been given, and dine with the others. I refuse to protect anything of such foul appearance—family or not.” With that, Phineas stood and left his frame with a smug expression on his painted face.

Family honor. Draco sighed heavily. Even as a traitor, he could not bring himself to disobey. Left with little choice in the matter, Draco snatched up the clothes that were folded and lying on the spare bed. Muttering darkly to himself, he ventured out into the hall, grumpily making his way to the bathroom.

Phineas Nigellus shadowed him to dinner, prowling menacingly from portrait to portrait, watching Draco keenly, silently daring him to turn back. It was all terribly humiliating for young Mr. Malfoy. The displeasure of his most ancient and distant family members he could tolerate; the groveling house elf he could ignore; but the simple fact that he was wearing Harry Potter's clothes—from head to toe, mind you—went well beyond his trained indifference.

Phineas shot him another look. Young Mr. Malfoy steeled himself and entered the grubby kitchen.

- - -

“Can I help at all, Mrs. Weasley?” Harry asked genuinely, limping slightly from his last training encounter with Mad Eye Moody.

“Oh, no, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said, patting his shoulder in a motherly fashion as she magically orchestrated several boiling pots and pans with her other hand. “Why don't you sit down and rest, dear?” she suggested. Harry smiled and sat down at the table with Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. He easily entered into the conversation and did not see the kitchen door open behind him.

“Ginny, could you put those plates on the table, please?” Hermione called from the pantry, emerging with an overpowering armload of dinner rolls. Ron rushed to her aid.

“Sure.” Ginny smiled inwardly at her brother and his girlfriend. It was certainly taking them long enough to get together when their mutual feelings were so clear! Too bad things were so murky between herself and The Chosen One. She picked up the large stack of plates sitting on the counter and turned toward the table. It was at this point that she noticed the new arrival to the kitchen. She screamed and the dishes hit the floor with a great crash.

“You came out,” Tonks said mildly. She undoubtedly felt the tension filling the room and was actively choosing to ignore it.

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” Lupin said congenially after a moments hesitation and an elbow from Tonks. “Feeling better?”

The blonde's bruises had mostly healed over and the head wound had produced a shiny white scar at his hairline. With his fair hair and fairer complexion, it was hardly noticeable.

Hermione put the broken dishes to rights while Ron ushered Ginny to the other side of the room with brotherly concern. Harry Potter was staring.

“You're wearing my favorite jumper, Malfoy,” Harry said at last, rather blandly.

“Is it really?” Malfoy asked with a sneer, pulling at the overlarge knit sweater. He had the sudden urge to rip it off and run for his life—but Great-Great-Great Grandfather Phineas' hot glare at his back had him glued to the spot. “It's...” Hideous? Unbearable? Worse than anything that fucker Mulciber did to me in a little room in my parents' cellar? He abandoned blithe and pithy. “Warm,” he finished, hands falling to his sides in defeat. The sleeves hung down to his thumbs. He was met with dumb silence from Potter.

“Anything I can do?” Malfoy asked Mrs. Weasley in as amiable a voice as he could muster. They were family, however distant or regrettable. It would be in his best interest to keep her pacified. Perhaps she could be won over to his corner.

“No,” she said quickly—too quickly, she realized, “dear.” It was the most strained endearment ever uttered. “Why don't you have a seat?”

Smart, Draco thought absentmindedly as he sat down opposite Potter. Say the same thing you said to Potter, build normalcy, create a sense of trust through association. Not bad. He turned his nose up at Potter just for old time's sake.

“So, what's for dinner?”

- - -

After one of the more awkward experiences of his life—serving dinner to Draco Malfoy, followed by nearly an hour of mindless Quidditch small talk—Harry pressed his back against the door to his bedroom; a room devoid of Malfoy and his outrageous opinions concerning the debatable legality of a Transylvanian Tackle in International game play. At one point, there had been a vein visibly throbbing in Ron's neck. Only Hermione's reassuring hand on his knee—under the table and out of Mrs. Weasley's sight, mind you—kept Ron from launching himself at the slimy little prick.

McGonagall had said that Malfoy had to come out and make peace sooner or later. Malfoy had to adjust to his new life, a life without his family, his friends, his possessions, and everything else he had ever known or found comfort in. One way or another, McGonagall had said, Malfoy had to adapt. So Harry pushed him—big deal.

There was a quiet snickering coming from the opposite end of the room. Harry sighed heavily and went to sit on his bed, looking up at the painting of a Quidditch pitch now occupied by Phineas Nigellus.

“What's so funny?” Harry asked through a yawn, massaging some of the stress out of his neck in an attempt to relax. Phineas continued to chuckle.

“Didn't think it would be so much fun....” Phineas chortled, wearing a sadistic smile that proved him an ancestor of Malfoy's. “This is one favor you won't owe me for.”

“I'll have a look at that portrait in the attic, just the same,” Harry replied, wanting to keep his end of their bargain. They had agreed that if Phineas could oust Malfoy from his bedroom brooding, Harry would restore a portrait of Phineas' mistress, Sylvestra, in the first floor floor hallway. A mysterious someone had put a scorch mark right through her forehead a few years back; apparently, Sylvestra blamed Phineas and hadn't spoken to him since, running off to some other man's portrait stored in the attic. Wanting to keep the politics of his house's paintings at bay, Harry had struck the deal.

- - -

Much later that night, Harry lay on his back, unable to sleep. He was awake to hear the telltale crack as Dobby the house elf Apparated into his bedroom. He was awake as Dobby crept up to his bed, murmuring to himself. And he was awake as Dobby began to shake him.

“Dobby, I'm already awake. What is it? Does McGonagall want me to take in Pansy Parkinson as well? Or maybe adopt Crabbe and Goyle?” Harry snorted. He was in a dark mood.

“Minerva McGonagall wishes to call a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby squeaked, ignoring Harry's sarcasm and opting for a dopey grin.

“Am I invited this time?” Harry groaned. The Order may conduct their meetings in his living room but that didn't mean they told him a damned thing. He now understood more acutely than ever how Sirius must have felt.

“I don't think so, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby went on without a beat. “It is about Mister Ma—” Dobby froze. He pitched his voice an octave lower. “Harry Potter, sir's house guest, sir.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, flopping back onto his pile of pillows. McGonagall had figured something out. Malfoy would receive Ministry protection; he would be given government sanctuary and taken off Harry's hands. Harry sighed in relief. “When's the meeting, then?”

“Tomorrow night, Harry Potter, sir. Eight o'clock.”

Finally. Only one more day with Draco Malfoy under his roof. Only one more day and his life could start getting back to normal. Only one more day of snide remarks, dirty looks and antiquated opinions interrupting his otherwise quiet meals. Only one more day and he could fumigate his favorite jumper. Suddenly, Harry was having a lot less trouble getting to sleep.
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Conscience