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
- 4
- 5
- 6
SUMMARY: Harry finally learns what happened to Malfoy and why he wound up at Grimmauld Place. Fairly graphic descriptions of how Malfoy was tortured. Chapter lengths are growing at an alarming rate.

WARNINGS: recollection of rather graphic torture, a good punching, mischief

CONSCIENCE:

DARK HOUSE

Harry waited at the top of the stairs overlooking the main hallway, drumming his fingers absentmindedly against the banister. He would admit to no one that he was excited. He was just eager to get some definitive answers... and hopefully get sodding Malfoy out of his house.

The members of the Order of the Pheonix began arriving some twenty minutes ago. They all came through the front door or in via the floo. Either way, every last one of them would pass by Harry's vantage point on the landing.. He was watching for Mad Eye Moody. If Moody was absent tonight, Harry might be able to sneak in with the aid of his Invisibility Cloak. He watched a few stragglers make their way to the parlor as a clock in the upstairs hallway struck the hour.

Minerva McGonagall left the parlor on her way to the kitchen to retrieve Malfoy. Harry put on the cloak and crept down the stairs, meeting up with McGonagall and Malfoy just outside the parlor door. She entered before Malfoy, leaving the door open for him—and Harry—to follow. He crept in as close to Malfoy as he could without stepping on the git's feet or bumping into him. He tried not to breathe. He couldn't afford to be detected. If the Order was going to hold clandestine meetings in his parlor, he sure as hell was going to listen in.

Malfoy took the only remaining seat: one of the high-backed chairs McGonagall always conjured. Malfoy sat uneasily, his gaze darting around to note all the stony faces. Harry stood behind Malfoy and watched him wring his thin, pale fingers in his lap. Most of those fingers bent to strange angles and Harry realized with a jolt that Malfoy had had his hands broken. Probably so he couldn't use his wand to fight back. Harry shivered.

“Thank you all for coming,” McGonagall began in a formal tone. “I would like to make a brief statement before we begin. For those who do not know, this young man is Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. He is a Death Eater,” there were a few muffled gasps, “and he has come to us of his own free will. He will renounce He Who Must Not Be Named and provide us with any and all information he possesses in exchange for our protection. He is an underage wizard and therefore does not meet the Ministry's qualifications for asylum. Is all of this true, Mr. Malfoy?”

Malfoy nodded to the carpet, incapable of speech. His eyes were distant and unseeing.

“Then we are to take a vote,” McGonagall continued.

“Before we've heard his information?” Tonks spoke up from her seat beside Lupin in the corner of the mulish parlor. No matter how much it was dusted and cleaned, the atmosphere remained dark and dreary.

“He may not have anything valuable. It might be information we already have! Why should we take the risk?” asked Hestia Jones.

“Because he is just a boy,” McGonagall replied slowly, “and he has no where else to go. We will vote, then. Those in favor of offering assylum until the boy is of age and can apply to the Office of Magical Law?” Almost all of the hands in the room went up, including Tonks, Lupin and Hestia Jones. “Those against?” Perhaps three hands went up. It seemed to Harry as though those who raised their hands were judging Malfoy based on a hatred for his father. Malfoy would never be Harry's favorite person, but when it came down to it Malfoy wasn't going to kill Dumbledore and many of the despicable things he'd done had been under durress—Voldemort's threat to kill Malfoy and his family if he didn't do as he was told. It wasn't a great defense, but it was still better than nothing. Malfoy was a coward with a strong sense of self-preservation. It had helped him stay alive so far.

“Mr. Malfoy, on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix, I extend to you our protection and assistance. We are pleased that you would turn from He Who Must Not Be Named and hope you will someday join us in the fight against him. But for now, we must ask some very difficult questions to determine our own course of action. May I begin?”

Malfoy's silent blonde head nodded. Harry had never seen his enemy so somber, so frightened. He really did seem, like the Professor said, just a boy.

“Mr. Malfoy, what happened the night Hogwarts was attacked? The night Albus Dumbledore was killed?”

Harry wished Malfoy would stop wringing his fingers. It was pitiful and a little gross, the way his fingers bent and warped in a way fingers simply shouldn't. He was white as a sheet.

“I—I was supposed to kill him. The Dark Lord said he would kill me and my parents if I didn't. And you don't want to know what Death Eaters do to you before they kill you. I tried to poison Dumbledore and curse him but... it didn't work. So I fixed the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement to get the other Death Eaters into the castle. I let them in and found Dumbledore but... I still couldn't do it. He told me I wouldn't be able to. He said I could go with him and be safe—I guess he meant you people,” he sighed, the first Malfoy-like thing he'd done since entering the room. “Then Professor Snape came. My bloody mother went behind my back and somehow convinced him to make The Unbreakable Vow that he would carry out my mission if I couldn't. He saw I was about to lower my wand and he... he did it.”

“And what happened after that?” Professor McGonagall asked quietly, looking at Malfoy as if he were a frightened first year she wanted to console. He sure looked like one.

“We fought our way out of the castle. Potter attacked Professor Snape and he told me to keep running, but I didn't. I made it to the Forbidden Forest and watched them duel. Then Professor Snape came and found me. We were supposed to meet the others at the portkey, but Professor Snape said we should fall behind, so I agreed. He was... angry with Dumbledore. He said Dumbledore was beyond reason and he'd backed Snape into a corner. That's when I guessed he was a spy—there was a rumor the Dark Lord suspected a spy among the ranks, but I don't think Professor Snape was ever suspect. He was always so loyal, always at His right hand....” Malfoy trailed off into silence.

“What else did Severus say to you?”

“He said he was going to take me away because the Dark Lord would have me tortured within an inch of my life for my failure. The mission was a success, but I would still get it. H-he knew, um...” Malfoy wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “I was bullied when I was young. I don't respond well to it. I think Professor Snape was trying to protect me. I think he was going to bring me to you, to the Order.” Malfoy stopped cold, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

“Why didn't he?”

“The Dark Lord found us first,” Malfoy whispered.

“You were escorted back?”

Malfoy nodded, unable to speak past the ball of rage in his throat.

“To He Who Must Not Be Named?”

“No. They took me home, to Malfoy Manor. Professor Snape said I was dawdling and they let him go to the Dark Lord to report our success. I was brought back to the Manor. It was six days before He came.”

“What did you do before He Who Must Not Be Named came?”

“What did I do?” Malfoy gave a tiny snort. “I broke into my father's liquor cabinet and drowned myself, that's what I did. I knew they would at least torture if not kill me, so I figured: might as well be foxed for it. That almost worked. He came right after I woke up, so I was hungover. I think it's worse when you're hungover. The screaming hurts more.”

“What did He Who Must Not Be Named say to you?”

“Him? Nothing. He just sat there. It was Professor Snape. He said that failure would not be tolerated and that I needed to be taught a lesson and should receive it obediently. I was sent to the cellar—they'd been torturing people down there since I'd gotten back. That was the other reason to get tanked—that and the Dementors breeding in mother's rosebushes.”

Professor McGonagall conjured a chair and signaled to Kingsley Shacklebolt that he should continue questioning Malfoy. Her hands shook as she folded them in her lap. Shackelbolt came forward from leaning against the wall and simply asked, “Who tortured you?”

“Mulciber,” Malfoy whispered.

“Did you fight back?”

Malfoy's watery grey eyes snapped up to look at Shackelbolt, his pale brows knitting together. His mouth worked soundlessly.

“How did they get you to the cellar, if you knew you were going to be tortured there?”

“They tricked me. Snape said I would be apprenticing Mulciber, watching his torture sessions. They brought me down there and he was working on a muggle woman. He'd already done most of the usual.” Malfoy waved offhandedly. These small mannerisms were poking through but it was as though Malfoy was a different person just pretending to be the Malfoy, remembering to throw in a little gesture or sneer now and then but getting everything else wrong. It was an eerie and disturbing sight: that such a strong personality could be broken down to this....

“What does 'the usual' entail?” Shackelbolt asked.

“Well, the basis is always the Imperius Curse—takes most of the work out of it. From there you can give them a knife and make them stab themselves. The trick is not to let them go too deep or anywhere in the chest cavity so it doesn't end prematurely. Mulciber used a dull knife, so that took a lot of the fight out of her. Some Death Eaters will just give them orders to stand and then leave them there for a day or two. They'll send in animals: rats, dogs, the weres. And there's always sex.”

Shackelbolt cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you might rape them, stab them while you're raping them, make them stab themselves while you're raping them. Mulciber is a fan of all of the above. By the time I got there, the woman was already missing her breasts.”

Harry had to sit down on the floor before he fainted. It was one thing to face Volvemort, to know evil. It was another thing to hear in intimate detail the things he ordered done to people. Harry thought he might be sick.

“I see. Did she die?”

“Of course,” Malfoy replied. “She lasted about an hour after I got there. He told me to execute her with magic and I tried. I... it didn't work. I've never been able to. Not even the rats in the cellar. I'm a bit of a failure as a Malfoy, really,” he almost laughed. It was a strained, wheezing, sad little sound.

“Then Mulciber killed her?”

“Yes. And started on me.”

Harry was seriously regretting his decision to sit in on Malfoy's testimony. He thought it would be ammo for Malfoy-bashing with Ron. It was turning out to be nothing less than stomach-turning.

Shackelbolt managed to keep his face passive but Harry could read the outrage in his eyes. “Were you... sexually abused?”

“Not much. Mother came and put a stop to it.”

Harry shuddered to think what “not much” could entail. Shackelbolt didn't inquire any further and the bangers, mash and apple crisp in Harry's stomach were all very grateful.

“Were you put under the Imperius Curse?”

“Not at first,” Malfoy said with a hint of a smile. “I can throw Imperius like you wouldn't believe—you learn, with Aunt Bellatrix in the house. But after a few hours of Cruciatus and cigarette butts and fists, it gets harder to keep your defenses up. He got me eventually. Then it was the usual.” Harry shuddered at the thought of Malfoy screaming, burned and beaten bloody, being forced to stab himself over and over again. It was horrible beyond words and only made him hate Voldemort more. And he felt bad for Malfoy—a combination of emotion and direction he never thought he'd feel.

“How long did it last?”

“Two days, I think. Maybe three.” Malfoy twisted his fingers again. “I had to shave when I woke up, so at least two days.”

“Do you know why they stopped?”

“Mulciber is very, er, talented. He had to use magic to keep me alive a couple... dozen times. The Carrows came in and said he had to stop before I was beyond saving. The Dark Lord wanted me tortured at least a week for my failure. Someone brought me back to my room because that's where I woke up. After that, I owled Professor McGonagall and you all know the rest.”

“Do you know where You-Know-Who is now?”

“No idea. He moves around to different strongholds.”

“Do you know where any of these strongholds are?”

“Um, there's a house somewhere in the north, and I heard something about a group in Scotland. And there were these three Death Eaters who spoke Russian, and they stayed for days until a fourth showed up, so I guess there's a house or something out there. I was never given much information. I'm sorry.” Malfoy shrugged in a hopeless way. It sounded like he was just a punching bag to the Death Eaters. Harry knew what that was like growing up with Dudley and his gang.

“About how many Death Eaters were at Malfoy Manner?”

“Ten, maybe twelve?” Malfoy swallowed. Harry watched his pale Adam's apple bob. There was a little scar on Malfoy's pale neck that was mostly healed. “They all came and went. It's hard to say.”

“Do you think there are larger strongholds?”

“Yes. I got the impression we were a smaller, less important group. There were owls going in and out of the house. I'd guess there were at least eight other locations. There could be a lot more. No one told me anything. This is all guess work. And I was out of my mind most of the time, one way or another.” Malfoy tried to laugh, swallowed again and cleared his throat. Harry wished someone would get him a glass of water. Or something stronger.

“Mr. Malfoy, I understand you've refused potions that would prevent scaring. Is that true?”

Malfoy nodded. A muscle at his temple twitched.

“Why is that?”

Malfoy turned his face to look at Shackelbolt, giving Harry a full view of his expression. Harry had only had a profile view before. Malfoy's jaw was set and he was clenching his teeth. His eyes were huge in the poor light, cast in an eerie greenish blue shade, like the water in the Merpeople's village at the bottom of Hogwarts' great lake. Harry had always hated Malfoy too much to look at him as a person. He was slight and graceful and had very expressive eyes. He showed his emotions with his whole body. He looked about to rocket off his chair. Harry thought Malfoy was about to scream in fury, but instead he whispered tightly. “I need the scars. I need to see them. I can't ever forget.”

- - -

Harry came down to breakfast the next morning and was not surprised to find his kitchen sans Draco Malfoy; instead, Hermione, Ron and Ginny were sitting at the table with plates of toast, bacon and eggs. Mrs. Weasley was preparing a cup of coffee.

“Oh, good morning, Harry!” she called when she saw him. “I just need to bring this plate upstairs and then it's off to the market.” She had a tray laden with food and a large cup of steaming coffee, which Malfoy seemed to inhale at other meals. Mrs. Weasley had loaded his cup with sugar and cream. Harry suspected she felt as bad for Malfoy as he did and was trying to comfort him in the only way he might let her. Harry sat and helped himself to toast and eggs, waiting for Mrs. Weasley to leave the room. As soon as she was out of ear shot, Ron rounded on him.

“So, what'd the greasy git have to say for himself?” he asked, practically rubbing his hands together at the thought of all the Malfoy-bashing to come. Harry finished chewing his toast and took a deep breath before responding.

“Ron, what I heard last night would turn your stomach. Malfoy may be a ponce and a bit of a coward, but he was tortured within an inch of his life. I can't repeat some of the stuff they did to him. Really, Ron, I won't.” Ron's protests fell silent at Harry's serious expression. “He's a real tosser, but no one deserves to have those kinds of things done to them. Not even Malfoy. I feel sorry for him.”

“Wow,” Ron breathed. “It was that bad, huh?”

Harry just nodded and took another bite of toast.

“I noticed there's a new painting running around now,” Ginny deftly changed the subject. “Where'd she come from?”

“The attic,” Harry replied. “Someone burned her face and she was embarrassed about it. A little cleaning solution and now she's good as new. The other paintings like having her around, so whatever keeps them quiet and happy is fine by me.”

Everyone ate in silence awaiting the morning owls. Mrs. Weasley returned with the breakfast tray untouched. Even the coffee. “The poor dear won't eat,” she sighed. Ron and Ginny raised their eyebrows at Malfoy being described as a “poor dear,” but kept their thoughts to themselves. Hermione—who had always had a large bone to pick with Malfoy—remained silent as well. The expression on her face now was sympathetic.

“Maybe he just needs something to channel his attention into,” she suggested. “A project. Or maybe just a good book.”

“Hermione, I think you're right. A little normalcy would do him good. It's unusual for a young man to stay locked in his room for hours on end.” Mrs. Weasley set to magically reorganizing the silverware drawers.

“Anyone know what Malfoy reads?” Ginny asked.

Any answer to her question was drowned out by Hermione at the arrival of a very large box carried by three big owls. She leaped upon the box and started ripping at the wrappings.

“Must be books,” Ron murmured to Harry.

“My books are here!” Hermione shouted a moment later, confirming his suspicions.

“But then where are our textbooks?” Harry asked. “If you ask me, it's way too early for our school lists to be out. Professor McGonagall is trying to kill us.”

“No, silly, not my Hogwarts books. My Muggle Relations books!” Hermione chortled, packaging string in both hands as she wrestled with the large box that undoubtedly weighed as much as a first year. “I've decided on Muggle Relations as a career and these are all the muggle books the Ministry recommends as background reading.” Only Hermione would make homework for herself in the absence of Professors. Harry, Ron and Ginny exchanged exasperated looks.

“Ooh! Oh!” Hermione cried once she got to the books and began pouring over them, lifting each one out like a newborn babe and gushing something about it. “Oh my God, I've heard about this one. It's supposed to be excellent. Maybe Malfoy would like to borrow it?”

“Sure,” Harry sighed. Between Hermione's fervor and Malfoy's sulking, it was going to be a long summer at Grimmauld Place.

~ * ~

Harry slammed the door to his room with a growl. Enough was enough. Today, he and Malfoy had arrived for lunch in identical plaid shirts and jeans. This was the end of the line.

“Something wrong, dear?” asked a concerned female voice from the other side of the room. Phineas' mistress, Sylvestra, hovered on a broomstick over the Quidditch landscape that hung above his bed. The remnants of the scorch mark on her forehead weren't even visible from a distance. She was smoking a cigarette while riding a broomstick in lilac dress robes. Harry wished he could slam his bedroom door again, slam it so hard that the picture frames nailed to the wall would shake, just to vent his frustration. Before he knew what he was doing, the door knob was in his hand again. With marked restraint, he let go.

“You don't want to know,” Harry said firmly as he flopped down onto his large, fluffy bed. He imagined his stress evaporating as the light comforter molded itself to his body. It didn't work, though—a strong muscle twitched in his chest. “Arrgh!” He sat up violently and threw off his shirt. Malfoy could have it!

“You can talk to me, dollface,” Sylvestra cooed from her broom, eying him from her vantage point directly above. “It's the blonde boy, isn't it?”

“He's driving me nuts,” Harry confided, rolling over to bury his face in the blankets. His voice was muffled by the eiderdown but his agitation carried. “He comes downstairs some mornings to mope. Every afternoon he sits in the parlor and looks out the window. And in the evening we're subjected to his ridiculous opinions on everything from kneazles to Quidditch!” Harry finished in a huff.

Sylvestra made no attempt to listen, being lost in the following rapture: could Harry Potter's butt be as perfectly formed as his immaculately sculpted arms? And what did that say for the other appendages? Too many uncertainties. She'd have to call for backup. Lysandra might have an opinion. And certainly Constance would enjoy the view. Yes, she'd call for backup.

“He can't go on wearing my clothes,” Harry grumbled, rolling over once more to stare at the ceiling as his stomach grumbled loudly. “I need my clothes back. I need my house back. I need my life back,” he said firmly. “This has got to stop. I'm putting my foot down.” His stomach growled again and he winced.

Until his foot came down, he would have to start borrowing jumpers from Ron.

- - -

It got worse that evening.

Young Mr. Malfoy stood before the window furthest from his host and the other guests, hands clasped behind his back and a surly expression darkening his features. He backed away from a standing lamp. He backed away from the house elf serving drinks. He backed away from the mudblood's inquisitive looks. He certainly backed away from the red-headed traitorous horde that stampeded through Potter's house, rousing portraits and breaking dishes like the impoverished barbarian clan they inevitably were. He shuddered. What would his ancestor's think if they could see him now?

Ah, yes. They could see him; portraits of his dead relatives were all over the place. And if the occupants of said portraits were still alive or cognizant, they'd kill him for dishonoring the family and besmirching the name of Malfoy. Damn. Young Mr. Malfoy took to pacing the length of the darkest wall in the room. However, he was soon disturbed by one of those ghastly barbarians invading the house. He rolled his eyes in a utterly non-dramatic fashion that did not go unnoticed and fixed a bored expression onto his handsome face.

“Yes?” he drawled comfortably, having not spoken for several hours. “May I help you, Weasley?” He drawled loudly and slowly, that the barbarian pig might comprehend and not be reduced to the the age-old standard of raping and pillaging. Young Mr. Malfoy could do without that for the night. He was not desperate.

“Chess, Malfoy,” Weasley said forcefully. Seeing as only a small amount of spittle escaped the man's lips with the statement, Young Mr. Malfoy chose to acquiesce. After all, Young Mr. Malfoy was a social creature, not a monster.

“Check, Weasley,” Malfoy drawled. Ron turned a darker shade of chartreuse and might have snarled at Malfoy had it not been for Hermione's warning glare. Harry could have laughed. This game of wizard's chess had surely been Hermione's idea. A good game of chess might help the two of you work off some of your past hostility, Hermione must have said to Ron. Harry knew it would all turn out to be bollocks and Ron and Malfoy would be holding wands to each others' throats in a few minutes; at least it would be interesting. Besides, Malfoy didn't have a wand. Harry might have actually snickered.

“Where?” Ron demanded, glaring first at Ginny for not pointing it out to him, then at Hermione for suggesting the whole thing to begin with. Malfoy pointed at his pawn threatening Ron's nervous-looking king. Harry smiled some more—he loved being right once in a while. Ginny was smiling, too. She merely shrugged at her brother. “Is everyone against me tonight?” Ron bellowed.

“Of course not, Ron,” Hermione cooed from the sofa, a textbook in her lap. “Don't be silly. It's just a game of wizard's chess.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy imitated Hermione's motherly tone as his bishop took out Ron's last knight. Malfoy then sneered at Ron, folded his arms and leaned back in his armchair, lounging with the grace of a mountain lion about to pounce. Harry felt bad for Ron: the guy was doing all of this for Hermione.

“Ha!” Ron shouted as he made his next move. Ginny cleared her throat. “What?”

“You just moved yourself into check, Ron,” Ginny kept a straight face, God bless her. “You can't do that. Malfoy only left you one move. You have to go left.”

Ron looked down and flushed at his mistake. Malfoy calmly examined his fingernails, digging out invisible flecks of dirt as he waited. “Smug” might have described the shape his lips had taken on. He licked them slowly, gazing steadily across the board at Ron.

“Go on, Weasley,” he intoned.

Ron moved his king to the left with barely contained fury. On his next turn, he moved his king further to the left to escape Malfoy's advance.

Malfoy's queen swept in from the opposite side of the board.

“Check mate.”

Malfoy smiled as his queen bludgeoned Ron's king until the poor piece's head tumbled off. Malfoy's queen then shouldered the king's corpse off the board and stood pompously in the king's place. She did a little victory dance. Malfoy continued to smile triumphantly at Ron, his eyes bright for the first time in two days.

Hermione sighed. Perhaps now those two could start thinking of each other as equals. This was a building block in a much greater scheme. Hermione almost had a chance to congratulate herself. Almost.

It was all very quick. Ginny turned her back to the chess board to start a conversation with Hermione, momentarily blocking Harry's view. The next thing he knew, Ron and Malfoy were on their feet, Ron's big Keeper fist sailing straight for Malfoy's toothy grin. There was a great impact, the sound of bone breaking, and a lumpy string of blood flew through the air. A large amount of dark blood splattered the queen mid victory dance. Then Hermione screamed.

“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione was on her feet and had Ron by the ear, dragging him out of the room.

Harry moved toward Malfoy. Blood threatened to gush out of his mouth even as he clamped both pale hands over the lower half of his face. Four little flecks of blood made a pattern on his forehead. Malfoy sat back down in his chair, as calm and arrogant as if it were Slytherin's throne. Harry took a few more steps before Ginny's arm made contact with his chest.

“Careful,” she smirked. “There's blood on the carpet. It'll stain if you walk on it.”

“Oh,” he had no idea what to do. “Right.” Harry glanced back at Malfoy and was immediately fixed with a piercing glare. Even with just his eyes, Malfoy could be intimidating. He was just staring at Harry with every furious fiber of his being. His grey eyes were large and glossy, brimming with a lethal rage bottled up and with no where to go but out his eye sockets. It was probably a good thing he couldn't open his mouth. Harry got the message and froze himself to the spot.

“I'll go get Mum. She'll be able to fix him up,” Ginny said in a neutral tone. His years of experience with the Weasley family told Harry that Ginny would be taking her sweet time. After all, Malfoy probably deserved it for being a nasty git to Weasleys most of his life. They were technically related, after all.

Harry turned away to escape Malfoy's big, angry eyes.

- - -

That evening, Harry knocked on Hermione's door. She was curled up in a chair by the window reading one of her new muggle books. She set it down as soon as she saw him and waved him in. He sat on the ottoman.

“Hermione, I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Sure, Harry,” She smiled. “What do you need?”

“Can I borrow your cell phone tomorrow? I need to call a muggle place and I don't want the Weasley's to know about it.”

“Of course, Harry,” Hermione said slowly. “I'm sure you have your reasons. You can have it now—it's on the dresser, there.” She pointed.

“Thanks, Hermione. I appreciate it.” He gave her a winning smile before changing the subject. “So did you give that book to Malfoy?”

She nodded. “He took it before closing the door in my face. Now we wait to see if he reads it.”

“I can't believe we're trying to help Malfoy,” Harry muttered.

“It is a very strange situation, Harry, but we can only make the best of it. Malfoy will come around but it will take time and lots of patience. Giving him a book is just the first of many baby steps, all moving forward.” She sounded so positive that Harry couldn't help but be infected by it.

“You know, I think you're right. McGonagall promised the Order would protect him until he's of age and that's not much longer, anyway. If we can keep the peace for the next week and a half, I'm willing to call that a victory on the Malfoy front.” Hermione nodded enthusiastically. He got up to leave.

“Harry?” Hermione stood with him, setting down her book. “I... wanted to ask you for a favor in return. It's a little odd, but hear me out.”
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Conscience