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
- 39
- 40
- 41
SUMMARY: Something is rotten—or rather, bent—in the state of Hogwarts.

DISCLAIMERS: February is a poem by Boris Pasternak. I based Malfoy's song quite roughly on Regina Spektor's “Apres Moi,” which features lines from the poem. To me, it just sounds like the sort of thing Malfoy would pound out on the ivories when he's raging about something.

WARNINGS: mutants, copious cursing and several healthy doses of bigotry

- Malfoy is in a full-blown state of PTSD madness. Those who have experienced it will recognize; soon, it may get a little painful to read/watch

CONSCIENCE:

DRACO MALFOY, BAD ASS

“Ron! Ronald, wake up!”

Her boyfriend came alive with a grunt. The second his brown eyes took in her face, he snatched up the sheets and wooly blanket, bringing them up around his neck to hide his bare chest from view. There were all of four hairs there—and about a thousand more freckles—about which Ronald was rather sensitive of late.

“Herr-Hermione,” he wheezed, blushing as red as his Gryffindor blankets. “What're you doing here?”

“Look!” she pointed out the window. Last night's storm had nearly cleared and through the remaining drizzle, a weak plume of smoke could be seen coming from the gamekeeper's hut at the edge of the forest.

“Hagrid's back?”

She warmed at the boyish grin cracking Ron's still-sleepy face.

“It would appear so,” she grinned back. “Find a jumper and meet me in the common room.”

It was a quick jog through the castle and across the grounds. Hermione practically sprinted. It had been months since the Order had heard from Hagrid and Madame Maxime, both of whom had traveled to meet again with the giants and attempt to gain some allegiance before the war really got underway. Secretly, Hermione suspected that Headmistress McGonagall and the others had given up on Hagrid and the Beaubatons Headmistress returning alive—this would show them. Hagrid was rarely given enough credit, even from his so-called friends; Ron and Harry—Hagrid's greatest advocates after herself—only believed in the half-giant when it suited them... and whenever they remembered the man existed, so caught up as they often were in their own problems. After Dumbledore's death, Hagrid had fewer and fewer people to count on. It made sense that he took this dangerous mission to prove his metal. Whether successful or not, at least he was now home in one piece. She redoubled her pace, eager to see her old friend again.

“Wot the bloody hell is—?” Ron began, peering off into the overgrown pumpkin patch. But Hermione was already rapping loudly on the cottage's well-worn door.

The door swung open to reveal a stubby wand tip jammed quite rudely in her face. It took a moment for her eyes and wits to adjust, allowing her to see the burly, black-bearded wizard glaring down at her from within the cottage. He wasn't large enough to be Hagrid but his wild thatch of hair—along with the state of his beard and general personal grooming—gave her reason to double-check that Hagrid hadn't been slipped a Shrinking Solution somewhere along his journey. The plain flannel shirt and rough brown cuorderoys could have easily belonged to Hagrid had they not been sized to this hulking pile of less-than-hygenic man. He appeared to be chewing on a bite of bread, if his undulating jaw and the crumbs in his coarse beard were anything to go by. Past the great beard and weather-beaten skin lay a pair of intelligent eyes, narrowed down to slits that spoke of distrust and suspicion. No warmth, no open kindness—no, there was no way this man was Hagrid.

“Valea,” he spat, making to shut the door in her face. She caught it with a forearm, leaning her full weight so that the door wouldn't close before she got a word in.

“Who are you?” demanded Hermione. “And where's Hagrid?!”

Ron threw his shoulder against the door as well. On the other side of the crackled wood, the man with the unkempt beard made a sound half way between a grunt and a groan. His stout wand reappeared around the door as he called across the room.

“Mă leşi. Frate, vino aici.”

Whoever he was, the man on the other side of the door had about the deepest voice Hermione had ever heard—deeper than Hagrid, deeper than James Earl Jones. He sounded like one of the mountainous opera singers in the London shows Mum and Dad always went to, a bass who could shake the floor boards and rattle your fillings with nothing but his voice. The sound of him stuck in her throat like lodged phlegm, stubborn and congealed, refusing to dissipate.

Another face appeared at the crack in the door, staying in the shadows. Magic had been employed to further darken the drawn curtains so it was difficult to see into the house beyond the door frame. Hermione kept her shoulder firmly to the door, wand drawn and squinting into the dark.

This second voice was a baritone, yet he carried the same weighty accent as the first man with a similarly sleep-deprived burr.

“Veasley?”

Hermione's eyes rounded on Ron, her hair a disturbed, damp halo surrounding her Accusing Face. “Ronald,” she hissed through her teeth. “You know him?”

Her boyfriend nodded somewhat timidly.

“Toleanu, right?” Ron sounded as though he were guessing at the pronunciation, eyes flickering over the two shadowy figures peering back at them, one tall and the other menacingly bulky. “I figured it was you guys when I saw the Granian.”

“Granian?” Hermione repeated lamely.

“Yeah,” sighed Ron, pointing over her shoulder at Hagrid's abandoned pumpkin patch. “It's lying behind that pumpkin, there, chained to the house.”

Hermione had to go up on her tiptoes to see past the oversized gourd in question; sure enough, a great speckled Granian had nestled itself under the cottage's eves to keep out of the intermittent rain, wings folded around its powerful body and munching half-heartedly on several lake trout. These men must have caught the fishes for the winged horse, since it was held fast to the stone base of the cottage by a chain and hook that had once been installed for Fang, Hagrid's dog. It looked as though the Granian had faught its captivity: the hook had been pulled perhaps a third of the way from the house's foundation, bits of stone dislodged and the feathers of the animal's neck severely rumpled from a chain tugged at in repeated, though vain, struggle. She suspected the chains were held by magic if even a creature like a Granian couldn't break free of them.

“Why—?” she began. The burly fellow with the beard cut her off.

“Come in,” he offered, pulling the door fully open and gesturing for her and Ron to enter. “Ve have breakfast.”

Ron stepped back, ushering her in. She didn't want to go at first—entering Hagrid's home felt wrong when the half-giant wasn't there. The fact that these unknown foreigners occupied the space was unsettling, to say the least. Only that stern raising of Ron's bushy ginger brows edged her past the threshold.

Once inside, the weak flickers of firelight from the hearth gave her her first good look at the two men intruding in Hagrid's home. The stocky fellow with the inky beard and curly hair was a similar size and build as Charlie Weasley; the shape of him was solid and familiar if you ignored the slightly pockmarked, sunburnt face. A surly expression and a definitive lack of sleep added to the natural darkness beneath his black eyes. Knotted muscles could be seen at his neck and shoulders; he was a boulder of a man, forearms as thick as tree trunks exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of a well-worn flannel shirt, patches sewn in at the elbows. He wore a thick leather belt and huge dragon hide boots, utilitarian and freshly cleaned with diligent, pragmatic magic. Despite the sad quality of his clothing, there wasn't a speck of mud or dirt to be seen on his person, though one could detect traces of some white, powdery film on his thick, hairy fingers—potato starch, Hermione realized. Hagrid's home smelled of quality black tea and potato pancakes sizzling in an old iron skillet set over the fire.

The second man, dressed all in rumpled black, was far too tall. The top of his head was in shadow, just like Hagrid's when the half-giant would pace the cottage floor, fretting over Harry. When Hermione met the tall man's eyes, they were a washed-out green and extremely sunken, almost hidden beneath heavy brows and a solid, handsome bone structure. His hair was also black, cropped close to his head like a muggle soldier. There was an empty scabbard at his hip—short, as though for a dagger—and a knife tucked in each of his high, lace-up boots. The man pulled out a chair for her, all gentlemanly courtesy, raising his thick brows that she should sit and be comfortable.

“Miss Granger,” he said, shocking her. He even made the smallest of bows, inclining dark head and shoulders as he tucked the chair in beneath her rump. “Chereshko Toleanu. Ve met briefly zhrough Harry. I believe you may 'ave missed my colleague, Yura Batushansky,” he gestured to the muscled fellow currently busying himself with Hagrid's tankard-like tea mugs. “A pleazure to see you again. And Veasley—'ow iz your hand?” he turned easily to Ron, catching the red head by the shoulder and turning to face him.

“Fine,” Ron shrugged. He wouldn't make eye contact with either of the men and that worried her—was he intimidated? Shy? These men were certainly older than either of the Hogwarts students. Hermione placed them somewhere between twenty three and twenty five, give or take. They conducted themselves like gentlemen bachelors, quiet and polite, accustomed to performing their own cooking and cleaning without interference. They were respectful of Hagrid's home—the bed freshly made, no dirt or mud tracked in from out-of-doors. Even the stray dirty dishes were washing themselves by magic in the sink.

“What happened to your hand?” Hermione pressed, twisting around in her chair to look her anxious boyfriend in the face even as he darted to hide behind Chereshko. Ron had been so skittish since last night. He hadn't wanted to talk about whatever had happened—which only made her want to know all the more. She wasn't sure what her boyfriend thought he was protecting her from, exactly. Whatever it was, Hermione would get to the bottom of it in due time.

“Got broken. Just a couple a' fingers,” he clarified quickly, waving away her concern before it could manifest. “Ernie healed it almost right away.”

“Alright.” Hermione spoke calmly, pretending to let it go. There was a time to prod Ron for answers but right now wasn't it. He seemed to know these men—the fellows Viktor had brought over from Durmstrang and who were apparently friends of Malfoy's in some sense. She decided to observe and see what information she could glean whilst their guards were down. It appeared neither of the men had seen a razor or toothbrush yet today. They couldn't have been awake more than half an hour, fishing for their Granian's meal included in that estimate.

Hermione scooted to the front of her chair, folding her hands on the rough-hewn table and watching the heavy-set Yura approach the table with care, mugs gathered in one monsterous hand and a steaming tea pot in the other. He'd neglected to include Hagrid's sugar pot in the modest tea setting, bringing instead a spoon and a glass jar from his pack. Upon opening the jar, the sweet-yet-tart scent of cherries quickly filled the room. Ron—ever the glutton—sniffed hopefully at the air.

“Cherry varenya,” Chereshko explained. “Back home, ve use it instead of sugar to sveeten our tea.”

“And where is home?” Hermione inquired politely. She watched Yura scoop the gloppy cherry syrup into the mugs, nodding when he looked up at her, a brow raised.

“Moldova.”

“Ah,” she nodded.

“Zhe man who lives 'ere,” Chern gestured vaguely around the cozy one-room cottage, “'ee iz Russian, too, yes?”

Hermione shook her head. “I don't believe so. I'm quite sure Hagrid is from Gloucestershire.”

“Oh,” Yura looked put out as he handed tea around and went to pull the pancakes from the fire. “Ve vere hoping to learn his source for divin.” With his bearded chin, the man indicated a bottle of spirits on the mantle piece.

“Ve vould like to meet zhis 'Agrid,” Chereshko agreed, pulling plates from the cupboard for their breakfast.

“Y-you'd like him,” Ron piped up. He took the plates from Chern's hands, meeting gazes with a shy, awkward little shrug. Hermione ammended her previous theory—Ron was intimidated by these men. For some reason, he felt threatened. Ron always pulled away, pulled back and into himself when feeling insecure. It was blatant now, the way the red head tiptoed around these fellows when he should have been asking them questions, figuring out what the hell they thought they were doing squatting in Hagrid's home and milling about after their services were no longer required.

“Yes. Hagrid teaches Care of Magical Creatures for the younger students here at Hogwarts,” Hermione offered to fill the silence.

Chereshko snorted, as close to a laugh as the man probably allowed himself, waggling his eyebrows at his fastidious comrade. “Yura loves animals,” he said with a wink.

Yuri shot his friend a very dark look before busying himself with the cutlery drawer.

Ron used setting out plates as an excuse to hover beside her ear and whisper, “Yuri's family procures hard-to-find potion ingredients for people like the Malfoys. He may love animals but he probably slaughters them for a living.”

Hermione cringed. “Speaking of animals,” she said as Yura deposited a fist-sized potato pancake on her plate, “what about the Granian outside? Is it one of yours?”

Chereshko and Yuri locked eyes from opposite sides of the table, the tall man bringing a mug of hot tea to his lips and the surly bloke using his plaid shirt-tail as a buffer between his hand and the hot skillet handle. After a second, Chern broke out laughing. The sound boomed and echoed, reminding her of Hagrid's laugh—especially when Yura joined in, rumbling along like a slab of limestone dragged to Hogsmeade and back.

“Mishenka is a friend, not a pet,” Chern corrected, still chuckling as he took his seat beside Hermione. His face was gaunt and weary, jaw hard even as the muscles in his neck began to relax from the hot tea.

“Why is he tied up, then?” Hermione asked. “Granians aren't dangerous unless they have a foal to protect.”

“Foal,” Yuri repeated, his tone hollow and dripping with sarcasm. He stuffed a chunk of hot pancake in his mouth, slurring around the bite. “Jus' vot ve need, blya.”

“How so?” Hermione inquired as the men dug into their breakfasts with verve. She had to admit, it smelled delicious. “I mean, if he's trained and well-tempered, why wouldn't you breed him one day?”

“Vould you breed him?” Chern hissed, jabbing his fork in Ron's direction, eyes flashing like the color of an angry ocean.

“Wot?!” Ronald squawked, indignant.

“Ostyn', comesean,” rumbled Yura, shaking his big shaggy head at his friend. “Zhey don't know.”

“Don't know wot?” Ron insisted, head flitting between the two older men.

Chern spoke with his head down, gripping the edge of the table very tightly. It sounded as though he were enunciating from behind clenched teeth, his jaw unmoving and the words slightly garbled, thick with emotion. “Zhe Granian you zee outzide iz an Animagus, Mikhail Ionescue. 'Ee iz fifteen and like a brother to us. I'm sure you zee how your qvestion about breeding could be taken zhe wrong vay....”

“Oh my goodness,” Hermione breathed, covering her mouth with her hand. She'd read extensively about Animagi and other wizards who could change their physical form after meeting Remus Lupin in their third year. She knew more than the average witch about magical transformations, having gone through a botched one herself back in second year. A moment later, her brows knitted together. “I was told it's impossible for an Animagus to take the form of a magical beast.”

“Vell,” Yura jerked his mug in the direction of the Granian—the teenage boy!—resting in the pumpkin patch. “Believe it.”

Hermione chewed her lip. The only way she could conceive of a wizard taking the form of a creature of magic involved some very dark rituals—the sort of thing she'd seen buried deep in the Restricted Section alongside Polyjuice and medieval torture.

“How is it possible?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “I'd imagine with the Dark Arts—”

Chereshko cut her off, slamming his fist to the table. “Against his vill, pizda. Vhen he vos a child, just as it vos done to his brothers, i zheir fazher before zhem, i his fazher, perhaps three hundred years! Tebya ne ebut, ti ne podmakhivai!”

“Firtat,” Yura growled. Apparently his companion had said something offensive, if the tense look on Yura's sunburnt face was anything to go by.

“I... zorry,” the tall man grumbled, going back to his pancake with a heavy hand. One word was all the apology Chereshko had to offer. She nodded her acceptance.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Hermione had to admit, the dark tea was strong but wonderful. It was comforting, something she could easily get used to. These fellows had a certain rustic charm—perhaps that's why Harry seemed drawn to them.

Ron cleared his throat. “I'm sure you don't like keeping your friend tied up. Did Professor McGonagall make you or...?”

“For hiz own zafety,” Yuri shrugged.

“Atita vlăstar blya mutante,” Chern rolled his eyes.

Ron did a doubletake, mouth full of potato pancake. It took two gulps of tea for him to swallow. “Did you say mutant?”

“Funny story, zhat,” Yura chortled, giving Chereshko a friendly kick beneath the table. When it appeared the tall man wasn't going to join in on the telling, Yuri folded his hands in his lap and began. “During your TriVizard, Misha's brozher, Vukasin, got very drunk and shifted to hiz Thestral body on zhe Durmstrang ship. Hiz friends had to hide him before Karkarov saw, zo zhey opened—vos it zhe cargo bay?” Chern nodded sullenly, eyes glued to his plate. “Zhey opened the storage access i let him loose on zhe grounds. Next morning zhey find him in zhe forest, human again i naked as zhe day he vos born, vith maybe five Thestral mares. Ten months later, ve're sneaking into your forest zhrough Hogsmeade to... vell,” Yuri shrugged dismissively, the corner of his mouth turning up, bristly beard shifting audibly.

“To kill yourselves a mutant baby,” Ron supplied. He was holding his tea in both hands, breakfast finished and totally engrossed in the lurid tale. He gave a little whistle. “No wonder you have your mate roped down.”

“A necessary evil,” Yuri agreed. “He understands.”

“Oh, I'm sure,” Ron nodded eagerly. “Weird question, here. Wot exactly did the thing look like? I mean, inappropriate and you don't have to answer but... was it mostly Thestral or...?”

“Zhree out of five took hold,” said Yura. He glanced at Chern before continuing, scratching the side of his beard as though he would only proceed so long as the taller man was comfortable. “Two vere dead by zhe time ve arived and ve dispatched zhe zhird. Zhey... didn't hold togezher vell. Messy. Zhe bones vere all wrong—zhe skin didn't connect right—”

“Alright,” Hermione interjected, placing a hand briefly on Chereshko's forearm. A tremmor ran through the Moldovan, almost a sob but almost a laugh as well. She didn't know him at all and couldn't say for certain. “We just ate, so this is a tad....”

“Of course,” Yuri inclined his dark head, getting up to clear the dishes. Chern moved to refill the tea, topping off Hermione's cup before pouring a second for Ron. The man's hand gave a twitch, knocking the mug over. Piping hot tea splashed across the table, leaking through the cracks and getting Ron across the knees. He leapt up, beating at the thigh-region of his trousers and robes, long arms flailing and frantic.

“Bugger, that's bloody hot!” he exclaimed.

Hermione and Chereshko drew their wands in tandem, spelling away the liquid with twin Vanishing Charms. Ron was left standing, his chair toppled behind him, hands noticibly red where the scalding liquid had gotten him but otherwise unharmed.

“Where's your wand, silly?” Hermione chortled, setting his chair to rights with a quick non-verbal while Chern saw to the rest of the spilled tea.

“I, er....” Ron went pink from his ears to his collar. The color rushed under his hairline, lighting across his skin as he swallowed visibly.

“You must be zhe one who broke his vand, da?” Yuri asked, returning to the table and spooning more cherry varenya into everyone's cups. “Let's zee zhe damage, zhen.” He gestured to the now emptier table. “I'll zee vot I can do.”

From his inner robe pocket, Ronald produced the remnants of his Ollivander wand much as Vukasin Ionescue might have presented the remains of his failed inter-species offspring—there was a great deal of trepidation there alongside undue shame. Ron hadn't mentioned a broken wand—then again, Ron hadn't mentioned anything about the skirmish last night. Compared to these men, Hermione was in the dark.

Yuri looked over the splinters of willow wood and strands of unicorn hair laid out before him, at one point fingering a bit from the handle, following the grain up to the point where it broke off.

“A flaw in zhe willow, here,” he said, pointing. “Zhat caused it to shatter razher zhan snapping, as zhey're supposed to. Lucky you didn't fall harder—splinters in zhe wrong direction could 'ave killed you.”

Ron gave a shudder but said nothing.

“I can vork vith zhe unicorn. It's relatively undamaged,” Yuri continued, now idly stroking his beard. His meaty fingers knocked away the last of the breakfast crumbs still housed in his bristle. “Vhen vere you born?”

“March first,” Ron provided.

“Ash, zhen. Zhirteen inches,” Yura muttered, looking Ron over. He lifted the red head's arm, inspecting the length of him. “Maybe more. Chereshko's knife vorked vell for you?”

“Yeah,” Ron nodded. And he pulled a dagger from his boot, placing it on the table. The long, wicked-looking blade glowed an eerie green color, the magic eminating from a band of dark metal inlaid along the length. “Here. Thanks again.”

“Keep it,” Chern shrugged. “You never know vhen you'll need a good blade, prietene. I have a better set, anyvay,” the bloke insisted when Ron began to protest.

“Is that Thestral scale blended with the metal?” Hermione asked as Yura continued looking Ron and his busted wand over. The red head slipped the dagger back into his boot with an appreciative nod to Chern. “I read about Pavel Gregorovitch's experiments but I've never seen one myself.”

“Gospodin Gregorovitch made zhe shorter knives, da,” the tall man said. He reached for the knives tucked into his own boots, setting the pair on the table along with Ron's broken wand parts. The knives were almost long enough to be small swords, meant to be wielded with a backwards grip, like a muggle constable's night stick. They would be close to the body, fast and deadly for close-quarters fighting. “Zhese vere Yura's creations. 'Ee apprenticed under Gregorovitch before zhe Death Eaters brought vor to Poland.”

Chern kept a hand over his prized weapons—he didn't seem to want to be without them. There was a similar pattern of darker metal running down the center of the blades like a spine, flecks catching the firelight in places just like her textbooks said a Thestral's scales appeared when on the creature's body. She didn't know first hand, like Harry and Ron did. Malfoy, too.

“Let me try a few zhings,” Yuri said, clapping Ron heartily on the back until he teetered. Yuri was more like Hagrid than Hermione was willing to admit. Then again, she was predisposed to like anyone who saw the goodness in Ronald the way she did. The fact that these men wanted to help—wanted to get Ron through whatever had happened to him—softened her opinion somewhat. Anyone who wanted to help out without thought of payment or reward, asking only for a safe place to sleep and a hot meal in the morning, couldn't be so bad. “Come back at lunch i ve zee, da? Miss Granger, too, of course.” Yura gave her a courtly bow, a pleasing grin splitting his bearded face and making him look more in keeping with his age.

Hermione smiled. “Yes. I think I'd like that.”

- - -

Draco made everyone gather in the common room bright and early Tuesday morning—“no exceptions,” he'd warned. Though he and Harry were nearly late themselves.

It was the chosen dolt's fault. He had to look so fucking good in his old school uniform. The man's house elves had taken every garment in according to Draco's summer measurements and they fit Harry in a pleasantly snug sort of way. So pleasant that Draco was contemplating the idea of not showing face in the common room at all. It was with a certain tightness of the trousers that he allowed Harry to shove him down the hidden staircase to the red and gold-themed hell-hole. He pinched chosen arse along the way.

Those trousers were obscenely tight, what with the swell of Harry's bum, jumper cutting off in just the right place so that a peek of untucked white shirt accented the curve of his rear; slovenly, slouchy brightness calling to Draco like a beacon in the dark passageway—a light calling him home.

Their snog before entering the common room had them both sodden-lipped and breathless.

Draco straightened his tie before inquiring eyes could catch a thread out of place.

As expected, the Creevey brothers were corralling the occupants of Gryffindor House into the study area, younger years up front while the older students lounged in chairs or clambered up onto the tables. All of Gryffindor fit in the one corner, framed by morning light streaming through the windows. Denis Creevey tugged at the curtains, pulling them all the way open while Colin commandeered an end table to elevate his camera's tripod.

“A House picture?” Harry muttered happily at Draco's side, surveying the commotion with a goofy half-smile on his face. “Brilliant. We've never done one for everyone—just the Quidditch team, you know? Good thinking, mon vieux.”

Draco shrugged off the compliment, inclining his head to Colin Creevey when the other blond acknowledged him with a little wave. The boy mouthed an “almost ready,” fiddling with an attachable photo lens for his camera.

It was only a moment before Draco and Harry were mobbed. The silliest questions imaginable were lobbed at the pair of them.

“Be as stupid as ya like, see if I care,” Draco scoffed when two forth years proposed posing piggy-back. “It's only posterity. It won't be seen fer generations ta come or anythin'.”

“He'll be less cranky after coffee and breakfast,” Harry reassured the pair, turning that odd little smile Draco's way. The blond heaved a gut-filling sigh.

“I'll show you less cranky after breakfast...” he began to mumble, not sure where he was going with the come-back. He petered off as Harry waved his arms, calling out for everyone to get into position so Colin could take the photograph and get them all down to breakfast on time.

Everyone quieted down at their king's behest, behaving themselves as Colin set the timer on his camera and came round to join his brother at the side of the shot.

Neville Longbottom waved Harry over. Draco followed reluctantly, dragged off by two of Harry's careless fingers inserted in the belt loop of Draco's trousers. He allowed himself to be positioned between Harry and Granger, Longbottom at Harry's other side and a gaggle of first and second year girls at their feet, Kieran Gweir dog-piled and disheveled in the middle of the heap. Several females fussed at the boy's hair and clothing, making his svelte person even more of a rumpled mess. Draco snorted softly, watching as Harry licked his palm in a vain effort to smooth his own unruly hair as though just reminded of his typical appearance by the sight of himself in miniature. Gweir was like a time portal as well as a mirror. Draco was doomed to be surrounded by tousled hair and boyish charm. There were worse lots in life.

“Yeh look fine,” Draco scoffed, pulling Harry's arm down by the crook of his elbow. “Jus' stand there an' look dashing,” he joked.

“You mean clueless,” whispered Harry from the side of his mouth. And then he hissed, “Gods, all these people around and all I can think about is gettin' back upstairs and shagging you senseless. Is that so terrible?”

It was a struggle to keep a straight face—the faintest blush probably crept up Draco's neck despite his best efforts.

“Considering how you spent this morning, Potter...” Draco swallowed, thinking about pastel puffskeins and sweet pasties—anything pleasant—just to keep his voice light, “I wonder if you'd make it out of here by next month, let alone this afternoon.”

He didn't want to think about Harry leaving. So he wouldn't. It was as simple as that. He would deal with it when the time came.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, scratching idly at the back of his neck. “I guess you're right.”

The Creeveys waved their wands, setting off red and gold sparks—it was almost time.

Off to Draco's other side, Weasley slipped a possessive arm around Granger's torso, freckled fingers tightening reflexively over the girl's shoulder and pulling her to him in an unmistakable show of schoolboy love. Once more, Draco pushed at Harry's bicep to draw his fidgeting arm down, flattening the Chosen One's shirt collar where the hopeless man had mussed it. For a second, he allowed his fingertips to trail against the exposed dip of a tanned throat, bare from lack of a spare house tie.

They turned for the photo; standing seriously, side-by-side. Harry—real slick—put his arm around Draco's waist a second before the flash. Draco comforted himself with the notion that since they were standing near the back, Potter the Barmy's romantic gesture would be near impossible to discern in the actual photo.

“Silly picture!” Colin yelled, setting the timer with another elaborate wave of his wand and racing back. Hoots and cheers went up—tempered due to the morning hour but enthusiastic enough to invite some shifting of the crowd as the lions got creative.

Everyone struck an odd pose; the piggy-backers, the rabbit and moose ears, even Granger conjured a couple of happy yellow birds to twitter around above her head. A few people shot off sparks from their wands. As one, the first and second year girls fell on Gweir, pretending to choke and bully the lad in a mad play of limbs and childish shouts. The effect was quite endearing, a dozen ten and twelve year old girls mobbing the miniature Potter look-a-like and nearly tearing him limb from limb, throwing fake punches and stealing chaste kisses. It looked like Ewan Abercrombie was attempting to rescue Gweir, dragging the kid away by his silky tie with little success. Gweir flailed, thrashed and giggled, hamming it up for the girls more than the camera.

Draco looked to Harry, a matching smirk playing around his lips. “Wha' 'r ya thinkin'?”

Without warning, Harry pulled Draco to him in a tight embrace.

“Ya right little cunt,” Draco chided in a whisper. Harry was going to make them into “that couple:” the obnoxious, kissing ones. To Draco's surprise and delight, Harry dipped him for a big, muggle-movie kiss as the camera flashed again and again. His arms whipped up around Harry's neck—but only to maintain his balance, of course. The barmy con bent him over backwards in a breath-stealing kiss. Surrounding students mooned and laughed... because Harry wouldn't stop kissing him even after the picture was taken. Draco fought his beet-red blush as the Gryffindors gawked. Ginevra Weasley may or may not have stormed out the portrait hole in a huff. Harry didn't seem to care as he tongued and groped to his heart's content.

Breakfast was a lively affair; between the excitement of the house photo and the left-over giddiness of Harry's arrival, the Gryffindor table was abuzz with activity and lively conversation. It was as though the Great Hall had forgotten about the fear and uncertainty of two night's past, whisked off by Time Turner to a place and time wherein the Dark Lord hadn't risen to power and there was nothing more pressing to worry about than who was dating who and when the new Weird Sisters album would release. Gossip flew around the room like sylabic, speeding owls but surprisingly the rumors weren't about Gryffindor's odd couple. It was Ronald Weasley's new wand delivered by house elf to the breakfast table which was attracting all of the attention.

It wasn't long before Professor Flitwick made his way over to the rowdiest of tables, stopping at Weasley's broad shoulder to have a look at the piece.

“Quite... unusual,” the Charms instructor muttered, stroking a curly bit of his overgrown side-burn in thought. “Indeed, most unusual. The design is particularly striking. A Gregorovitch, then?”

Weasley shook his head, a strange and unreadable expression taking over his mottled features. Draco wasn't sure what to make of the look before the Weasel spoke.

“Nope. It's a Batushansky.”

The tiny professor balked. Draco himself perked up a bit—he knew Yura had forged a few artifacts back at Durmstrang and was well-versed in the necessary magics but wand-making was a particular talent... perhaps even an outright gift. That Yuri was able to create something like that for Weasley in a matter of a night was nothing short of genius. There was nothing special about the wood itself, probably pine or light birch whittled down and styled around thirteen inches from handle to tip. With the grip wound in leather and silver, it was more sword-like than wand. What was unique was the shape and detail of the shaft, carved out in a slight corkscrew with a tiny lip. Inside that lip—melted down, poured and then melded to the wood with a great deal of magic—was a smoky banding, almost metallic, like a snake's scaly body wound around and in places through the bark of an ancient tree. The dark metal glittered in the light, juxtaposed by the lightness of wood and the presence of that contrasting, bright silver worked around the handle. With the way that band caught the light, it had to be a few parts sterling silver melted down and infused with Thestral scale. The hue and inherent illumination was unmistakable.

“Dual core, then?” Flitwick surmised. The professor's steely gaze flicked twice over the wand's length.

“Triple,” Weaselby said with that dopey grin of his. “The original unicorn hair is held under Thestral scale and steel. Added a dragon bone core with ash resin to stabilize it.”

Flitwick drew back visibly, as though the unstable brew might turn sour at any second and blast his considerable brows off.

“Thestral and dragon stabilized by ash?” his already squeaky voice quivered noticeably. “Not possible.”

Weasley—clandestine, he was not—shot a wink at Granger across the table. “Anything's possible with a bit of Hogwarts ingenuity.”

The professor was so caught up in the seeming impossibility that such a wand could exist, he completely lost the fond look which passed between Weasel King and his Mudblood Queen.

The combination was rather ingenious, really—the wand, not Weasel and his sodding girlfriend. And merely “ingenious” said nothing of the structure, the fucking craftsmanship and artistry that had gone into the piece. Thestral for natural shielding against attacks, dragon bone as an amplifier, unicorn for focused magic and ash as a grounding against steel and what could only be pine. Yura was dangerous as well as decidedly cleaver. And Granger had to have had a hand in it as well—who else would be so sensitive to Weasley's history of broken, hand-me-down wands and constant disarming due to innate buffoonery? No more! What Weasley King bore now was a war wand: half sword, all weapon. If disarmed through Expeliarmus, this wand was likely to take the caster's arm off as soon as that wrapped leather handle reached the unfortunate fellow's fingertips. It would be a gorey, irreparable mess.

“You keep that wand out of anyone else's hands, Mr. Weasley,” Flitwick cautioned, waving a finger in the ginger's inattentive face. “It could very likely kill the unprepared.”

“Oh,” Weasley simpered, “that's the idea.”

“Ronnie, no death-talk at the table, if you please,” his sister scolded. Her simpering, holier-than-thou face nearly put Draco off his second cup of coffee.

Professor Flitwick proceeded down the length of the table only to stop short a few meters later. He leaned over the bench, settling an elbow on the table and addressing Draco. The blond set his coffee and fork aside.

“Mr. Malfoy, I'm sorry to bother you,” the Charms teacher began, “but it's about my House—specifically our door.” Draco felt himself color—it was happening an awful lot this morning, a side effect of having Harry about. The git made him emotional, cracked his steely facade so that all these tells and ruddy feelings slipped through to the outside world. The tepid, calloused hand which had taken up shop on his knee didn't exactly help to cool his blood. He settled for raising a stoic brow at the head of Ravenclaw House.

“My apologies once again, Professor,” Draco offered. He hoped his voice sounded normal enough. Harry was patting his knee affestionately, fingertips drumming in no particular rhythm as he chewed his toast.

“No need,” Flitwick waved away the concern. “It's only... what exactly was the nature of your, er, disagreement?”

Harry guffawed, throwing his toast aside. “You picked a fight with a door?”

“Get stuffed, poilu,” Draco mumbled. Harry slapped playfully at his boyfriend's thigh.

“Seriously?!”

That earnest expression, the shape of his eyes slightly magnified by those hideous smudged spectacles—it was too much. Draco went for facetious to avoid the discomfiting truth of it.

“You were being a prodigious arse,” he announced ringingly. “I had to take it out on someone or something. The Ravenclaw portress seemed as good a candidate as any.”

Disbelief was evident on Harry's face but he played along. “So it's my fault you... what, exactly? Is the door broken or did you just blast it to smithereens?”

“It's been rendered inoperative,” Draco spoke carefully, aware that others were now listening in to their little lover's tiff. He wondered whether the rest of the castle saw their relationship for what it was or if the populace was still comforting themselves with the lie of the wizarding world's most peculiar friendship. Ever. “I believe, and do correct me Professor if I'm amiss,” because Malfoys were never wrong, only 'amiss' or perhaps mistaken, “that I may have surpassed the parameters of the artifact's Iterative Convergence Matrix.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry shook his head of shaggy hair, fringe rearranging over his forehead to show glimpses of a lightning-shaped scar. “You wha'?”

Draco pressed his lips to a thin line to keep from laughing. His boyfriend was endlessly adorable... in that maladroit, Potterish way of his. “I proved it wrong, Scarhead. Eat your kippers, the adults are talking.” There came a tremendous snort from Draco's right—Kieran, refilling the blond's coffee and dropping eves. Draco spared the child a nod of thanks before returning his attention to his Charms instructor. “I was given a riddle pertaining to Endopathotic Theory,” he explained. “I happen to have some personal knowledge of the subject which I was happy to share with your portress.”

“I see,” Flitwick nodded. “Might I trouble you for a small demonstration?”

Without warning, Draco comandeered Gweir's steak knife and took it to the back of Harry's hand, making a shallow but speedy cut which quickly began to bloom with blood, red coming to the surface where the serrated edge had caught tanned skin. Harry inhaled sharply, breath hissing through clenched teeth. The briefiest “hey” escaped his startled mouth before Draco's hand closed over his, pressing his own pale palm tight to the wound before it could release more than a few droplets.

He looked Harry right in the face, holding the sight of wide and confused green eyes until they filled his vision. He focused solely and completely on Harry; the spicy, jasmine and rum scent of his skin detectable over eggs, fishes and toast, the unruly play of dark hair falling behind his glasses to tickle his lashes and that smattering of freckles you had to be so damn close to see.

They both felt the frisson of magic, the white-blue lightning snicking around their hands as fingers intertwined. The light seemed to flicker in Harry's eyes, a static charge as he blinked, crackling between his lashes before disappearing into the whites of his eyes, lighting him from the inside. The wanker liked this strange magic—flaunted it, even. It was always right there, bubbling at the surface, waiting for half a good reason to come storming out, wands blazing. Harry licked his lower lip and smiled that familiar, lazy smile.

“It doesn't work on myself, oddly enough,” Draco shrugged, patting Harry's hand once before letting go, showing his bloody palm to the professor, the back of Harry's hand completely healed. “You'd think, with the majority of Endopathotics triggered by threat of injury or emotional duress... but no. It only works for this git.”

Harry gave a playful snort.

Draco stopped himself a second short of lifting his bloody palm to his lips. He stared at his palm a moment, observing the flecks of red spreading along the fine fabric of his hand. He was so accustomed to the sight of Harry's blood, to scouring it out of their clothes, licking it from sweaty skin, tasting it mingled with liquor and smoke and spit. His palm was sweating something mad. Maybe it was the magic. Perhaps he was a sick fuck turned on my the sight of his lover's blood. With a certain amount of restraint, Draco returned his stained hand to his side unattended to. He could suck the blood off when no one was looking.

“Most unusual,” Flitwick agreed, tapping his fingers against the table in thought. “I'll have to make adjustments to the Convergence Matrix, of course. There could be an explanation for this,” he gestured between the two of them, indicating the healing of Harry's hand. “Might I make inquiries with the Department of Mysteries on your behalf?”

“If you can stand the smell,” Harry joked. The Minister really was hiding out in a barn—the smell of manure on his messengers got worse every day. Professor McGonagall had already banned them from her office—and not just for the sake of her rugs. “I'd sure like to know what's going on.”

“You and me, both,” Draco muttered over his coffee cup. Professor Flitwick bowed and departed.

Gweir was quick to take his knife back, scouring it with a Cleaning Charm before digging into a hearty bit of steak. The kid was just like Harry, plate piled high and stuffing his sweet little face. Most people hadn't seen the display of magic and so breakfast passed without further incident or gossip. Weasley waving his new wand about and bragging loudly made an amicable distraction.

Draco walked Harry back to Gryffindor tower to collect his things. With everyone still in the Great Hall, the corridors were empty but for the mellow morning light filtering through the windows.

“Draco, what exactly did the Ravenclaw door ask you?”

The blond rolled his eyes, jostling Harry's shoulder with his own as they strolled. “Why?”

“Well, I've never actually been to Ravenclaw,” Harry admitted. “I heard instead of a password, the door asks you a question that you have to answer. Is that right?”

“It's a brass door knocker in the shape of an eagle,” corrected Draco, “but otherwise, yes. That's the jist of it.”

“But what type of questions does it ask? 'What are the seven principle uses of dragon's blood?' or are they more like riddles?”

Draco chewed the inside of his cheek. “Philosophical riddles, I suppose. There's room for interpretation. The door requires that answers be phrased in a certain way, a logic devoid of emotion—devoid of personality, more like,” he snorted to himself.

“So you used the wrong kind of answer?” Harry surmised, raising an eyebrow at Draco as they went down a side passage to avoid a certain staircase that was particularly finicky before the hour of ten.

“Not as such.”

Harry grabbed Draco by the shoulder, pulling him to a halt in the narrow hallway. There was barely enough room for the two of them to walk abreast. With that strong body of his, Harry had Draco against the rough-hewn wall in seconds. It wasn't exactly as though Draco fought him.

“Tell me the riddle, you insufferable prig,” he growled, nuzzling the side of Draco's neck with a freshly shaved cheek. “I want to know.”

Draco sighed. Fighting this was hopeless—Harry would always win, especially with his meaty thigh slipped between Draco's own, breathing deeply and laying slow, wet kisses up the most sensitive tendons of his neck.

“'What is a man without a wand?'” he quoted, imitating the brass eagle's eerie, sing-song voice with ease. He'd always been good with impressions.

“Hmm,” Harry murmured. “And you said?”

“Outre que un moldu... effrayé, impuissant, ou dans l'amore.”

Against his neck, Harry's face scrunched, nose wrinkling up to bump Draco's earlobe as the man attempted to translate in his head.

“Apart from... something... love.”

Draco reached up to pat a jumper-clad shoulder. “Aside from a muggle... frightened, powerless, or in love,” Draco completed the translation. He gave Harry's shoulder one last squeeze before continuing down the corridor. It let out into a main thoroughfare, several staircases with wide, sweeping banisters leading both up and down in six possible directions depending on the day. One of the suits of armor was rattling faintly, its helmet and breast plate quivering as though some crittur had gotten inside it. Draco paused. Harry came up beside him a moment later, drawing his wand.

The suit gave a last tremor before the helmet's visor opened and the unmistakable tune of “God Rest Ye Merry Hyppogryffs” began, the metal brim clacking and clanking as it moved in time to the tune, singing the words. But in each phrase, key words were decidedly off. In fact, it was only a matter of seconds before Draco realized what lyrics were being substituted. It was “The Dragon Song,” that wildly inappropriate series of snide remarks set in limerick form, courtesy of Peeves the Pesky Poltergeist.

And the helmet sang off-key:

"Once a famed Prince of Quidditch!

Out on the pitch,

Potter sure scratched his itch.

Now he's the Golden Boy's bitch."

“Peeves!” Harry shouted, charging the musical suit. The poltergeist flew out from under the armor's skirting, cackling madly as he took off in flight, zooming around stair railings as Harry threw wild spells in the demon's direction. Sparks rebounded off the walls, knocking portraits askew and hurtling down various hallways. Harry's aim was terrible when he was in a rage—always had been. Draco drew his own wand and took careful aim, whispering his incantation in a low hiss. The spell was invisible as it left his wand's hawthorn tip but he heard the impact a second later as it sent Peeves reeling, slamming the prankster against this wall and then that, bouncing him down the stairwell like a child's rubber ball. Draco did not stop until Peeves reached the second floor corridor, guiding the wretch into the Trophy Room with a soul-satisfying series of bangs, shatterings and crashes.

“Fuck,” Harry exclaimed under his breath. He'd given chase but came to a halt half way down the stiarcase, gazing back up at Draco. “Is it always like this?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You've been away from Hogwarts too long, Wonder Boy.”

Harry's face fell instantly. If Draco didn't know better, he could have ignored the blatant hurt, the emotion, and the ever-so-slight damp gathering in the man's eyes.

It was such a stupid thing to say, what with Harry leaving in perhaps an hour with no idea when he'd return... or if. Harry was very much upset; his shoulders slumped as he carried himself up the half flight of stairs, dragging his feet as he set out down the hall toward Gryffindor Tower... to pack his things and go.

“Putain de bordel de merde!” Draco took a handful of Harry's jumper and wheeled him around by it. He was half tempted to physically shake the melancholy out of his dozy Gryffindor hero. He settled for gathering a fist of the man's collar and hauling him close, continuing in a terse whisper. “Can we fucking talk about this and get it over with?! You're leaving—I know it, you know it. Why are you throwing a bloody childish fit about it?”

“I...” Wonder Boy floundered. “Sorry, dragon. I'm just preoccupied. That's all. I've got a lot on my mind.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Draco's lips, keeping their faces close, noses and foreheads brushing as their black and blond fringes mingled. “My only lead is that friend of Alastor Moody's, Leo—”

Harry cut himself off at the sound of mewling near their feet. Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, was giving them a very dirty look, indeed. If the feline terror was about, her owner couldn't be far behind. Draco cursed again—in French, causing a noticeable jump in Harry's trousers.

“Here,” Harry offered, opening the door to a nearby supply room and gesturing his boyfriend inside with a hurried jerk of the head.

“Do you know every bleeding cupboard in the castle, Potter?” Draco teased, drawling just like the old days. “Either you used to snog the Weaslette far too much or those muggles truly fucked with your head.”

“Neither here nor there,” Harry deadpanned, shoving Draco inside and charming the door shut behind them.

“...sorry,” Draco mumbled, stuffing his hands in his back pockets. “I'm preoccupied, too. I didn't mean it like that. Are you mad... at me?”

Harry shook his head, holding out an arm which Draco stepped readily into, greedy for contact. Harry cuddled Draco to his side, burying his nose in blond hair and laying a dry, lingering kiss. It was as though Harry were breathing him, memorizing his shape and smell, cataloging these details as Draco did. The blond pressed himself back, aligning every inch of himself with the familiar swell and fall of Harry's form.

“So where are you going?” Draco asked, interrupting the silence of breath and rustling fabric. Somewhere outside the castle, a bird began to chirp.

“America.”

Draco nodded, letting his head fall back against Harry's firm shoulder. “For how long?”

“However long it takes. I need information and the Ministry's in no shape to back me.”

“Because you an' the Ministry have gotten on so well in the past, mon cher,” the blond's tone was sarcastic, but only to make Harry laugh. It was a sober sound that rattled in his chest, not quite reaching his heart.

They sat there a moment, just holding each other and breathing, being calm and together. It was enough.

“How do you want to handle this?” Harry asked softly, stroking Draco's forearm with a leisurely thumb. “Me leaving. I know you hate goodbyes.”

Draco was silent as the minutes ticked by. He knew exactly what he wanted to say—all the thoughts and fears swirling through him had force enough to rip the castle apart stone by fucking stone. Stupid feelings clogged his sentience—getting them out had always been a trick thing. Not for the first time with Harry, he was at a loss for words.

“Just tell me what you want and I'll do it, no questions asked,” Harry continued, soothing. His hands skated up Draco's arms, enclosing him in an ever-tightening embrace. “I want you to be happy, Draco. So tell me how you want this to go.”

Draco took a big breath, closing his eyes.

“I want you to come home,” he whispered, trying so hard not to choke. “Come back, Harry. Merlin knows—that's all I want.”

~ * ~

That first day without Harry was the worst. Draco took an exorbent quantity of points from Ravenclaw and got himself called to McGonagall's office for reprimand. Sluffing lunch and returning to his quarters had been an even worse idea, if that was possible—seeing his empty rooms, the place still smelling of Harry, had been too much. He spent his lunch hour assisting the last of the Aurors and castle guards in setting the kitchen gardens to rights. They were nearly done burning the bodies in a clearing of the Forbidden Forest, dark smoke pluming over the tree-line for two days straight.

That night, Colin Creevey knocked on the door to Draco's suite to deliver the proofs of their house pictures. As per Draco's instructions, the fellow developed them in both the wizard and muggle ways, leaving the final choice to the Head Boy. If House schenanegains could be kept to a minimum—even in pictoral form—Draco was all for it. The Gryffindors delighted in causing trouble. It was positively Slytherin at times.

Creevey placed several pictures on the coffee table for Draco's perusal. Draco set his cuppa aside to examine them. He nearly lost it, right there with sodding Creevy in the room.

He couldn't take his eyes from the sight of Wonder Boy in the moving silly pictures. That little Harry groped little Draco's ass as they kissed quite passionately, grinding their bodies together. Then again, the little Draco's hands were rather pervy as well. What did that say? They looked incredibly hot together. And happy. Hand pressed tight over his mouth, Draco had to look away from the picture before it really got to him.

“Well,” he said after a beat, mustering a falsely bright tone to hide the slightly damp, nasal burr to his usually smooth voice. “This one's completely inappropriate, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Creevey?”

The sixth year gave a shrug, as if to say it was just a silly picture and he didn't see anything wrong with it.

“I think we ought to use this one,” Draco continued, signaling the moving serious photo. You can barely tell that photo-Harry's arm is around photo-Draco—only when miniature Whipple shifted her weight in the front row and Gweir hid from a brazen Abigail Brown trying to snog him. “How soon can you have a larger one ready?”

“Probably tomorrow morning. It won't take me long.”

Draco nodded. “Good. Thank you,” he added, attempting niceties. “You may go.”

“Um, I know it's really none of my business,” Colin started, wringing his hands once the spare photographs were stored safely in his school bag. He'd apparently brought extra copies for Draco, as two each of the serious and goofy images were still in his line of sight, two moving and two still. Creevey, too, remained beside the coffee table, determined to be heard.

“Then ya shouldn't stick yer nose in it,” Draco snipped, picking up his tea and taking a sip before his Warming Charm wore off and the pot went cold.

“It's just—” the boy gesticulated rather aimlessly, hands falling to his sides as he appealed to the cracked ceiling for the proper phrasing of whatever was on his puny mind. “I wanted to say congratulations, Malfoy. Harry's such a nice person and he deserves to be happy. I'm glad this whole thing is working out for you—both of you. I don't think I've ever seen Harry as happy as he is in that pisser picture.”

Colin ducked out, leaving Draco staring at the silly, kissing picture.

Putting up the over-sized, framed serious picture the next morning brought a cheer from everyone in the common room—a reminder that Harry was never far away. Draco kept the proof of the silly kissy picture framed on his mantle where no one but himself would be forced to see it.

Over the next fortnight, Draco divided his time between Quidditch—even watching the other teams' practices as research, much to all of Slytherin's chagrin—the mindless tedium of NEWTs, and seeing to his responsibilities as Head Boy. More than once, he had to tell off that mad twatter, Colin Creevey, for following him around with that incessant camera, clicking away. Draco suspected the little twerp was a bit queer and probably had some sort of jealous crush now that he and Harry were half-out to Gryffindor. Handsome as he was, nobody in their right mind wanted that many pictures of Draco Malfoy carrying his things to and from the Library.

That afternoon, he'd threatened House points to get the little stalker off his back. Dejected, the urchin had slumped through the portrait hole to Gryffindor commons, prepared to let Draco be at least for the afternoon.

Draco approached the Heads' quarters, craning his ears. For a moment, he thought he'd heard raised voices. And it wasn't like the do-gooder Gryffindors to start hollering at each other... at least for no apparent reason. Not when Harry was absent, anyway.

Stepping into the hall separating his quarters from Granger's, he was left in little doubt that it was, indeed, a confrontation his ears detected—vehement, pointed arguing. It sounded like Weasel chit, Granger, Weaselby, and a few others. Why they couldn't do this in their common room and leave him in peace was quite beyond him. They drowned out the peaceful trickling of the fountain and the pleasant bird chirping from the open balcony doors.

Draco stormed into his quarters, slamming the door and throwing his school bag. He took to the piano roughly, kicking back the bench and depositing himself onto it. He began pounding out the loudest, strongest tune he could think of—a rendition of February by the disinherited wizard recluse Boris Pasternak—because he bloody well wanted those noisy, thoughtless wankers to hear it. And hopefully loathe it.

He was a good twenty measures in before the knock at the door. He ignored it, tempted to sing along. But his Russian was laughable with the exception of a few choice and appropriately filthy phrases. He made up for that shortcoming by playing louder, jamming the heavy chords. The staccato repetitions and resounding bass echoed around his chambers, blocking out the fist tap-tap-tappings ever so insistent at his closed door.

“Malfoy?” Granger's voice floated in. “Might we speak with you?”

“Fuck off!” he wanted to shout. But he didn't say a thing, applying himself to the keys with vigor. The noise didn't deter Granger and her companions as they slipped into the room. He saw the mass of black robes gathering behind him. There were more than he thought—a dozen, perhaps. It was hard not to be reminded of the swish of Dementors in his mother's rose garden, the looming of cloaked figures in an icy hallway... halls that had once been his own. Like Hogwarts, they were lost now. The world had shifted and he, Draco Malfoy, was helpless.

Draco ignored them, their darkness just out of sight, and kept right on playing. They were in his quarters uninvited: he would do as he pleased, proper manners be damned. He wasn't a proper Malfoy anymore, anyway. Rules be damned, too. It wasn't like Harry gave a Firebolt-flying fuck.

“Malfoy?” asked another voice. Longbottom. Merlin and Mordred, Neville Longbottom was in his private rooms. “Indignity” did not begin to describe. He slammed both fists to the keys, sounding a mighty discord of noise.

“What?!” he snarled, not bothering to turn from the ivories.

“We... well,” Granger pronounced slowly, stepping up beside the piano bench and wringing her hands in a veritable fit of nerves. The lines on her brow told of consternation... and desperation. He didn't like that look one bit. “We wanted to ask you for a favor.”

Draco sat perfectly still, the sides of his palms still depressing long-silent white keys. Had someone placed an Hallucination Hex on his door without his noticing? That or he'd turned mad somewhere between NEWT Ancient Studies and his rooms.

He did owe the muggle bint one favor. She'd gone and retrieved the jacket, his silly little gift for Harry, and now he genuinely owed her something. It was a shame Avada Kedavra didn't work for suicides or he'd have used the Unforgivable out of shame then and there.

“I owe you one favor, Granger,” he simpered, “and here you've come to collect. Let's hear it, then.”

“Just like that?” the witch spluttered, gobsmacked.

“Just like that, Granger,” he replied slowly, back stiff. “Out with it before I change my ruddy bat-infested mind.”

“We need you to restart Harry's Defense Against The Dark Arts club.”

“No.”

“Wha' happened to 'just like that?'” Longbottom put out with a frown.

“No.” Draco repeated himself—slowly and clearly so there would be no mistaking his answer. “Definitely and definitively: no.”

“You're Head Boy,” Granger posed as though he regularly misplaced his responsibilities shortly after tea. “You have the authority to—”

“Dumbledore's Bleedin' Army? Public Potter Worship?” his fist hit the keys again. “Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

“But you—” Weaslette started up. He cut her off with a feral growl that sounded very much like … Harry. The little knot of students behind him jumped at the familiar rumbling; looking about, surprised, as though their champion might burst out from behind the chocolate draperies and declare it was all a great hoax. They probably thought he was hiding their savior up here, the way heads swiveled and pained faces lit up. Wouldn't they be delighted to know the only vestiges of their sweet Prince Potter were likely in Draco at present. They were more alike than anyone gave them credit for.

“Mal—” some fifth year bloke began.

“I will not be made a spectacle,” he said, low, violence building at the back of his mind. “You have the Dueling Club, Granger: use them as a platform. I see no need to bring back the bloody D.A. as a legitimate school club. Stay underground. That's what he wants, anyway.”

And Draco rose from the piano, signaling the end of the discussion as he drifted across the room, all but dismissing the little crowd. Bloody Gryffindors, not knowing when to quit. Ron Weasley separated himself from the mob, striding forward and coming within a foot of where Draco stood at the far side of his mahogany bed, staring out the window.

“That's not what Harry wants,” Weasley said, his voice almost as firm. “He wants us to be prepared, to know how to defend ourselves. That's why he started the DA under Umbridge's toady nose! And we're actually learning less from my brother than we did from her, if that's even possible! We need the D.A. The whole school does.”

“So do it yourselves,” Draco drawled heavily, feigning boredom while staunchly facing away with hands clasped tight at his back. Stray golden leaves blew past his window—the last of the season. Soon it would be winter. He managed to hold back his sigh of annoyance. This was his life, now; waiting on Harry Potter. Waiting on The Boy Who Lived. “Granger has the authority. I see no reason for my involvement except to garner attention.”

“But who would teach?” asked a familiar voice. Draco did an about face to find none other than Luna Lovegood standing between Granger and Longbottom; he rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“Not you, too,” Draco moaned. He'd just started to tolerate the woman—she was a bizarre sort of genius... heavy on the eccentricities, but his company was otherwise limited to ruddy Gryffindors and thus his judgment had begun to slip.

“That's right!” Longbottom concurred. “There's no one to teach us.”

“Suck my cock, the lot of you. I don't teach,” Draco said flatly. He didn't so much as pause for the stifled gasps—poncy little Gryffindors didn't speak that way and clearly thought their Head Boy wouldn't either. Well, they were in his quarters, weren't they? He'd rhapsodize as he pleased. Granger and Weasel bird could have an orgy around his member—an orgy of prudish disgust by the looks on their spluttering faces.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I haven't the patience for this! And I don't tolerate your 'try harder next time' cutesy tripe and bollocks. I. Don't. Teach. I'm rubbish at it: end of story. I'm sure you can see yourselves out the way you came.” He flicked an impatient hand toward the door.

“You don't teach; yet you spent most of the summer instructing Harry,” Granger said quite sagely. A few murmurs went up at that. “And we've already seen his progress. He's leagues beyond where he was at the end of last term. It would take a fool not to see it.”

“I wasn't the only person giving him pointers and you know it,” Draco snapped back, on edge. He didn't like talking about Harry—especially not with an audience watching his every move. Harry was private, off limits. The Head Girl should know better than to bring The Chosen One into the conversation lest she desire her innards strewn about Scotland.

“But if you—” protested a Hufflepuff girl he didn't know by name.

“No.”

“Whatever you know, Malfoy,” Longbottom pleaded, hands stuffed up his robe sleeves and visibly fidgeting beneath the wooly fabric. “Whatever you have to offer. We'd all appreciate it.”

“I don't need anyone in my debt.” Draco moved closer to the window. The group flowed him through the room, dogging him. They were Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs; no Slytherins, he noted, not surprised in the least.

“Please,” the Hufflepuff girl said, nervously stepping forward, “just teach us whatever you taught Harry. We can pick it up; we're all committed to learning. You'll get nothing but our best, we—”

“Spare me!” Draco snorted. “I'm not teaching you lot what I taught him.”

“Why not?” demanded the Weaslette, hands on her hips.

“Because you were teaching him to wield the Dark Arts, weren't you?” Luna proposed dreamily from beside the fiery red head. A few people turned to stare at her; the rest looked to Draco for confirmation.

“'No man defeats that which he does not first understand,'” Draco quoted from The Art of War. He doubted any of this lot had actually read it.

“You're really refusing to help us defend ourselves?” protested Michael Corner.

“I'm refusing to instruct a group of children in the old ways,” Draco clarified. He felt his brow creeping up, a lecturing tone fighting his iced vocal chords. He pushed it all down, keeping his face impassive.“Yes. You have no business prying into that which you do not care to comprehend. Practice your Shielding and Patronus Charms—and pray you never find yourselves in a real battle. That is what he wants, Granger. We're shut up here for a reason. Now off with you,” he shooed the little crowd with both hands as though he were herding sheep or any other small, dumb animal. “Go about your business.”

“Malfoy, please,” Granger pleaded even as a few of her companions gave up hope, turning toward the door with heads rightly hung. “What do we have to say or do to convince you to do this?”

“We'll take your prefects rounds,” the Hufflepuff girl offered with a last vestige of hope in her wide brown eyes. “No more walking around the drafty old castle at night.”

“That would be jus' plain irresponsible,” Draco mused churlishly, a finger on his chin, “as well as a clear dereliction of my duties as Head Boy. I couldn't possibly accept,” he smirked.

“We'll report your alcohol to McGonagall,” Weasley snapped, indicating the large collection of bottles and glassware on the side table by the drapes. The ginger's finger shook—probably with jealousy. Merlin knew Harry didn't send his mate gifts anymore.

Draco snorted. “She already knows, Woolenby. Proximity to The Boy Who Lived has its advantages, as I'm sure you're well aware.” The tall man stiffened visibly as Draco continued. He'd clearly touched a nerve—gone at it with a Cutting Curse, if the at-once affronted and forlorn look on the ginger's speckled face was anything to go by. “I've already gotten away with murder, so to speak.” There were some decidedly peckish looks at that—his casual reference to events surrounding the former Headmaster's untimely demise not more than a few months ago. “You can't bribe or blackmail me: I don't see any Slytherins amongst you. I'm not doing it.”

“Then we'll tell Harry!” Granger took a shot in the dark, cajoling and lion-badgering giving way to outright coercion. “He'll be awfully upset when he hears you don't want to help us out—especially when it's a security concern. You don't know what he's like when he's angry,” she cautioned with a shiver that wasn't entirely for show.

“On the contrary,” Draco smirked, grand and haughty, his eyes lighting up despite his best efforts to keep any emotion but disdain from his features. “I know full well. And please, do tell him. It's better when he's angry.”

Speculative looks abound; many heads met in startled whispers. Not everyone believed the rumors. Even those who'd heard it from Gryffindor witnesses had their doubts. It was a trifle unbelievable that the length of one summer was all it took to bring Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy from enemy camps to Loverville. Perhaps their public was considering the wrong 'length.' Draco kept his expression at an even smirk with a dash of devious. Let them gossip. Not as though it were any of their business, but the Dark Lord already knew about him and Harry and that was the one and only public that mattered. The population of Hogwarts was peanuts compared to what Harry faced. Draco took up a similar attitude.

“I'm not your Chosen One,” Draco articulated, slow and even. “I have no reason to go about doing good. The Sorting Hat placed me in Gryffindor, not my own scruples. I've no desire to set myself on display. What purpose could it possibly serve? Give me one good reason an' I'll do it.”

- - -

“Alright! Listen up, yeh bloody wankers!” Draco shouted over the din filling the Room of Requirement that Thursday night. Granger was flinching at every explicative that left his entitled pureblood mouth and it was utterly brilliant. She was powerless to stop him teaching, doing or saying whatever he wished. They all were. It was part of the agreement that convinced Draco to take up this mad project in the first place. Even the prefects were bound not to report him for anything that went on within their Defense Association meetings—Draco had refused, point blank, to register a club in his name called 'Dumbledore's Army.' There were some lines even he cared not to cross.

Granger whipped up a parchment with pleasantly dire consequences should any member of the school's newest club decide to spread knowledge of the Head Boy's teaching methods post-registration. After all, only a Mudblood with a point to prove would stoop so low as to cast a spell which did that to a wizard's bollocks should he squeal.

Granger was either that stupid or that desperate—in his own estimation of the witch, Draco was leaning heavily towards desperate. Apparently the woman believed Draco held some innate power which Scarhead The Bumbling had tapped into. The little know-it-all wanted to share Draco Malfoy and his supposed power with the world. At most, she'd be getting a few dozen students limping out of the Room of Requirement in two hours' time, swearing up and down never to return. Draco couldn't help his grin.

He knew they were all there to look at him, to squabble and gossip like the small-minded creatures they were—let them. What could he possibly care? He started them out with Reductor Curses and was immediately disappointed. Stunners were an equally miserable experience—Longbottom managed to bounce one off the window, freezing himself in mid-step. Draco approached, hovering on tip-toe to speak in the bloke's ear.

“You are,” he enunciated very clearly, “a twit.” And, with two fingers, he bowled the fellow over. Longbottom doubled his efforts after that, brow furrowed, breaking a sweat as he dodged hexes from Weasley and Corner. It appeared Draco's vituperations had more of an effect on the lump of a Gryffindor than years of molly-coddling ever had.

Once Stunners were under control, Draco moved on to non-verbal spellwork. The holes in Hogwarts' curriculum became abundantly clear.

As he was explaining application of some more recent theory, the inevitable interruption came.

“Well,” Finch-Fletchley spoke up, a posturing gesture flicking his wand about. “When Harry taught us, h—”

“Listen, you lot,” Draco growled angrily, his patience in shreds. “I am not your Wonder Boy. I'm just shagging his brains out. Capiche?”

There was a moment of silence as the poor sods processed what had fallen from their Head Boy's flip mouth.

“Wot?” Finnigan spluttered.

“Fuck,” Draco whispered. Granger flinched at his language, quite unbefitting of a Head Boy but see if he cared. He shrugged off the hand she reached for his shoulder, attempting to draw him to the side of the room for the tonguelashing of a lifetime. Instead, he took a proud step toward the center of the room. He found something else to address—changing the subject. “Capiche.... Harry says it; it's muggle. It means 'do you understand?' If you do, you say 'capiche' back.”

“Capiche back,” Zacharias Smith shot back.

“Right!” Draco yelled, throwing a silent, screaming-orange Knockdown Jinx at the offending smart-ass. It took him right down. “Twenty points from Hufflepuff. And wha' has The Chosen One been teachin' ya wankers? Fuckin' hell, can one a' ya cast a Light Shield ter save yer pathetic, miserable lives? Good luck avoiding torture an' certain death.”

Now that he had their attention....

Hobbling and defeated, the newly reformed Defense Association escaped the Room of Requirement some hours later—Zacharias Smith barely remaining upright for the journey back to Hufflepuff, kindly friends burdened with the boy's weight on either side and practically dragging him through the halls, so eager were they to put distance between themselves and their Death Eater instructor. Malfoy had conjured up a man-high stack of Bludgers and began using undoubtedly Dark magic to hurl them at Smith two at a time. The speeding projectiles struck the Hufflepuff square between the legs, one right after another as Malfoy shouted, grinning from ear to ear with a manic gleam in his cold, cold eyes, "Learn to fucking block!"

~ * ~

A particularly droll Monday, like so many Mondays, found Draco in Professor Flitwick's music classroom—tucked away at the end of a seldom-traversed corridor on the fifth floor—the blond seated at the school's practice piano and rolling up his sleeves just-so. He had a ritual he followed, arriving several minutes early to greet each entering student with a stiff nod. He watched them take their seats, stowing bags and wands in the cubby holes provided and ordering the day's sheet music in their folders. This side of the castle caught the afternoon light in spectacular fashion, glittering off the lake's surface and sending beams of orange and yellow light throughout the room. Every corner was lit, flickers dancing along white school shirts and black robes as the students settled in.

Draco played a few chords, measures of tempered bullshit, tuning the old instrument with plumbed beats and twirls of his wand until he was perfectly in tune.

Professor Flitwick inclined that gray head to his ready assistant at the piano, rolling up his own sleeves far less gracefully as he mounted the stairs of his teaching podium. It took seven stairs to get the dwarf visible to his class. The room settled, light sliding over each waiting face. Draco had been surprised, at first, when so many students had turned out for the course but—and he should have suspected—it was an easy Pass, what with very few essays and no final exam to speak of. The Ravenclaws, especially, made a pretense at caring for the subtle nuances involved in the orchestration and performance of muggle music versus wizarding. But Draco knew the truth; the Gryffindors and Slytherins were there for the opposite sex, the Ravenclaws because they couldn't resist the call of the obscure, and the Hufflepuffs for the easy grade and inherrant likability pinned to any person capable of carrying a tune.

Flitwick tapped his wand against his music stand, pages lifting into the air that he might read his notes while addressing the class. “We'll begin with our scales, everyone,” he piped up, bringing the last errant chatterers to a halt. “Mr. Malfoy, if you would be so kind. We'll start in C.”

Draco played a few scales, voices warbling along with him, until a Ravenclaw prefect Draco knew only as 'Huber' burst through the door unannounced. The girl went directly to Professor Flitwick, handing a bit of parchment up to his music stand. The girl departed immediately, two similar notes still tucked in her hand. Flitwick waved his fingers at Draco, telling him to stop the warm up exercise.

The professor's eyes scanned the half sheet of parchment, narrowing.

He turned to Draco. “I'm needed in the Headmistress' office, Mr. Malfoy. Just...” Flitwick wiggled his nose as though a bug had landed on it, bristles of his mustache scratching the underside of his nose—probably why the appendage was constantly red. He darted a look at the waiting classroom before declaring his orders. “Carry on. The Tavener, I think—and the Pärt, if you have time.”

Flitwick was gone in an instant, leaving two dozen curious faces watching Draco Malfoy, their fearless, feckless leader.

“Right, then.”

The notes were a flash of staccato, a flat scale to prepare them for the unusual tones of muggle John Tavner's choral score.

Malcolm Baddock raised a hand, voicing his complaint even as Draco very clearly ignored him, playing over the Slytherin.

“Malfoy!” the fellow complained. “You're playing it too fast.”

“Ve can't keep up,” added Král, a fifth year come over from Durmstrang.

Draco's hands stilled over the keys. Without looking up, he arched a single blonde brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“That's too fast,” Baddock repeated, looking about the room, trying to gain nods for his assertion. Most of the students looked petrified that the Slytherins were talking back to their Head Boy.

“See this?” quite carefully, Draco held up his left hand for all to see. A peek of the Mark showed under his rolled-up white shirt sleeve, the dark outline of ink obvious in the yellowish light of the room. He flexed his fingers, rolling them into a stark, blue-veined fist. “This hand has been broken thirty six times. If I can play it tha' fast, surely yer virgin vocal chords are up ter the task. Na shut up an' keep up.”

Several people spluttered aloud.

“You have got to be the most foul-mouthed Head Boy in the history of Hogwarts,” Baddock added, scowling.

Utterly unfazed, Draco shrugged. He played a tripping little tune running up the keys, terminating in a happy soprano kerplunk. “So long as Percy Weasley still holds the record fer most disagreeable, I believe can die happy.” And he began the next exercise, this one far more difficult than the last. “We're not here ta trade insults, Malcolm. Sing.”

For The Curious – Translations of Moldovan/Romanian/Russian

Valea – Go away

Mă leşi. Frate, vino aici. – You've gotta be kidding me. Get over here, man.

Blya – shit/fuck/hell, literally “whore,” it's a very common curse word and mostly something to put at the beginning, middle, other middle and end of a sentence to show feeling or vehemence (Russian slang)

Ostyn' (oстынь), comesean – Chill out/Not at the table

Pizda – bitch/cunt

Tebya ne ebut, ti ne podmakhivai! – Mind your own God damn business; literally, “you're not getting fucked, so don't get up and squirm on my cock” (Russian slang)

Firtat – dude/bro/mate, an endearment meant for dear or childhood friends

Atita vlăstar blya mutante – No more mutant fucking offspring.

Prietene – buddy/friend, for a casual friend or acquaintance

A Point of Linguistics:

Most natives of Moldova will speak either the Moldovan dialect, Romanian or possibly Russian. In this section, Chern and Yura speak both Moldovan and Romanian between themselves but curse in Russian mat (slang). This demonstrates that they are well and roundly educated and have probably traveled the Black Sea area either through their professions or when visiting schoolmates from Durmstrang. Even though Hermione views them as a bit boorish, they are actually speaking four different languages in a single scene: I don't know many folks who are dumb as rocks and still manage to speak six languages fluently.

Two points to Hermione for being a bigger bigot than Ron. That takes skill.
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