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
- 48
- 49
- 50
SUMMARY: Harry and the trio begin to make up. The war, and the race to destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes, continues.

DISCLAIMERS: “The Monument Valley” is from the album Brighter Than Creation's Dark, written by Patterson Hood of Drive By Truckers and released under New West Records, 2008.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA –

THE MONUMENT VALLEY

And when the dust all settles and the story's told

History is made by the side of the road

By the men and women that can persevere

And rage through the storm, no matter how severe

And whether it’s a horse or a car or a train

There’s gonna be some fine times and there’s gonna be some pain

In the end it’s a silhouette framed by the sun

Just The Monument Valley when the evening comes

It’s a strong wind blowing on the open range

It’s gonna be beautiful and it’s gonna be strange

It’s where to plant the camera and when to say action

When to print the legend and when to leave the facts in

When to turn your back on the comforts of home

And wander 'round The Monument Valley alone

"The Monument Valley"

Drive By Truckers

“I want you to come with me.”

Hermione's brows rose. Ron fumbled his tea cup in surprise.

“Seriously, mate?” the redhead gawped, using his robe to wipe at the tea spilled on his woolen school trousers. Hermione banished the wetness with a silent flick of her wand. They were taking tea in the little library tower of her quarters, Ron and Hermione in their uniforms and shiny prefect badges and Harry in his old muggle street clothes. It ached not to be in his robes with them, attending classes and being seventeen.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded slowly. “I reckon it's time I take a crack at destroying the Horcrux in Slytherin's locket. And I want you both there....” Harry trailed off, eyes fixed on a point just past Hermione's shoulder. He hadn't touched his tea. His face was wan, reserved.

Hermione pursed her lips. “You want us there,” she inferred. “But you don't trust us.”

“Not completely, no,” he confirmed.

Ron let out an agitated grunt. “You trust those guys from Durmstrang but not your best mates? That's ruddy messed up, tha' is.”

Harry sighed as he blew over his tea. It was surely cool enough to drink by now but he had no interest in food. This conversation was hard enough without tea stuck in his throat. The vague taste of bile hung in his cheeks. He hated saying this to Ron and Hermione but it was the truth.

“I trust them because of our shared experience, what they've been through, what we've accomplished together and, most importantly, what they believe in now—they may have had parents and siblings who were Death Eaters but I don't hold that against them. You can't blame someone for the way they grew up. But you can respect them for making the right choices when the chips were down.”

“But—” Ron cut in.

“Yeah, you guys have helped me loads over the years. I recognize that. But when I needed you the most—this summer, the stuff with Draco and then Didier and those bugged roses—you two basically said 'fuck you' and walked away. Draco was about the only person who stuck with me. I know you floo-ed a few times, Hermione,” he added before she could interrupt. He could see the protests banging against her teeth, begging to get out. “But that's not nearly enough. You stopped believing in me. You pulled the rug out from under me. So I've learned to rely on some other people for what used to be our thing—I don't like it any more than you but... how can I trust you guys not to walk out on me again?”

Hermione's mouth fell open. Not a single word escaped her. Ron looked as though he'd just taken a berating from his mother—head bowed, face lit up with a flaming blush, hands folded in his lap and a sheepish slump to his lanky shoulders.

“I'm sorry, mate,” Ron said at last. “I never looked at it that way.”

Hermione's voice was timid when she spoke. “Why didn't you say how much it hurt? That you wanted us there with you?”

A rueful smile twitched Harry's lips. He wrapped his fingers more tightly around his tea cup. “You know I'm rubbish when it comes to feelings, talking about them. Draco's helped, though. At first I blocked out how upset I was, ignored everything I didn't want to think about or feel. I just spent time with Draco and turned a blind eye to the rest of what was going on. It took me a while to deal with everything, to figure myself out. I guess you two needed some time, too.”

Ron chewed his bottom lip, nodding to his lap.

Harry took a deep breath, until his tshirt pulled tight over his expanding chest. “It's gonna take a while to rebuild the trust we lost. But I'm willing to try if you are.”

Hermione reached across the coffee table, putting one hand over Ron's gathered fingers and the other on Harry's knee. Gently, she nodded.

“Whatever it takes,” Ron mumbled. “We'll do it. We're in this together.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispered. “It means a lot to have my mates back.”

They sat in silence for a moment, connected, letting the winding steam of tea wash over them. The first of the true winter winds howled outside the tower, fluffy bits of snow mingling with the last of falling leaves. Patches of sun shone through the heavy clouds, sending shafts of yellow light to dapple the dying brown grass of the grounds. Snow would be piling up soon, blanketing the grounds. Nothing moved outside save the leaves and trees in the wind.

Hermione squeezed Harry's knee. “When do you leave?”

“Soon, maybe a day or two. I've got an idea I need to run by McGonagall and then I'll be on my way.”

“We'll be on our way,” Ron corrected, smirking.

“No. I have to make some arrangements first. I'll go on ahead and have you guys follow me in a few days.”

Hermione's bushy head cocked to the side. She could always tell when Harry had a plan up his sleeve. He spilled the beans before she could ask.

“I think I have a way to make it so that no one will know we've gone.”

“You don't think Hogwarts is safe?” Ron asked quickly, leaning forward in his chair. “Like, You Know Who has spies or something?”

“I'm going to err on the side of caution,” was Harry's non-committal reply. “You can never be too careful.”

“You're right,” Hermione squeezed his knee again, the fingers of her other hand curling with Ron's. “Let us know what the Headmistress says. We'll be ready to leave when you need us.”

Harry sat back and took a mouthful of tea.

It was a fairly brilliant plan. It had been done before at Hogwarts, so no one would suspect it again—Polyjuice Potion.

Dmitry had enough of the stuff to keep his entire crew hidden for a fortnight or longer. And they could always acquire more. Considering Harry would only ask Dima, Misha and Nebojsa to hide at Hogwarts, they could probably last a few months, at least. He wouldn't ask them to stay that long... but a week or two Polyjuiced into a healthy body would probably help Nebojsa's healing process and put Dmitry's mind at ease. With the entire castle believing the foreign fellows were really Gryffindor’s Golden Trio, Harry could bring Hermione and Ron to meet with Leon's team in America. And if word traveled back to Voldemort—well, Harry could use it as an opportunity to observe his enemy’s reactions and gauge future movements. He'd have to clear it with McGonagall and bring a few prefects in on the plan, perhaps the seventh year Gryffindor boys for good measure, but that was better than tacking up a bloody notice that the Golden Trio had left the building. It was worth a shot.

Harry took it up with Draco that evening before dinner.

“It's a good plan,” the blonde nodded, warming his hands at the fire in his Head Boy's quarters. Draco turned to warm his backside, regarding his boyfriend seated on the beige sofa. “An' you said McGonagall agreed?”

Harry nodded.

Draco bit the side of his lip in thought, canting the fattest bit of pink lip to one side in a very pretty picture. Harry stood up, taking Draco's waist with both hands and pulling the lanky chap closer.

“Do you think they'll go along with it?” Harry inquired quietly. “The Ionescues and Nebojsa?”

“Ya know them betta than I do, love,” Draco shrugged. A slender hand slid down Harry's side, lingering at the top of his arse, a pale thumb hooking under his belt to drag him nearer.

Harry considered, thinking out loud as he rested his cheek against Draco's.

“Nebojsa won't like it. He'll see it as charity. And he won't fancy being away from Yuri, Vadik and Chereshko. But I think Dima can bully him, and Misha can guilt him. I don't think he could deny the three of us if we gang up on him. Plus, I reckon being under Polyjuice would help his injuries heal.”

“Both internal and external wounds would disappear completely,” Draco clarified in an almost lecturing tone. “You said he lost a kidney? Taking Polyjuice to walk around as you would give him two good kidneys. He'd be fine—better than fine. It's more than any Healer or MediWitch could do.”

“Why do you say he'd be me?” Harry mused, inching closer, until they were pressed flush together from noses to toes. Draco was warm from the fire, dressed in his heavier school cloak and a full-sleeved jumper. “I figured Nebojsa would make a good Hermione. He's... very mothering.”

“Parseltongue,” Draco spoke slowly, drawling, as though it should have been obvious. “If a situation arises where yer double would need ta speak it... well,” Draco gestured idly. “They'd be found out, wouldn't they?”

“Fair point,” Harry conceded. “So who should be Hermione, then?”

“Dmitry,” Draco said without pause. “Mikhail is a fifteen-year-old heterosexual male. Do we really want to give him access to every female-occupied dormitory in the castle?” And the blonde raised a pointed, delicate brow, delivering a swat to Harry's rump.

Harry laughed, recalling how sex-crazed Misha had been that drunken night at MSI's concert. Putting Misha in with half-dressed women was a very bad idea, indeed. Piss poor.

“Not so much, no,” he replied.

“So Dima should be in Granger's skin,” Draco decided. “A gay wizard is no threat to the girls dormitories, sparsely populated as they are. And Dmitry's intelligent enough to pass for Granger. Leave him in a room with her for a few hours an' he'll get a sense 'a how bossy an' unbearable she is.”

Slowly, Harry nodded. He hated to admit it but Hermione had become rather controlling over their summer holiday at Grimmauld Place. Only recently had she begun to act like herself again, devious and devilishly bright. He wished he could say the same of Ginny: he and his ex hadn't had words in months.

Harry shook the thought from his mind, replacing it with the far more pleasant image of Dima and Misha Polyjuiced as Hermione and Ron, running around Hogwarts holding hands and mooning at each other, pretending to be a happy couple. The cuddly brothers could pull it off with a wink and a smile. They'd probably think it was hilarious. The thought of Nebojsa-made-into-Harry-Potter making simpering eyes at Draco over the breakfast table was no less amusing. The image probably should have made Harry exceedingly jealous but, since it was Nebojsa—the man who loved Dmitry with every fiber of his mortal being—Harry couldn't bring himself to worry.

Under Polyjuice, Nebojsa would see Harry's todger, too. Long enough to have a decent wank or two. He wasn't sure what to make of that—so he binned the subject, unwilling to deal with it at present. He had bigger things on his plate than a sexually flexible Serb minding his prick for a few days.

Another thought occurred to him. A magical one.

“What about Ron's wand? I don't think Misha could use it,” He took a breath, realizing how deep the problem ran. “And I doubt Hermione would hand her wand over to Dmitry, either. I get the impression she doesn't like him. Then there's my wand: if Nebojsa catches wind of its brother, I doubt he would touch it. Voldemort killed his parents, same as me.”

Draco ran his nose through the hair at Harry's temple, inhaling him. “Think,” the pureblood murmured. “I'm sure it'll come to ya.”

It was only in the middle of the night that a solution hit him like a bolt of lightning. He shot up in bed as though a fire had been lit under the mattress, throwing Draco off him in his scramble to divest himself of sheets. The blonde grumbled, still half asleep and not happy about being jostled around at such an hour.

“Wot?” Draco mumbled irritably, rolling over onto his stomach and punching his pillow into a more comfortable state of squashiness. “Scar twinging, Scarhead?”

“No, that's not it,” Harry panted. “I've got it! The wands, I mean. An idea. And it just might work. I need to owl Yura.”

And he sprang from bed, lighting a candle with his wand and bringing it over to the coffee table where Draco kept his writing supplies.

“Ugh,” the blonde groaned. He flipped a hand over his eyes to block out the light.

Quill in hand, Harry peeked over the sofa at Draco lying sprawled in bed, the covers kicked away and his naked, coral-scared bum on display. He wanted to pen this note quickly so he could crawl back into bed with that gorgeous piece of arse.

“If Yuri made Ron's wand,” Harry explained in a rush, scribbling, “then he can probably make one that looks like it but will work okay for Misha. If there's enough time, I'll see if he can't make replicas of my wand and Hermione's, too. 'Cause, I mean, Dima's gonna have to do magic as Hermione. And Nebojsa would need something functional if he's gonna be living in the castle. Everyone knows what my wand looks like, so he can't be seen wandering around with his own. People will talk.”

Harry bent his head over the parchment, writing quite sloppily as he spoke. It only took a minute to finish the hasty letter. He hoped it made sense. Stomping starkers across the chamber, he woke Hedwig, fastening the parchment to her leg and tossing her out the window with an owl treat before she could nip at him any worse.

“Good thinkin', poilu,” Draco slurred. “Laisse-moi tranquille. Je dors.”

Draco practically pulled the pillow over his head in an effort to retreat into darkness. In the firelight, the black tattoo on his arm seemed to move of its own accord.

Harry knew it was an optical illusion, though. He'd observed Draco's nude form enough to know that when the muscles of his forearm flexed, it often made the serpent on his arm jump and squirm as though it were alive. For some reason, the Mark of his enemy made him smile.

~ * ~

Minerva stopped dead in her tracks, causing Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger to grind to a halt a meter behind. The three of them stood at the edge of the Hogwarts grounds, wards vibrating around them. The two teenagers bore a Portkey between them—one of Argus Filch's rustier old buckets commandeered for the occasion—that would take them to the front lines of battle. These children were leaving to fight the next chapter of a war thought over and done with back when they were in nappies. It twisted her stomach to send students into battle; yet she had little choice in the matter. Potter chose to fight and these two followed him with a blind faith both mystifying and vaguely inspiring.

Minerva shook her head morosely.

“Out with it, please, Miss Granger. The Portkey is timed.”

“What do you mean?” the girl asked, all innocence. Neither Minerva nor Mr. Weasley were much fooled.

“Oh, come on, Mione,” Weasley chided.

The girl heaved a mighty, put-upon sigh, adjusting her grip on the bucket. Flakes of rust drifted from her hand as she beat it nervously against her winter robe.

“Alright,” she admitted. “It's Malfoy. And Kieran Gweir. There's something... not right about their relationship. I mean, a twelve year old boy sleeping in Draco Malfoy's bed half the week and no one's saying it but—”

“Saying what, dear?” Minerva asked sweetly.

“Well,” and now the Head Girl looked duly nervous, as though she'd assessed the validity of her own fears and found them lacking in sound logos. “Malfoy's gay... or bisexual—I'm not entirely certain, there. But it's not right. I know that much. Someone would surely comment if first year boys slept in my rooms every night.”

“But it's Malfoy,” Mr. Weasley groaned, brown eyes searching the heavens. It was clear the couple had had this conversation before. Apparently it was Granger's duty to take up the torch, spinning fantastic tales of Malfoy's shame and guilt while Potter was away. Some things never really changed. “Pureblood Malfoy, exiled Prince of Slytherin. How do you even begin to say something to a ponce like that?”

“Am I correct in the assumption,” Minerva inquired evenly, “that you object to his mentoring the boy because Mr. Malfoy has had homosexual attractions in the past?”

“Ugh!” the girl threw her hands in the air, upending the bucket. Weasley scrambled to retrieve it, mindful of their imminent departure. He stuffed a rusty handle back into his girlfriend's grip. “It's not because he's a homosexual per-say, just... just,” and here she floundered, slipping to a practiced, school-girl tone as though she were reading from a stenotype rather than forging her own argument, “that I feel more attention ought to be paid in regards to the unusual nature of their relationship.”

Minerva cocked her head to the side. “Miss Granger, when exactly do you believe that Draco Malfoy, in the brief course of his lifetime, has experienced human contact that was not in some way strange or unusual?” Minerva pursed her lips, arranging her face into a pleasant mask of 'merely wondering aloud.' “I don't believe either he or young Gweir grasp the concept of a normal relationship, given the manner in which they were raised.”

She'd set Malfoy and Gweir together for just that reason—that they, of all people, might understand one another. She suspected Malfoy needed to grieve as much as the first year. Yes, Malfoy was an unorthodox choice to lend comfort to a motherless child; yet for Gweir, he was the perfect choice.

“She's got a point, Mione,” Mr. Weasley chimed in. He closed a large, freckled hand over Miss Granger's, dwarfing her fingers with the size and weight of his own.

“To each his or her own,” Minerva concluded. “Judge not lest ye be judged.”

Weasley snapped his fingers in recognition, nearly losing his grip on the Portkey in his bout of enthusiasm.

“Saint Matthew!” he identified the quotation with a pointed finger. Miss Granger let out a startled sound. Weasley shot her a wide grin. “See? I pay attention when you try to teach me things. And sometimes it even sinks in.”

~ * ~

Harry asked a thousand times over if she was sure, if she was really and truly comfortable with this. Hermione just bucked up her chin, tucked her frizzy hair behind her ear and muttered, “I have to be, Harry. Lives are at stake. You know that. It's the only reason you would ask me to do this.” And then she smiled weakly, returning to the mechanics of converting a muggle detonation cable for magical use.

Jedidiah had given them enough Ash4 to level Hogsmeade Village several times over. Hermione experimented for two days, assisted by Pavel Gregorovitch, his wife and occasionally Leon Harper—when the graying Irishman could tear himself away from the demands of Arty Lachlan and various contracts from the American Government. Everyone was worked up and worried after what had happened at Valaam. The magical community was hunkering down on a global level, preparing for the worst—an all-out war. Which meant Leon's time was in high demand; still, he helped Harry, Ron and Hermione run a few small-scale tests at his outdoor shooting range after-hours.

Things began to pick up after Fred and George arrived. Ron had called it sacrilege, blowing up a piece of Hogwarts history without the twins there. Harry agreed. He reasoned that—between the stunning fireworks display during his fifth year OWL's, the events at Ravenwood, and the rapidity with which Filch had to replace Hogwarts toilet seats—the twins knew a thing or two about explosives. They had a natural talent for blowing shit up. Detonating various bits and bobs of Hogwarts was a mere scratch on their very long and destructive resume. It was nothing short of nerve-wracking when Leon introduced the pair of them to muggle firearms one blustery and thoroughly unforgettable afternoon.

There were questions, of course. What was it which the Golden Trio planned to blow up? Why exactly did it need destroying? Couldn't everyone just see it first, to know what they were dealing with? Days passed, the trio tight-lipped and Harry always shaking his head, ever silent, before the subject was dropped.

With Fred and George's help, it didn't take long to cobble together a rig for Slytherin's locket. While they couldn't be certain, Harry had a good feeling this would work.

Ron volunteered to spend a few days with Leon's team and the twins—eager to catch Harry up where fighting techniques were concerned. So Harry and Hermione took the destruction of the Horcrux locket upon themselves while Ron was away, being chased by mutated, gargantuan mosquitoes in the Everglades... a job which Harry was happy to say no to when he saw the quantity of magically-engineered bug repellant involved. Hermione felt similarly, and had no calling to handle muggle weapons. Apparently wands, Horcruxes and Ash4 were more than enough to satisfy her newly rekindled thirst for danger.

The pair of them packed up Leon's ratty blue truck and drove the three hours to a police academy bomb range in Madison Township, Jed and Rikka meeting up with them there after a gig in nearby Dayton. Hermione jumped down from the pick up's runners wearing a bulky SWAT vest over Ron's Chudley Cannons sweatshirt, sunglasses on, all business, her hair in a high ponytail cascading past her shoulders. The bushy brown fall of it swayed in the sun as she maneuvered around the truck bed, searching for something jumbled during the drive. Harry flashed his credentials around. A couple of academy trainees helped unload the crates, calling Harry “sir” with every sentence. Hermione was “ma'am” and received a stiff salute in parting.

The pair from Leon's team hung back in the observation booth, Rikka on her cell phone and Jedidiah presumably with his fingers in his ears. Harry made a joke about Seamus' bad luck in causing explosions, that it was probably a good thing their Seamus and the American potioneer would never cross paths. He and Hermione crouched behind a partition made of stacked sandbags. Chuckling, their eyes met over the detonator's looming black handle.

Hermione chewed her cheek, her eyes obscured by the fashion sunglasses she wore. Harry's own glasses were tinted against the glare. There was just a dusting of snow on the ground and the sun glinted off it something fierce, making the day painfully bright. Harry wiggled his frozen toes in his trainers.

“Ready?”

“As I'll ever be,” Hermione shrugged. Together, they pressed the lever.

The sheer size of the explosion was frightening. It boomed, rattling buildings, making the ground shiver, clumps of dirt dancing as the reverberations and then the wind caught them up. The blast took him clear off his feet even as he ran at a full sprint. He felt his left trainer, ill-tied, slip from his foot as he fell—as he flew through the air, really, the way the hard-packed ground came up to meet his flailing form. A strong winter wind carried his sneaker off into the scraggly bushes a few meters away. He hit the dirt with a thump, driving the air from his lungs. He wheezed, listening to his own sickening breath in his ears and the last of the explosion's deafening thrum as it echoed off rocky hills in the distance.

Hermione lay sprawled a little ways back, not being as quick on her feet as Harry. Supposedly their post was sufficient distance away from the locket when it went. That was the last time he let Ron do his calculations—Maths had never been his strong point.

“Harry!” Hermione shouted, a hand shielding her eyes. She was laid-out on her stomach, a fine, snow-and-dust mist still raining down around her, tinkling against the dense polyethylene plates inside her flak vest. Breathing a lungful of dust, she coughed. “Are you alright?!”

“I think so,” he called out, voice shaky, attempting to sit up and have a look at himself. A sharp pain in his diaphragm told him he needed to lie in the dirt and catch his breath. He rolled onto his side, curling into a shameless little ball.

Hermione was looking at him, sunglasses knocked off to reveal her very wide, panic-filled eyes. Harry spotted the remnants of her glasses—a few pieces of mangled black plastic scattered around her feet. She squinted in the brightness, one hand over her eyes and the other fisted in dry dirt. Her gaze raked over his body, taking him in and assessing damages: two arms, two legs, one head, ten fingers and presumably ten toes.

She laughed quietly, brushing dirt and snowflakes from her hair. “Where are your socks?”

Harry stretched his leg gingerly, peering down at his left foot. After his ripped-up old trainer flew off, the familiar, exposed foot was sockless. He wiggled his other foot inside his trainer, confirming—yup, no sock there, either.

“Draco's got most of 'em,” he said once he could breathe properly. “Suppose I ran out.”

“Doesn't he have his own socks?” Hermione snorted, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Like him, she wasn't ready to get up and dust herself off quite yet. She didn't have the energy to be peeved by the mention of Draco. Neither of them were ready to stand and so they carried on with meaningless banter to distract themselves until the jitters of fright had passed. He could hear doors opening back at the base, muggles on walkie-talkies discussing the commotion. Rikka or Jed would show up eventually; more than likely Rikka, waving her willowy arms and shouting at them for frightening the muggles.

“Sure he has socks,” Harry sighed. “It's just... that's his way of missing me, you know?”

“He hordes your socks?”

“My clothes in general,” Harry swiped his hair out of his eyes. “Why do you think I'm wearing these rubbish old trainers? They're Dudley's, for fuck's sake!” Hermione flinched when he swore. He gave a hollow laugh. “Draco has my good ones.”

Wiped out and not getting it, Hermione dropped herself down to her side, resting her head on her arm. She regarded him across the snowy earth with tired eyes. “Couldn't he just tell you he misses you and leave your things be?”

“Hermione,” Harry replied, equally exasperated. “It's Draco. And me. We don't talk about stuff like that.”

“You don't communicate?”

“Er....” Harry watched the clearing smoke swirl overhead. It was white and fluffy, like clouds, drifting away. “We don't talk about my... being away. It's still upsetting for him. I'm sure he's angry because, somewhere, he feels like I'm abandoning him,” Harry gulped. “But at the same time, he respects my reasons for doing what I have to. He knows I'm doing this to protect him. So he nicks my stuff to feel closer to me. Small price to pay to keep him comforted.”

Hermione sighed knowingly. “So you do talk.”

“'Course. About other stuff.” Harry cleared his throat. “I'll just buy more underthings.”

“Malfoy borrows your knickers, too?” she teased, incredulous.

Harry smiled to himself, still watching the sky a tad dreamily. The light was beautiful this time of day, all pale blue sky and scuttling white clouds. “Those are his favorite. Apparently, they keep my scent longer than anything else.”

“And he gets off to that, does he?” Hermione's tone went slightly bitter. Though he couldn't hear the motion, he knew when she was shaking her head.

“Hermione,” Harry sighed deeply, Summoning his missing trainer from the nearby underbrush. “He's my boyfriend. I love him and he loves me. Plus,” and he lifted his shirt to show the waistband of his pants, “I'm wearing his.” He snapped the Armani-emblazoned elastic. Little plumes of dust wafted off his clothes—they'd both need a shower.

Hermione had no choice but to roll her eyes and accept—Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were quite attached. The ramifications would have to wait.

“Let's go have a look,” Harry pushed himself up. “I think we got it.”

~ * ~

There was a rocky hill overlooking Malfoy Manor, great boulders protruding out of the earth at the crest of it, separating the manicured lawns from the wild tangle of forest beyond. Harry had seen the place in Draco's head, heard about it when the blonde recounted dreams of flying over the Manor before his Nimbus turned to dust and he plummeted down and down and down, waking in a cold sweat, grappling with heavy blankets and reaching out across the bed. Draco had described the place, how he'd been warned as a child not to fly over that section of the grounds lest he fall and crack his head open on the rocks. Having been ordered not to, Draco always flew low over that hill, skimming the tree-tops with his fingers as he rocketed past, just to spite his overbearing parents.

The place looked just as it had in Draco's memories, if perhaps a bit overgrown. The lawn was long and wild all down the hillside, as though the house elves had better things to do than maintain the grass on their hands and knees with scissors. Harry pictured Lucius Malfoy as the sort to enforce such a cruel edict as daily routine.

Now Harry wondered what grisly labor the Death Eaters encamped at the manor had the poor house elves slaving over. Whatever gruesome task it was, the elves would surely prefer trimming the lawn one blade at a time with dulled fingernail clippers. He knew what went on in the catacombs, what terrible acts were planned around the elegant Malfoy dining table. And while there wasn't anything he could do to stop it, to stop the war, he wouldn't stand idly by.

So he and Ron made their little post up on the hill, crouched behind a rock of generous girth, sucking on dry biscuits and scanning the countryside... watching, waiting for something—anything which might give them a clue what the Death Eaters were up to.

Thus far they had ascertained two irrefutable points: that the Death Eaters stayed up rather late, holed up in their bedrooms on the second floor, judging by the wavering yellow lights in the distance, and that winters in Wiltshire were fiendishly cold. Ron ducked back to the cover of the woods to cast a Warming Charm under his jumper. He wasn't back five minutes before getting up again.

“It's not that cold,” Harry joked, rolling his eyes. “You get used to it.”

Ron shook his head. He was barely visible in the darkness, the moon hiding behind dense clouds which threatened to dump icy cold snow on them at any moment.

“It's not that.” Ron waggled his eyebrows. “Nature calls.”

Harry nodded glumly. “Alright. I'll try not to get ambushed while you're off taking a slash.”

Ron paled, freckles standing out against his white skin. “Um....”

“Great,” Harry grunted. “How long are you gonna be? We really shouldn't separate for too long. Solo makes us easier targets.”

Ron chewed his lip, eyes evasive and awkward, muttering a quiet but no less tart, “Merlin's balls, Harry.”

“Sorry.” He allowed the word to fall from his lips like always, though he didn't mean it. “If we're discovered, I need you ready, wand in hand, not wiping your arse.”

Ron's chin jutted forward, jaw tight as he shot back, “You saying I can't take a shit?”

Harry met his mate's glare head on. “Yeah, that's about right.”

Before Ron could protest, Harry raised his wand and flipped it at him, practically hitting him on his freckled nose, they were huddled so close. A strange expression graced Ron's features, brows drawing together and his eyes vaguely crossed as a sensation like Mrs. Scower's Endlessly Foaming Blend traversed his intestines.

“I...” Ron protested feebly, his mind working at what the sensations in his body—specifically his bum—could possibly mean. “I have to go to the loo.”

Harry tried not to smile, not to sound cheeky when he said, “Now you don't.”

Ron's mouth opened and closed several times before he arrived at an emotion—anger. “Did you just use the Dark Arts on me?” he hissed, drawing his own wand.

“Worse,” Harry clapped him once on the shoulder before dropping back on his heels. “Sex Magic.”

It wasn't surprising when Ron's gob fell open like a gravity-assisted trap door, gloved fingers going limp around his very dangerous wand. “Bugger,” he whispered, the irony of the statement lost on him.

“Pretty much,” Harry shrugged.

Shoulder slumping against their boulder, Ron regarded him with mixed confusion and disgust. “Gross,” he said simply.

That syllable hung in the air like a crow's call, haunting Harry, echoing around his subconscious the same as the wind groaning through the trees at their backs.

“Gross,” Ron repeated beneath his breath, shivering.

“It's not,” Harry insisted, soft but fierce.

“Yeah, whatever,” Ron folded lanky arms over his chest, wand still held loosely in his fist.

“Honestly,” Harry went on. “It's not much different than with a girl. I mean, the angle's a bit lower but other than that—”

Ron cut him off loudly, slapping a hand against the stone. “It's Malfoy, damn it!” He bared his teeth. They glowed white in the moonlight.

“People change,” Harry countered. “If you give them a chance.”

“That implies Malfoy's human.”

Harry gaped. “What else would he be? A Jarvey? Snidget, maybe?”

Some of the wind went out of Ron's sails when he realized how ridiculous he was being. Still, he stuck to his guns, muttering, “Malfoy's probably a Veela—makes sense, with the hair. Or a Succubus.”

“Succubi are women,” Harry amended, rubbing his glove-encased hands together and then stuffing them in his armpits disagreeably. He'd found the succubus section of Fantastic Beasts And Where to Find Them to be a particularly interesting read at thirteen. Anything involving women was fascinating at thirteen. He peeked over their rock, scanning the empty grounds, scowling. “So Draco would be an Incubus.”

“Still,” Ron muttered, adopting the same pose. “Malfoy's a git.”

“I think he's making an effort at Hogwarts,” Harry shrugged. “ He's really taken to Gryffindor. The younger years seem to like him, and he's a better Quidditch Captain than I ever was. Can't you see that?”

“Sure, he's fitting in alright,” Ron begrudged him. The man's voice was a nasal whine, wheezing through nose and teeth as he spoke. “But he's such an asshole about it!”

“What the fuck, Ron?” Harry hissed through his teeth, trying with all his might to keep the volume of their conversation at a minimum without losing his vehemence. “He's always been a prick. You know that. It's a relationship, not a lobotomy!”

Ron spluttered, his cheeks going red, the color visible in the darkness. “And he's turning you into an asshole, too!”

“Fuck, keep your voice down,” Harry reminded him. His best mate ignored him in favor of whinging.

“You never used to curse like you do now—and you call him 'sweetheart' and 'baby' and stuff! And kissing him in front of the whole house?” Ron puled a childish face. “It's gross. You need to stop it, Harry.”

“I don't call him 'baby,'” Harry corrected evenly. It wouldn't do any good to yell, no matter how much of a prat Ron was being—and he deserved a solid punch in the face. Instead, Harry tried to reason with him. “Do I tell you when to kiss Hermione?”

“Well, no.”

“Do I complain when you do?”

“No.”

“That's right, Ron,” Harry spoke slowly and with absolute calm. This had to sink in, had to get through eventually. “When you snog 'Mione, I'm happy for you. Because you're my best mate and that's what best mates do. Draco is happy for you and Hermione—he even helped get you two together, though I doubt he'd admit to it under pain of death,” Harry shrugged, Ron looking mortified. “I'm just asking you to give Draco a chance. That's all. He's making an effort.”

Ron chewed his cheek a moment, mulling it over. “I'll think about it.”

A few minutes went by in silence, just the chirping of nocturnal animals and the rustling of leaves in the woods behind them. The moon emerged from behind cloud cover, casting an eerie blue light across the grounds of Malfoy Manor. There were only a few lights on in the great house itself, only the faint orange flickering of a few candles left burning through the night.

Harry moved his wand against his palm, digging his trainers into the thin film of snow beneath their feet. He raised his wand up near his face in order to blow on his gloved fingers.

Suddenly, Ron whispered quite loudly. “Look! Harry, I think I've got something!”

He pointed out into the distance, fist shaking with adrenaline.

That something quickly pinpointed their location by the echo of Ron's voice. And attacked.

For The Curious: Translation of Draco's French

Laisse-moi tranquille. Je dors. - Leave me alone. I'm sleeping.
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Conscience