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Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 49
- 50
- 51
SUMMARY: One small step for Draco Malfoy; one giant leap for homosexualists and reformed Death Eaters everywhere.

WARNINGS: multiple instances of bathroom sex, perving/questionable-motive-related voyeurism, and Colin Creevey (because that boy should always come with a warning label)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Large portions of this have existed since December of 2010.

Everyone thank my cheerleaders for urging and urging, until this ball of shit was polished to a mirror shine: hollibelle, andinocara, shantismurf & nikolation.

CONSCIENCE:

WHEN THE LION & THE LAMB LIE TOGETHER

Hogwarts morale went subterranean when it was announced that the upcoming November Hogsmeade visit would be limited to seventh years and prefects only. Everyone understood the need, of course, but it did nothing to lighten spirits around the already dreary castle. Seventh years were legal adults: there was little the Hogwarts staff could do to prevent them from leaving the grounds on designated days. Prefects were given additional privileges in order to run errands for their housemates, purchasing sweets and quills in Hogsmeade and sending letters abroad, as owl traffic inside the castle was unreliable at best due to the wards. Draco had nearly been sucked into a massive sweets run before a message from Harry reached him by way of the Order of the Phoenix members guarding the castle—he was to meet Harry at the edge of Hogsmeade Village, out by the Shrieking Shack, and bring the Firebolt.

Musing on what Harry could have planned was a pleasant waste of thought. Hogsmeade weekend became a bright spot at the end of a very long tunnel—and the only thing seeing Draco through his miserable Friday afternoon of double NEWT Defence Against the Dark Arts with that mousy git of a man, Professor Percy Weasley. Draco wasn't the only one holding back a groan as the seventh year Defence students marched into the classroom, slamming their books onto their desks and gazing with mixed horror and incredulity at the message on the chalkboard.

Apparently Professor Weasley had gotten it into his head that Shielding Charms would be an ideal waste of their afternoon. Draco couldn't imagine anything more boring than three hours of the Protego Scale with this idiot-excuse of an educator.

Professor Weasley swept into the room. Instead of his regular black robe and tie, the ginger man wore a sleeveless leather vest, a type often used by Aurors and Hit Wizards in their training drills. Draco had come across one in Harry's pack once, heavy duty leather and quite plain, a bit scuffed, spelled to reduce the impact of most common dueling spells. The design of Weasley's vest was far more ornamental than Harry's. Weasley's leather was spotless down to the polished brass buckles, leaving Draco to wonder if the wizard had ever had reason to use it before today.

“Alright, everyone,” Professor Weasley announced, waving an arm over his head to bring his students' attention. “Settle down, and textbooks away. This lesson will be of a practical nature.” He said it as though it were a great treat. Several students bit at their lips to hold back groans—Draco among them.

The seventh years took their seats, casting glances at one another behind their instructor's back. Weasley swiveled at the front of the room, vanishing his desk and chair. He folded his hands over his chest. From a larger man, it might have been an imposing stance. With Percy Weasley, it only emphasized the physical strength he lacked. His sister Ginevra could wallop the spectacled ponce in a fist fight. Draco would put Galleons on it.

“Today I wish to discuss dueling—specifically defending one's self against dangerous and undesirable spells. Many of these can be blocked with a standard Shielding Charm. Can anyone give me the incantation?”

Predictably, Granger's hand shot into the air. Draco had to remind himself that it was not Granger herself, but Dmitry Ionescue playing the part of Hermione Granger, Head Girl and Insufferable Know-It-All. Dmitry was a good actor, delivering his lines exactly as Draco would expect from Granger herself.

“It's Protego, sir. There are also several variations, forming the Protego Scale: Protegam Horribilis, for example, and Protegit Totalem.”

“Excellent,” Professor Weasley nodded. “Five points to Gryffindor. Can anyone name the other two steps on the scale?”

Draco wasn’t surprised when Justin Finch-Fletchley raised his hand, brown hair in his eyes and looking vaguely annoyed. Finch-Fletchley was one of the few the muggle-born chaps who could conjugate his Latin worth a damn, and was called on immediately.

“Protego Corpus and Protegis Minus. But professor, we know the Protego Scale. Everyone who's been going to Malfoy's Defense Association, I mean. He covered Shielding first lesson.” Finch-Fletchley's eyes flittered between Dmitry in Granger’s skin and Draco, as though confirming he was in the clear to mention that detail of Draco's clandestine lessons. When nothing gruesome happened to Finch-Fletchley's bollocks, he relaxed back against his seat, still looking warily at Draco—wary but pleased. Proud, maybe.

Percy Weasley gestured with his wand. “Then perhaps Mr. Malfoy would care to assist me with a little demonstration? This is a practical, after all.”

Draco rose from his seat, trying with all his might to hold back the simpering smile that begged to take over his face—any chance to throw a curse at a Weasley was a welcome opportunity for mischief and mayhem. He eased his wand from his robe's breast pocket. “My pleasure, Professor.”

They took the front of the classroom as their dueling space, Professor Weasley in his Auror gear and Draco not so much as loosening his tie.

“Do your best, Mr. Malfoy,” the Minister's man told him curtly.

Draco quirked a brow. “Not my worst?” he chided. “Afraid you can't take me, sir?”

No Hogwarts instructor worth his salt would be frightened of the abilities of a seventeen year old—even one who came from a family steeped in the Dark Arts tradition, such as Draco. But Professor Weasley wasn't a regular Hogwarts professor—just a Ministry robe stationed here because no one else would take the job—and Draco was perhaps a tad more than a schoolboy with a penchant for the Darker Arts. He bore the Mark, after all. Weasley's eyes strayed to Draco's covered forearm, giving his thoughts away.

“Let's keep this educational, shall we?” the professor advised, bowing.

“Agreed,” Draco made his bow, holding the man's gaze. “But I won't go easy on you.”

“Of course,” Weasley said loudly, backing away the standard ten paces. Draco also walked backwards, keeping an eye on his opponent. They practically had their backs to opposite walls by the time twenty paces had been marked out between them. Weasley raised his wand to chest height, Draco's slim hawthorn poised over his head in the old style.

Draco cast without warning, a silent Expelliarmus. An attempt to disarm had always been Harry’s opening move in their practice duels, and was rather a Hogwarts staple. Weasley deflected it easily, firing back with a verbal “Stupefy.” Draco was forced to use a variant of the Protego Charm; Protegit Totalem, the only spell effective against a Stunner save for Light Shields. He swung his arm down in an arc, strengthening his shield enough to cause the Stunning Spell to ricochet back at the unwitting professor. The ginger man was caught off guard. He scrambled to erect his own shield, using a verbal “Protego Corpus.” Draco recognized an opening when he saw one—and he took it with ease.

“Discerpis!” he called, weakening his opponent's Shield Charm enough that it had to be recast. “Impedimenta,” The professor dodged, teetering on one leg. Draco had him, now. He jabbed his wand in a quick forward jerk, like stabbing a knife through a man's gut, just as he'd been taught as a boy. “Atrōx.”

Professor Weasley collapsed in a bony-limbed heap, dropping his wand the moment he hit the floor. The implement skittered away across the stone, useless, as its owner curled into a ball, clutching his head, eyes screwed shut and shivering violently. His whole body shook as he let out a high, blood-curdling scream.

Disguised as the instructor's brother, Misha Ionescue jumped from his desk, rushing to his faux relative’s aid.

From the ground, Professor Weasley got a hand up to give two fingers—a signal of yielding. Draco released his spell with a flick of his wand. Misha used Ron Weasley’s muscles to peel Percy off the floor, still convulsing, clutching at his ginger hair and wheezing, short of breath. He'd screeched like a bloody muggle girl having caught sight of a mountain troll.

Misha played his part well, glaring back at Draco with Weasley King's eyes, not-brother gathered up in his arms. “Wot the hell, Malfoy?” he said loudly. “You trying to kill my brother?”

Draco wondered whether the real Ronald Weasley would have rushed to his elder brother’s aid as Misha had—without thinking, the bonds of family and loyalty kicking in, spurring him to action. Perhaps that instinct made Mikhail a better man. Or perhaps the younger fellow was merely lucky, to have never experienced the kind of tension and mixed loyalties which existed between members of the Weasley clan.

“My apologies,” Draco snipped, stowing his wand. “I was under the assumption that this was a Defence Against The Dark Arts lesson, not Defence Against Nargles and Pygmy Puffs. I'll take my Dark Arts down the hall, then, shall I?”

“Mal-foy...” Dima cautioned him through Granger's wide brown eyes, shaking his disguised head the slightest bit. Draco thought he could see the Romanian wizard poking through a bit more than he should. Perhaps it was time to swallow more Polyjuice? Granger's eyes looked more honeyed than usual.

“It's quite alright,” Professor Weasley insisted, helped to his feet by Misha in Ron Weasley's skin. The professor adjusted his dueling vest as an excuse to duck his head, hiding the blush of embarrassment overtaking his face. Several of the vest's buckles had come loose in his thrashings. He patted his brother on the shoulder before stepping away, standing under his own power. “An excellent display, Mr. Malfoy. You caught me off guard, there.”

The instructor turned back toward the class at large. His face was still splotchy with color as he wiped visible perspiration from his brow. “There are many spells against which there is no defence—The Unforgiveables and many other Dark Curses, such as the Dread Hex demonstrated by Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco cleared his throat loudly. Professor Weasley looked at him over the thick rims of his glasses, clearly annoyed.

Susan Bones raised a hand, waggling her fingers for attention. “Professor, a Light Shield would block torture curses like Atrōx. Malfoy taught us. I've seen Galina Vïtols in Ravenclaw do it in practice duels, and she's only a fifth year.”

A fifth year from Durmstrang, of course, where the Neutral and Darker Arts were as large a portion of the curriculum as Hogwarts' Muggle Studies, Herbology and Divination combined. That was the difference, of course. A single Durmstrang student, with the element of surprise, could best ten Hogwarts kids of the same year. Draco knew it—he wondered how much Percy Weasley knew of the curriculum at Durmstrang or the other DarkArts-friendly schools, the professor being a Hogwarts man himself, only recently graduated.

The young professor's face pinched irritably. He balled his hands, looking from Miss Bones to Draco as though he thought the Head Boy were behind some sort of conspiracy to undermine his teaching skills. Draco thought the bespectacled Weasley brother made a fool of himself all on his own, no help needed. But he kept that thought to himself.

Draco closed his eyes briefly, unable to bite back his smirk any longer. “It's best we understand,” he advised the class, “that some spells are unblockable—especially certain hexes of the Darker variety, including The Unforgiveable Curses... with a single notable exception,” he paused, letting his quiet reference to Harry sink in. “Yet there are some spells, some outside the current curriculum, with which we might defend ourselves should the Darker element be cast our way. Just because we don't know a spell doesn't mean it doesn't exist. That's what we're here to learn, after all—magic which is new to us. Occasionally it will be necessary for us to expand our minds if we wish to survive.”

“Well said,” chimed a familiar voice.

It was Blaise Zabini who had spoken. Blaise—who for many weeks had been utterly and atypically silent in his far corner of the classroom—was looking at Draco with something like admiration in his countenance. The expression quickly faded as eyes turned Blaise's way. The dark-skinned fellow looked away, fixing his attention on the wand in his hand. Draco recognized it as new, not the hemlock and dragon heart string he'd had since coming to Hogwarts, a wand which had once belonged to his dearly departed father. Draco wondered what had happened to that heirloom wand, and why Blaise now appeared to be carrying a utilitarian Kiddell, likely purchased as a back up or borrowed from a family member. Blaise's old wand had been a stunning Gregorovitch. Damage or loss would be the only logical reasons behind Blaise's apparent downgrade.

Several other students voiced their agreement with the Slytherin boy. “Hear, hear!” Ernie Macmillan said loudly, nodding in Draco's direction.

Misha leaned in toward Percy Weasley. “Malfoy's right,” the young man said in Weasley King's baritone. “It's good that he's teaching us.”

Draco knew he was right. Damn right. Even Granger—the real Granger—agreed with him on that. It had been one of the reasons she’d pushed so hard for him to captain the new Defence Association in the first place. Percy Weasley couldn't help but see that Draco was correct in this. Draco was correct in a great many things, of course, but one step at a time as far as the Weasley horde was concerned. He considered it a great victory when Professor Weasley offered him a handshake, keeping him at the head of the classroom as dueling between the other students commenced.

~ * ~

Dmitry could not comprehend, for the life of him, how Harry and Draco tolerated this.

Hogwarts was oppressive. The students were obtuse and rude. Much of the staff wore blinders when it came to the magical community at large. And the security, the pervasive aura of fear and dread which hung over the place.... Durmstrang hadn't been this bad, not even the day before the Death Eater invasion. He had no idea how young people could live this way. Barely two weeks and he could feel himself slowly going mad in this pretty witch's skin.

He tried to imagine that the castle hadn't always been like this—that once there had been laughter and jokes, Draco and Harry bewitching suits of armor to chase one another down the halls, brandishing maces and swords. It seemed like a place full of life... but much of that light was hidden. Gone, perhaps because Harry was.

Now there was only the roaring of the hearth in Gryffindor tower, the scratching of quills on parchment and pages turning as students studied. A few of the younger years fought for the attention of Demelza Robins, a prefect about to depart for Hogsmeade village. Each wanted to be sure the girl got their sweet order right. She left with a sack full of galleons, tossing a harried look Hermione's way. Dmitry offered her a knowing half-smile and shrug before she disappeared through the portrait hole.

He caught Misha's gaze—Ronald Weasley had very pleasant, clear eyes.

They'd been told that Ron, Hermione and Harry often studied together. So, to keep up appearances, Dima, his boyfriend and Misha observed the practice whenever possible. Nebojsa was off with Madame Pomfrey, having his wounds examined, leaving Dmitry and Misha to study in Gryffindor Commons until he returned.

Mishenka scrawled his way through a Charms assignment, twiddling his writing instrument as he considered his next sentence. Dima caught his brother’s leg under the table with Hermione's small foot, tracing up the line of the ginger's trouser leg. Behind the mask of Ron's face, Misha smiled.

His brother licked his lips before muttering, “Trouble brewing.” He turned his chin.

Dmitry turned his attention to one of the Gryffindor girls who had been arguing with her friends at increasing volume. He couldn't recall her name, but guessed her at fourth or fifth year. He recognized her companions as Samantha Young and Natalie McDonald, both members of Draco The Dragon's house Quidditch team. The unknown girl had caught sight of Draco, just emerged from the boy's dormitory and carrying the Firebolt he'd loaned to Misha a few nights ago. Apparently Draco planned to go flying—whether for Quidditch practice or simply to Hogsmeade and back was unclear. He wore a heavy flying cloak, fastened at one shoulder and left to drape over his nondescript muggle clothing.

The girl flipped her fall of hair over her shoulder, bucking up her courage. She had a loud-printed blouse in her hand, which she shook at her friends, declaring, “I'll show you!” before taking off across the Common Room to intercept Draco.

“Sweet Merlin,” Dmitry mouthed. The girl was either incredibly stupid or harbored some sort of death wish. If there was anyone in this dreary castle who would not welcome silliness, it was Draco Malfoy. Who was apparently in quite a hurry. He saw the girl coming and attempted to avoid her. She caught him anyway.

“Malfoy?” she began breathily, stopping perhaps a foot from him. “Tell me this top goes with these trousers,” and she gestured, indicating the lower half of her outfit.

“What?” the Head Boy snapped, one brow icily raised. He adjusted his grip on Harry's Firebolt, clearly on his way out and less-than-thrilled at being detained with this ridiculousness.

“Sam says no,” off by the windows, Samantha Young cringed, not wanting to be drawn into this. A nervous breath filled her ample chest as she watched for Malfoy's reaction. The stupid girl with the blouse prattled on. “But I think, with my hair up like this, it really works!” She appeared unconscious of the growing expression of distaste on Malfoy's pointed face.

“I wonder that you would ask me, then,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and moving to step past her. She sidestepped with him, blocking his escape.

“But do you think—”

Draco cut her off with a deadly sharp glare, knuckles standing white against his borrowed broomstick.

“Not once in six years has a Slytherin female sought my opinion in matters regarding feminine dress, grooming, or any similar nonsense. Do you know why tha' is?” She shook her head slowly, retreating a step. Through Granger's eyes, Dmitry could see trouble about to flood the peaceful Common Room like Mandrake screams; he suspected this unbelievably stupid girl could feel it coming, too.

“This is gonna be so good,” Mishenka whispered, leaning close.

Nothing could have prepared them.

“Because I have a cock,” Malfoy enunciated, low but clear, his face betraying not a trace of emotion. He leaned close to the girl's shocked face, almost simpering. “And if you buy me half a bottle a' Firewhisky, I might just show it to you.”

There were quite a few affronted gasps heard round the room. Students began to whisper, the younger years perking up at the smell of trouble, blood in the water, straining their ears to pick up things they shouldn't hear. Their paragon of a Head Boy was talking about getting arseholed and flashing his bits—Heaven forbid! Mishenka looked to be holding back a cackle.

“But....” A very confused expression took over the girl's face. She tipped her head to the side and mouthed wordlessly at Malfoy. The blond's face drained of what little color it had as he became stone serious.

“I understand,” he said slowly and at a regular if-not-carrying volume, knowing that the eyes and ears of the room were upon him now. “You falsely assume that, because I suck chosen cock, I must be a poof. A faggot. That's just unimaginative stereotyping, tha' is. Has it ever occurred in your pretty little head that perhaps your Precious Prince Potter is the batty boy? That I bend him over every night?” Dmitry felt himself blush for Draco. But the blond ploughed right on, unashamed. “Hmm? That I ride him like a beast of bloody burden? Because we could never have a relationship as equals, neither of us manipulating or controlling the other,” Malfoy waggled his perfect eyebrows, milking the attention to make a point. And it was a very good point, too—one these Hogwarts-types needed to hear. “Who or how one shags does not change who one is. I am still Draco Malfoy. And he is Harry Potter. You would do well not to forget it.”

The girl cowered, blinking profusely. Nat McDonald swooped in, taking her silly friend by both elbows and physically drawing her away, clearing Draco's path.

Draco gave a curt nod to the ladies' retreating backs, as though that was the precise reaction he'd sought to elicit. His gaze made a powerful sweep of the Common Room, noting the frank stares he was attracting as a result of his rather explicit candor.

“If you will excuse me,” he said to no one in particular, striding confidently toward the portrait hole. “I have a date.”

Upon reaching the exit Draco turned, giving the girl and then the room at large a jaunty little wave of his fingers, plastering on a false-friendly smile. The expression said he knew he was standing in a room of vipers and was too ballsy, too brazen to care. The effect was nothing short of enchanting. He brought his feet together to tap his toe, popping a hip in an exaggeratedly and decidedly feminine gesture that was lost to no one—a sarcastic display of the type of gay male effeminacy he was being accused of. Dozens of eyes snapped to his sassy hip, some lingering on his toned rear showcased in tight woolen trousers. He tossed his hair out of his eyes with a practiced, graceful twitch of the neck.

And then he was gone—out of the portrait hole and on his fabulous, arse-buggering way.

“A date?” Misha repeated. Then, far more quietly, “You think he's meeting up with Harry?”

Dima shrugged. Hermione Granger's Ancient Runes coursework suddenly seemed far more dull than usual. Draco had a way of brightening up your life like that. It was little wonder Harry and his dragon were all but glued together, their attraction was so strong.

“Good for him,” Dmitry said softly.

“Both of them,” Misha smiled back.

- - -

Draco steered the Firebolt away from Hogsmeade Village. He had little desire to set foot in town. He might run into someone from the outside world, someone with a problem and difficulty directing their rage at the proper target. There were plenty of people who might not have believed his statements in The Prophet to be sincere—especially his sentiments regarding Harry Potter, their friendship, and Draco’s role as a turncoat in the war against the Death Eaters. There were plenty of people who just plain didn't like him—people like Madame Rosemerta. But she, unlike many others, had good reason.

Draco ducked his head against a flurry of snow kicked up in the breeze, keeping an eye on his landmark—the Shrieking Shack. That was where Harry said they should meet.

He landed on the winding little path leading up to the structure, brushing snow from his hair. A moment later, Harry appeared from beneath his Invisibility Cloak.

Dignity left back at the castle, Draco jumped him. The Firebolt went flying as they landed in a bank of snow. Harry's head connected with the dirt beneath, his back cracking. Draco's fingers were crushed: he didn't give a damn.

“Miss me?” Harry chuckled.

“Oh, fuck you, Wonder Boy,” Draco snarled before kissing him. Harry's mouth opened under his, as hot as the snow was cold. Their lips made quick work of destroying one another's better judgment, hands soon emerging to push and grope. Draco pulled back for air. “You made time in yer... busy bloody schedule ta... pop over an' shag me—”

Harry shoved Draco's shoulder, gaining the advantage and wrestling the pureblood onto his back.

“It's not like that, git,” Harry hissed, pummeling his mouth with a quick, harsh kiss. “It's not like I don't think of you every fucking minute of every fucking day. And I'm here now,” he kissed Draco's jaw, working his way until he was back behind Draco's ear, tepid breath everywhere, flushing Draco's skin. “Isn't that enough? I'm sluffing off from my very busy schedule,” he teased, “to spend time with you. Saving the world be damned.”

Draco released the breath he'd been holding. Harry's weight sunk through his chest, pinning him to the ground.

“Tha’s more like it,” he muttered.

He knew he'd been spoiled, having an entire summer with Harry—a summer all to themselves, really. Granger and the Weasleys had been there, even Viktor, but in the end it had really been just the two of them. Draco had played the piano, Harry stretched out on that ancient, dusty blue sofa, his eyes closed and enjoying the music, sated and happy in Draco's company. That had become their reality. All of this—Hogwarts, the war, their imminent demise—it was all a horrible dream. Just a nightmare to wake up from. That's what it felt like whenever Harry was around: the lights would turn on and Draco's world was right again.

He wound his arms around Harry's neck, pulling him close and strangling him a bit at the same time.

“Ya twat. I missed you terribly.” He pronounced the words against Harry's dark hair, glad the man couldn't see his face. It took him a moment to right himself, to regain his tenacious hold on normality. He'd almost become... emotional. “Na gerr'off me.”

Harry obliged, springing to his feet and offering Draco his hand. He held out his other, speaking the word “up.” His Firebolt rose from the snow as Draco did, flapping his cloak to knock off the snow. Harry tapped his boot against his broom tail, ridding it of snow as well.

Draco regarded Harry. He looked tired—there were shadows under his eyes, like he wasn't sleeping well.

“Ya sure they can spare ya fer a day?”

Harry nodded absently. “Hermione's listening to Gregorovitch and Mr. Harper debate wand theory—probably taking notes. It's her idea of heaven. And Ron is, uh,” Harry scratched the back of his neck, as though he didn't want to say... which only served to make Draco want to know more.

Draco took the Firebolt from Harry's other hand, snorting. “What's Weasley gone and done?”

“Well, we were on a stake out when he... got attacked by a Yeti. He's okay. Fred and George are with him. So the long and short of it is, nothing's going to explode if I take the afternoon off.”

Draco eyed him carefully. “Do things regularly explode in yer absence, then?”

“Only sometimes.” He winked. “Come on, let's go.”

Harry took Draco's hand, attempting to drag him around the corner. Draco dug his feet into the snow, pursing his lips.

“Weasley got mauled by a Yeti, you say?”

Draco’s curiosity was piqued. He arched a single brow, his pointed face turned to a lovely but rather severe angle. He wet his lips, impatient.

“Yeti, yeah,” Harry nodded.

Draco rooted himself to the spot, declaring, “The International Code of Wizarding Secrecy states that any Yeti transported outside of their native Tibet requires a permit carried by a licensed handler—mostly to prevent muggle sightings, but also to make sure the creature doesn't attack anyone. So where on Earth were you? And where was the beast's handler? I'd like to buy them a very large present.” Draco paused, considering. “The handler and the Yeti both.”

Harry chuckled. “I won't tell you where we were. And how do you know so much about creature regulations, anyway? Did you want a Yeti when you were little or something?” He squeezed Draco's hand, trying to get him to move further down the path so they could escape the Anti-Apparition Jinx placed over the village by its Order of the Phoenix guards.

“I started paying attention in Care of Magical Creatures once that Grubbly-woman started teaching.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You would. Now come on.” And he snuck an arm around Draco's waist, hauling him away.

An icy wind slapped Draco in the face, knocking his breath from his lungs. He coughed, doubling over. A whirlwind of snow kicked up around them, the air so cold it stung his teeth. Squinting, he noticed both he and Harry were up to their knees in snow.

“The fuck are we, Antarctica?”

“Close,” Harry chuckled. A gust of wind caught him and he stumbled, bumping into Draco. “Manitoba.”

The blond caught him. “It's bloody freezing.”

“Noted.”

Draco got Harry right on his feet, but kept an arm around his waist. It was indescribably nice, being this close. He knew it wouldn't last. But it woke some tingly, womanish part of his guts, to have Harry close and laughing, a brawny arm slung around his shoulders, holding on with the same secret desperation.

“So wha's the plan? Freeze ta death?” He prattled, mostly for warmth, “The Dark Lord’ll be chuffed to bits. He’s been trying to do you in for years, and here we are, freezing to death.”

Harry urged him forward, pointing ahead with the Firebolt's handle. “Just over that rise, there. You'll see.”

They trudged up the snow-covered hill, stubborn and refusing to let each other go. They moved half as fast, and at one point Harry nearly tripped and fell on his face, but they made the crest.

Draco said the first thing which came to mind.

“It looks like a prison.”

True enough, the walls were a very dull sort of stone-grey, jutting up from the snow in a cold, imposing manner. The compound was ringed by a high, thick wall which wouldn't have looked unusual with barbed wire and muggles with guns walking its length. The buildings inside were plain, almost military in their square structure and utter lack of character. The primary construction materials were metal and concrete. It very much resembled a prison, or a fort; designed to keep its inhabitants in and everyone else out.

“That's kinda what I thought, too. But they've made it pretty homey inside. Trust me.”

Harry seemed to know that Draco would be doubtful, tacking on that little bit at the end. Draco grumbled something under his breath, holding Harry tighter as they sludged down the slope toward the compound.

They encountered the first ward within seconds. Draco felt it prickle over his skin like warm ants. Harry waved his wand in a practiced motion, tracing a rune through the air which would allow them past the magic barrier. He cleared their way through a second and third ward before his arm tightened around Draco’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure about this one,” he said quietly, handing over the Firebolt and casting a Warming Charm over their fingers before he turned to his task. “I may have to drag you through, so hold tight.”

Draco considered what type of magic they were dealing with—knowing Pavel Gregorovitch was alive and well, it had to be some pretty nasty stuff. “Blood ward?”

Harry nodded.

Draco tightened his hand at Harry’s waist, gripping their racing broomstick with the other. They walked through without a problem. Draco turned to Harry, one eyebrow rising.

“They’d better have a look at this thing,” Draco warned. “It’s defective. I have the Dark Mark and we waltzed right through. Imagine who else could.”

Harry looked worried. “Yeah, that should have been a lot harder. You don’t have any half-siblings or cousins I don’t know about, right?” Draco shook his head. “Then your closest relation cued to the wards is Leon—he and your dad are third cousins,” Harry explained. His features fell, expression darkening as he considered every possible angle. It made no sense. “This is weird.”

“Agreed. I shouldn’t a’ been able to….”

He got a little lost, watching Harry in thought. His hair was just a shade darker than the leather of his jacket, his lashes just as black, blinking as his eyes went in and out of focus behind thick lenses. His eyes snapped up to Draco. Lips pursed to a thin line, he said nothing.

They were caught looking at one another by a rather startled perimeter guard. Harry released his hold on Draco in order to flash a set of credentials. Only then did the guard lower his wand, leading them to the main gate.

Once inside—their identities checked and double checked, bodies scanned for hexes and charms—Draco began to pick out familiar faces. First was Chereshko Toleanu, who came jogging over to say hello despite the large sacks of food stuffs slung over his shoulders, half-way on his journey from a supply Apparition to the kitchens. Oliver Wood found Harry and became The Boy Who Lived's shadow. Soon Viktor Krum joined them, walking on Draco's right. The further in they went, the more attention their little group began to garner.

Harry appeared to know where they were headed: a full regulation Quidditch pitch had been erected in what was once a muggle footie park, the rooftop of a nearby building commandeered as spectator seating, complete with an enchanted board to display the score and possession of the Quaffle.

Draco twisted under Harry's arm, taking a second look at the smiling faces trailing behind them. Professional Quidditchers, every last one of them. All together, they were just shy of two regulation teams if they used only first string players. With Harry, Draco, and the second string fellows in the mix, they had closer to six teams. And more witches and wizards were gathering—the players' family members, rusticating themselves under the leaking roofs of this facility, parts of which were still under construction. Draco waved to Yuri Batushansky and Pavel Gregorovitch, smearing some sticky substance on the walls in ancient patterns, waving their wands. Perhaps they’d already realized the problem with their wards, and were patching the breach in security. They looked busy, and Harry didn’t want to disturb them, pulling Draco along toward the pitch.

So this was the Sanctuary.

It was a cold place. And the concrete didn’t help much. They couldn’t turn a corner without spotting a pinched, worried-looking face among the passers-by. Draco imagined that the rest of the magical world couldn’t be much better off, if witches and wizards were lining up to get in here.

It reminded him of Hogwarts—the way people would quietly stare, keeping their distance but too curious to mind out. And just like at the castle, he couldn’t make out whether they were staring at him specifically, or whether they were merely curious due to his present company.

People always stared at Harry Potter. It was rather difficult not to; especially now, with that confident swagger of his, eyes straight forward, as though he knows exactly where he’s going and you’d best clear his way. People liked that about Harry—flocked to him, thanks to that aura of strength and control. They gawped and gossiped whenever he passed. Draco had nearly gotten used to it, walking around Hogwarts with Harry’s double, Radić. Draco preferred the company of the Ionescue brothers, both of whom wore their heart on their sleeves, played an excellent game of chess and could hold their liquor like champions. Radić made him nervous in the same way Harry did—both were secretive, marked, dangerous. They kept too much below the surface, and that was frightening. But at least Radić had taken to holding Draco’s hand in the hall; one of his few comforts during Harry’s increasing absence.

Draco chanced a sideways glance at Harry as they walked, wishing the real Harry would reach out and take his hand.

That would really give them something to stare at.

It wasn’t long before they were through the locker rooms—attached to what had once been a muggle gymnasium—and out on the pitch. The professionals drew straws to see who would get the chance to play the first skirmish against Harry Potter. As luck would have it, Viktor Krum drew the position of Seeker. Immediately, Harry volunteered to play another position so that Draco could fly against Krum. Harry insisted long and loud that he was quite out of practice, and Viktor would find Draco a more fitting challenge. Krum smiled wickedly at them both, looking down his beak-like nose at the two shortest wizards on the pitch.

“Da, da, da,” he’d waved a hand, brushing away any complaints from lesser players. He was clearly the King of the Quidditchers. “Anyzhing to get on zhe pitch!”

Harry ended up playing Beater alongside Connolly from Ireland National. The pair were small, fast and sneaky; Harry especially made a habit of sneaking up on unsuspecting players and clocking them with the practice Bludger. Though the ball was rubberized and padded with charms, it still hurt like hell when Harry caught half of Viktor’s team in the kidneys or upside the head. In one spectacular play, Harry and Draco together outwitted Viktor, Harry spotting the Snitch and driving Viktor away with a hail of Bludgers, allowing Draco to swoop in and grab the fluttering golden ball, earning their team’s one and only victory. Connolly and Oliver Wood, who played as their Keeper, waved Harry to the ground as they packed away the practice gear. Draco drifted overhead, listening to their conversation with half an ear, watching Viktor take his last laps high above the pitch.

“Malfoy’s favoring his left these days,” Wood observed. “Always thought he was right-handed.”

Harry shook his head. “Nope. He had a run-in with a Hyppogriff when we were thirteen. He played righty the rest of that year, then switched back.”

“Aye. Tha’s it.”

“Incident with a Hyppogriff, yea say?” Connelly chimed in, reaching for Harry’s attention. “Me brother ‘bout lost an eye, Hyppogriff-baitin’ when we were lads!”

Draco could only see the very top of Harry’s head, but he heard the man’s expression in his voice—licking his lips, eyes going large, probably adjusting his glasses with one hand, sweat still coursing down his temples, plastering bits of his hair to his face. “Hyppogriff baiting? People do that?”

Draco chuckled quietly, letting the wind carry him higher.

Viktor slowed, approaching him head-on. He waved to gain Draco’s attention.

“Priiatelyu,” he called out. “Fly vith me?”

There wasn’t an easy way to say no to Viktor Krum. Draco still felt a little nervous around the older fellow—not much older, really. And Viktor had declared them friends, so there was no logical reason for the tightness in his throat as he rose to meet his international Quidditch star mate, falling into a slightly tighter loop, their knees never more than a meter apart as they flew. By their second corner, Viktor had reduced his speed, keeping back around Draco’s knees, so that all the blond could see was a pair of hairy-knuckled hands holding a broom handle.

“I vanted to ask yoo zomezhing,” the Bulgarian began. His tone, combined with the lack of eye contact, did nothing for Draco’s nerves. He focused his attention on keeping his broomstick level, missing the first half of Viktor’s speech. “…eh, zingle. Unattached. You know.” Draco’s head whipped around—fuck where he was going. “Eet could be interesting. Zo… do I ztand a chance?”

Viktor had been stealing glances the last few hours. Sometimes a Seeker could feel another Seeker’s gaze. Draco had sensed it—eyes on his back which weren’t Harry’s, watching him. More than once, he’d felt a gaze travel the length of him. Draco hadn’t been the only one looked at, though. Harry was quite a sight in his jeans and borrowed jersey, hair a sweat-matted mess and sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. Draco’s style hadn’t faired much better; at least his hair remained relatively in place, while his clothes were a tad sweaty. Perhaps Viktor favored an active sort of wizard: other pairs of eyes had enjoyed the vigor of their match, witches and wizards alike.

Draco cleared his throat, a part of him surprised that he’d managed to catch Viktor’s eye with Harry’s more conventionally masculine figure on display.

“I’m f-flattered!” Draco choked out. He might’ve swallowed a bug or two, cold as it was. It certainly felt like it as he scrounged the backs of his teeth for words. “And you’re my type, certainly.” That wasn’t a lie. Viktor had a muscled frame, with an active mind perched atop his broad shoulders. He was cunning and loyal. Draco could see the value in both traits now. “I’m quite flattered Viktor, and if I wasn’t seeing someone….”

They were barely gliding—the breeze pushed them along. Color came to Viktor’s cheeks beneath the pink stain of the wind. He scratched at his beard, looking away.

“Yoo are zo far out of my league, Draco,” he laughed nervously. “Eet embarrasses me to zay, but I vos speaking of Harry.”

Draco choked on his breath. His voice came out as a thin, reedy squeak. “…Harry?!”

“Da. Zhe Ztraightest Man Who Leeved.” Viktor rolled his eyes at the apparent hopelessness of his situation. “Do yoo zhink I have a chance vith him? Or iz eet hopeless?”

Draco bit his bottom lip, speaking through his front teeth. “Er, not exactly. I’m seeing Harry. Fucking his chosen brains out, actually.”

Viktor’s eyes went very wide. The expression took years off his face, bringing him back to boyhood beneath several days worth of scratchy black beard. It took him a moment to regain his composure, his jaw working before sound at last issued.

“Vell, fuck. Vhy am I only interested in people who are completely unavailable?” His breath puffed out in a long white cloud, sliding away in the wind. After a painfully exposing moment, he glanced back to Draco. Some of the mirth had gone out of the man, but he managed to crack the smallest grin under his prickly mustache. “Congratulations, by zhe vay. Yoo and Harry... zhat's amazing. I vould pay to vatch.” Draco blushed, stammering his thanks. “No, really. If yoo're ever up for a visitor, I vould be honored.”

Draco laughed nervously. “I don’t think ‘honored’ is the right word… but, I mean….” He was stammering; stammering and making a fool of himself in front of one of the few mates he still had. A new mate, but an important one. He struggled to put words to the swell of thoughts taking over his mind. “Harry’s rather shy.”

That was a complete lie. Harry let him do as he pleased in a dirty London alley surrounded by relative strangers. Harry was the opposite of shy. Sometimes, Draco thought that if the ghost of Albus Dumbledore himself walked in on them in flagrante delecto, Harry would just wave and keep right on fucking. The boy had no shame. He was beautiful that way. He made no apologies for his desires, his urges. Everything was natural with Harry, heartfelt in his violence as much as in his easy touches. And that, Draco did not wish to share. That part of Harry, he thought jealously, was for himself and himself alone. He and Harry had discovered it together. To share that magic with anyone else would be… wrong.

So this was jealousy? The thought of Viktor’s big hands on himself was disturbingly lovely. But the thought of those same thick fingers against Harry’s skin made his blood boil—turned his fists to stone bells waiting to ring themselves with the striker of Viktor Krum’s face. His nostrils flared fire. Apparently that’s what love felt like—raging, uncontrollable jealousy, and the desire to smash one’s mates’ faces in at the drop of a Quaffle.

Draco pointed to the outline of the athletic facility below. He chewed his words well before he spoke them, making his best effort to sound friendly. He didn’t want to lose Viktor’s affection over this.

“I’ll be in the locker room—could use a shower,” he pulled at the neck of his shirt—the front of which stuck to his chest in places. He didn’t feel the cold, though he might later.

“I vill let Harry know vere yoo are,” Viktor nodded readily. He wore that same smile—sad around the eyes. “Please… don’t tell Harry? I vouldn’t vant him to be uncomfortable vith me because of zhis.”

“Of course.” Draco attempted to smile back. He couldn’t say whether or not he was entirely successful; he took off for the locker rooms before Viktor could get a good look at him, so eager to be away from his friend that it hurt.

- - -

Harry was sweaty and panting slightly when he burst into the locker room. Draco stood before a row of white porcelain sinks, splashing water on his face—trying to wash the look of disbelief off his face before Harry got all curious and started asking questions. Gryffindor. He certainly was The Boy Who Lived To Stick His Nose In Things.

And for some niggling, uncomfortable reason, Draco didn't want Harry to know of Viktor's attraction... to either of them, but toward Harry especially. It was nice, having Harry's fire and passion to himself. He couldn't imagine sharing—not this. It was too special.

Harry was striding across the room; dark hair plastered to the back of his neck, sticking to his forehead and cheeks in places, the smallest of smudges darkening his jaw where he'd taken a landing in the dirt. There was something about him... Draco could smell it in the air, past the dust and the mildew of nearby communal showers. It was uniquely Harry—the man's magic, his sweat, the exertion and bloody blessed lack of deodorant. It hung around him like a cloak, an aura of calm and raging power, contained in the little jar that was his hard caramel skin.

Harry smiled, taking him by the shoulder and planting a hard kiss to his lips.

Something in Draco roared to life. He pressed Harry back, into a nearby stall, slamming the door shut with his foot. It was better when he had Harry up against the partition, dry paint flaking off into the man's hair, little green flecks of it littering his shoulders like snow. Draco pushed until the metal gave a whine, blending with Harry's quick breaths drawn against the skin of Draco's cheek.

He bit Harry's lip—hard. The wizard gasped against him, chest expanding, pushing him back by frustrated millimeters. Draco Punched the partition, inches from Harry's head. The metal rattled and Harry groaned. Draco's teeth had to be painful, digging into Harry's fat bottom lip, near to drawing blood. And he didn't care. He welcomed the taste of Harry's blood—wanted it to flood his mouth, like he could absorb Harry's magic through the blood and carry him around forever.

Draco groaned too.

“Want you...” he told Harry. “Here, now.”

Harry smiled, rubbing at his lip with three fingers once Draco released it. Harry checked his fingers for blood. Finding none, his eyes flickered to the yawning stall door, and the door to the outside beyond.

“And what happens,” the Chosen One mused, “when half the Slavic Pro Quidditch League walks in on us with our pants down?”

Draco ground the knuckles of his fist against the wall. More paint flaked down, making green flecks in Harry's hair. Draco pressed until the ridges of their ribs interlocked—up on his toes to gain the advantage over Harry's stockier frame. The heat of him was fantastic, all of it radiating out from the considerable bulge in his trousers. Draco couldn't resist.

“Fuck 'em. Right?” Harry was always saying it—not to care what people thought. He could do with a little more of that in his life. “The first show's free.”

Harry's fingers worked to get between them—to get at belts and the fastenings of trousers. His fingers were thick. He had to wedge them in between the perfect fit of their bodies. Draco's vision went wonky when the backs of Harry's fingers wiggled against the head of his prick.

The smile on Harry's face said it all—cocky, big doe eyes flashing—right down to the fullness of his lips, a knowing tease which made Draco ache down to his toes.

He needed this. Not the cheap toss in a dirty loo part, but the contact. The nearness. He wanted Harry's weight on him, spitting Parseltongue, writhing with that strange virgin wildness which blew his fucking mind to shreds. Every time.

Harry slid to his knees. Draco found his fingers in Harry's hair, rubbing his crotch in the man's face as his belt was pulled away, zip lowered, every tab bringing Draco that much closer to undone. Harry's breath was hot on him through cotton and clenched teeth. Draco threw his head back, thrusting his hips—demanding it now, now, now, damn it—pinning Harry's head between his prick and the bathroom stall divider. Its creaking couldn't cover up the impatient sounds he was making, cock so close to the warm wet of Harry's mouth. The want of it was driving him mad.

His fingers tightened, yanking Harry's hair, guiding his mouth to where it needed to be. He pressed in.

Harry choked.

Glorious, Draco thought. Fuck it.

~ * ~

Gryffindor's first Quidditch match was fast approaching. Before he knew it, Draco was taking stock of his crimson ninnies, putting a few of the more competent names to parchment and sending it off to Headmistress McGonagall with his weekly Prefecture reports. Snogging in the hallways was down, as were uniform infractions. Filch still complained of too many fanged frisbees. Draco didn't mind the toys so much. They helped pass the time.

Dean Thomas caught him in the corridor on his way to NEWT Potions one morning. Ron Weasley was with him, newly returned to his body after that Yeti had munched on his a bit. There was only a small scar on his nose to show for it, hidden behind a Glamor Spell so as not to attracted unwanted questions.

Both Thomas and Weasley jogged to catch up with him.

“Oi, Malfoy,” Thomas said, falling into step with the Head Boy, Weasley on his other side. “What's going on with the Quidditch roster?”

Draco allowed a single brow to rise. “Is there a problem, Thomas?” The man was starting as a Chaser, so Draco saw no reason for him to be concerned. Perhaps he was approaching Draco on Weasley's behalf, as third year Angelika Whipple would be starting as Keeper, rather than the big ginger who hadn't made the last four practices due to his Potter-like absentee-ism.

Thomas backed down immediately. “No, no problem....”

Weasley opened his gob. “Why's it posted Slytherin-style?”

Draco pushed open the door to Professor Slughorn's classroom, gesturing Thomas and Weasley in ahead of him. The room was empty, and they proceeded to the student tables nearest the front.

“Sorry?” Draco set his bag down on a stool. “Slytherin-style?”

Thomas shrugged.“You know. Surnames. Everyone else uses full names for the postings.”

“Ah. So you noticed,” Draco stroked two fingertips through the stubble at his chin. He still had plenty of time to shave before Harry showed his face again. He had the tendency to let himself go between the Chosen One's visits.

“It's a scare tactic. It's no secret I spent six years in Slytherin House. I want that fact to be fresh in Ravenclaw's mind as they prepare for the pitch.”

He was an ex-Slytherin—a rare situation of which he was reminded often, what with the uncomfortable stares and the diminishing but ever-present whispers. They never escaped his notice, no matter how he tried to ignore them. He'd been a Slytherin once. But he'd been a number of things in his young life, many of them far less pleasant than the stigmas of Salazar Slytherin's House. Many of those badges had been worn proudly, nose in the air.

The talk of the masses meant little. His place as Slytherin royalty was a part of his past—and it did no good to dwell on days gone by. That's what he wanted the Quidditchers of Ravenclaw to occupy themselves with: with their heads turned toward yesterday, they would be easier to fool tomorrow.

“Brilliant tactic,” Weasley begrudged him. The scrunch of his freckled face announced his misgivings over paying lip service to Draco Malfoy, of all people. Weasley wouldn't quite meet his eyes, but Draco felt the compliment was sincere.

Thomas nodded. “It's got everyone talking... about the match, I mean. We could all use the distraction.”

The entire conversation put Draco in want of a drink. And it was only half eight. He pulled out his Potions textbook, sighing at the prospect of another overly long day.

- - -

“Oh my God! I love this song!”

Angelika Whipple, third year Gryffindor, watched with widening eyes as her best friend and only dorm mate tossed her textbook aside, leapt from her bed and began to dance. Amy shimmied. She plugged her nose and did a little move like she was diving into the ocean, spinning around so her pajama top lifted away from her body, pearly buttons flashing.

The music was coming from the other side of their dormitory wall—the wall they shared with Draco Malfoy, Head Boy and Quidditch captain. This wasn’t the type of music Angie expected Malfoy would be listening to the night before their first Quidditch match; they played Ravenclaw, but still. Angelika was a worrier. She worried about her studies. She worried about the war, her Auror brother, and her parents back home in South Africa. And she worried about her boyfriend—sweet, curly-haired Jimmy Peakes—over in the boy's dormitory. He was only one castle-spire away; but still, she worried.

The music was a bit loud, but she couldn't begrudge Malfoy for it. This tune was far preferable to his usual tastes—which alternated violently between wizarding classics played on his piano, and angry screaming muggle death metal, usually in German. This was soft for Malfoy—cute, even.

Malfoy had new music every couple days. Once she opened her eyes to it, Angie began to notice the packages delivered to Malfoy, sometimes by owl at breakfast, or passed off from one of the castle guards in the halls. Other times his presents were delivered by Dumbledore's golden-tailed phoenix, coming through Malfoy's window in the evenings, letters and flat packages dangling from its neck.

If she had only a single galleon to her name, she would bet it all that the music came from Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived was so sweet on Malfoy, it sometimes hurt to watch. The music always said something—like Harry was sending albums instead of love letters. Sometimes the message was angry or sad, which she imagined the two boys felt, spending so much of their time apart. It was good to hear happy music coming from Malfoy's quarters for a change. It meant things might be looking up between him and Harry.

The singer talked about waiting—waiting for her perfect man, it sounded like. She talked about his tender arms, holding her tight. Her mother had told her she couldn't hurry love, and had to have faith, letting love—true love—take its time.

“Who sings this?” Angie asked, putting her own work aside.

“The Supremes! They're a muggle group,” Amy clarified. She did her swimming move again. “My gran listens to them all the time.”

Amy's family was muggle on her mother's side. That explained it.

Angelika nodded along to the beat. The song was cute. The lyrics about boys and romance made her smile despite her nerves; their Quidditch match was tomorrow, and it weighed on her like it weighed on Malfoy. She tried to imagine the blond Head Boy on the other side of the wall, dancing around like Amy. Try as she might, she just couldn't picture it. Malfoy was just too serious. A groomed pureblood heir like Malfoy probably hadn’t jumped around for joy since he was in nappies.

The song warbled through the stone walls. Malfoy had to have the volume at a deafening pitch on the other side of the wall—either that or Amy had accidently amplified the sound, wand in hand while waving her arms like a kite in the breeze.

“Catchy, isn't it?” Amy grinned. She tossed her wand aside and held out her arms. “Dance with me, Angie!”

She laughed, dropping her hands in Amy's, letting the other girl pull her to her feet and twirl her around.

The two girls shuffled and shimmied around the room. The lyrics were simple, and Angie picked up the refrain, singing along and moving her hips to the beat. On the other side of the wall, a cork popped. Angie strained her ears, thinking she might catch the noises of Malfoy pouring himself a celebratory glass of champers.

“Sounds like Malfoy's happy,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. She wasn't sure—it might have just been the album—but she thought she heard a little falsetto in there. Malfoy had to be drunk as hell if he was singing about love to his bedroom walls. Maybe Harry Potter was coming back soon.

Amy laughed. “Think he's dancing, too?”

Angie rolled her eyes. She didn't think Malfoy danced much. “Somehow I doubt it.”

“You never know,” Amy grinned, twirling. “I did the same thing, the first time Nigel asked me for a date—well, minus the bottle of wine!”

They collapsed on Amy's bed when the song was over, catching their breath, faces pink.

“So, Potter and Malfoy,” Amy posed, her head propped up against her hand. “You think they're in love?”

Angie's mouth moved, but nothing came out at first. “How would I know?” she managed awkwardly.

Amy flopped onto her back, looking up at the canopy of her four poster. Her long brown hair flowed out over the duvet. She sighed. “You see Malfoy for Quidditch practice, right? And Potter's there sometimes. Doesn't Malfoy ever say anything? You know, give himself away?”

Angie shook her head. “Not really, no.” She thought about it a moment—really thought, about Malfoy and his whole situation. “I think Malfoy views love as a weakness. And he wants the team to think he's fearless. He wants the whole castle to think it. The world, maybe. Most people end up thinking he's crazy.”

Amy shrugged. “Malfoy might be a little crazy,” she acknowledged with a grin, “ but I think Malfoy’s in love, deep down. And Harry loves Malfoy.” She looked over and smiled. “Just you wait and see.”

~ * ~

Gryffindor cleaned the pitch with Ravenclaw—mostly due to Draco's leadership. His tactics were downright calculated, using each of his players to his best advantage. Draco and his team had a lot in common: fast and quick, able to shift gears on a second's notice, well-practiced and perfectly in sync. Their smaller stature and lack of older-year players was not to be underestimated. Draco played on the weaknesses of his opponent while guarding his own team's shortcomings—going right when the Ravenclaws were banking on an ex-Slytherin going left, playing it by the book but with just enough cheek to still be considered a Malfoy game—and generally instilling in his team that same cocky bravado which had lit Draco's face the moment the match began. Ravenclaw didn't stand a chance.

Harry sat in the stands with Hermione, Ron and Kieran Gweir, cheering louder than anyone else each time Gryffindor scored a goal, and booing whenever Ravenclaw ran a foul. Draco's Keeper, a third year girl from South Africa called Angelika Whipple, performed fantastically. Harry would put money on the little blonde girl taking over as captain next year—she was talented, but level-headed; shrewd yet likeable. Along with Draco and his usual antics, Whipple quickly became a crowd favorite.

Harry hung back as the students began to filter down from the stands. He climbed up the rows of seats, boots heavy on the worn, wobbly boards, making his way to Colin Creevey, who had been snapping shots of the game from the uppermost row, the telltale clicking of his camera lens covered by the cheering and boos of the crowd. Harry greeted the sixth year boy with a discreet half-nod.

“Wotcher, Colin.”

“Harry,” Colin nodded back. Both glanced around, almost nervously. This was a first for them both.

After deciding that the coast was clear, Harry held out his hand, palm up. “What'cha got for me?”

Colin dug around in his school satchel, pushing aside folders of photographs and sheaves of parchment until he found a plain, unmarked folio. He placed it in Harry's outstretched hand, leaning close to whisper, “Malfoy's getting suspicious—what with me following him around and all. Thinks I'm sweet on him.”

“I'll bet he hexed you silly,” Harry mumbled, searching through his jacket pockets until he found a small pouch of wizard coins, pulling an extra three galleons from his pocket and adding them to the purse before handing it all to Colin.

“For your trouble.” He smiled. “And continued discretion.”

Colin winked back. “'Course, Harry.”

He was about to turn away, prize in hand, when Colin stopped him with an outstretched hand, not quite tapping his shoulder. Harry turned.

“It's... sweet, what you're doing,” Colin shrugged, gesturing toward the photographs he's just given up. “Keeping up on his life an' all, trying to be there. I'd help, even if you hadn't offered the money. But my grandpa—he's sick, so....”

Harry swished his hand, looking down at his boots. “Don't worry about it, mate. Money's not an issue. And I'm glad I can help with your grandfather. Will he be alright?”

Colin looked at the ground, too, tucking his camera and lens in his bag. “Hard to say. Heart trouble,” he murmured.

“Sorry to hear that.”

It was perhaps the most serious and human conversation Harry and Colin had ever shared. He'd always thought of Colin as that annoying little first year who followed him around with the camera, clicking away. But that boy had become a very good sort of young man—decent, and not afraid to explore his talents, giving it his all. A very Gryffindor-like trait.

Colin was a gifted photographer. The shots he took of Draco in secret, of the blonde hunched over his piano, plying the ivories, or gazing out past the castle ramparts, winter sun in his white hair... they were beautiful. Even Draco in the photographs seemed to have a sense of the composition, keeping still even when he had the freedom to move about as he pleased. Wind would sweep through his hair, rustle his robes, or his fingers would traipse along the piano keys. Harry sometimes thought he could hear music in the pictures, the images were that strong. He felt as though he were watching a scene from a film over and over again, everything frozen in time. He never wanted to look away.

Colin was right. About the whole thing, really. It made Harry feel a part of Draco's life—like he wasn't such a selfish, juvenile asshole for leaving the man at Hogwarts in order to get his own shit together. He wished he could be inside Colin's lens sometime; watching Draco, patient, lining up the perfect shot. Draco was pretty much the perfect subject. Colin was lucky. They all were.

“Anyway, enough about me!” Colin brightened, stepping down beside Harry and brushing snow from his hair. A dash of it fell on Harry's shoulder in a fine powder, the rest blowing off in the breeze. “I'm sure you'll want to get to the victory party. And I've got loads of film to develop.” He patted his bag happily.

“Good luck, then.” Harry offered. They both ducked into the stairway, soon parting ways with a wave, each going his own way in the crowd—Colin back to the castle, and Harry to catch the Gryffindor team before they left the locker rooms.

- - -

Together, Harry and Draco leaned against the sunny side of Madame Hooch's broom shed, accepting the arm-waving and cheers aimed their way by the last few straggling students as they made the snowy trek back to the castle. Draco smiled at them all—that devilish, Malfoy smirk painting his lips—while Harry waved back, observing the passersby.

“Good turn out,” Draco muttered.

“Seems like,” Harry agreed.

“More than the last match—Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,” he shrugged offhandedly. Peakes and Coote, two of Draco's Beaters, wandered by, both offering their captain a firm salute, grins taking over their boyish faces. Draco stuck his tongue out at them and they laughed all the way back to the castle. He shooed their retreat with the back of his hand, the way he used to dismiss Kreacher back at Grimmauld Place—that little flick of his fingers and wrist was familiar, a reminder of home and their stolen life together.

Harry spoke, trying to bring his mind back to the here-and-now. It didn’t do him any good to dwell on things. “Gryffindor always puts on a good show. People come out for that.”

“You think?” Draco's voice was a little sharp. He was looking at the ground as he spoke, ignoring his fans. “Some of them still want to point and whisper—Malfoy-the-Gryffindor, what a ninny, haha.” He snorted. “Wonder Boy's Bitch.”

Harry winced. “I thought all press was good press, right?” He bumped his shoulder against Draco's, trying to catch his gaze. No such luck. “There might be people who think that about you—fuck 'em. I can see there are a fair few more who think well of you.”

“You trying to make me feel better?” Draco accused thinly.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. “Only if it's working.”

Draco slapped Harry across the tops of his thighs with their shared Firebolt. “Git.”

That was Draco's way of saying “yes, it's working.” And “thank you for making me feel better.” And possibly “I'm randy, let's fuck.” Harry licked his lips.

“We waiting for something?” Draco pushed snow around with the toe of his trainer—Harry's trainers, of course, but they wore the same shoe size, so what did it matter? Their things had become interchangeable a while back. Calling anything “his” or “mine” was a joke at this point.

Draco's gaze slid up to Gryffindor Tower, lights glowing inside the Common Room. “I'm sure the victory celebration is well underway by now.” There was a hint of a sneer in his voice—like he was trying to keep from laughing at the absurdity of it: Gryffindors celebrating the actions of Draco Malfoy. It was all a little silly when you thought about it, though. The house rivalries, the petty fights, all of it. Harry sighed.

“We're waiting for the locker room to empty out,” he said, very quietly. A gust of wind pulled at the snow piled on top of the shed, making a waterfall of tiny white flakes between the pair of them and the waning crowd. Harry bumped his shoulder against Draco's. “I think the coast is clear.”

Draco turned, quirking an ash-blonde brow. “And what might we be doing in an empty locker room?” And then he seemed to realize. His eyes brightened perceptibly, lighting up his face. “You mean...?”

Harry nodded, offering his arm. “Fantasy number twenty four. Shall we?”

- - -

Ron slung his arm over his girlfriend's shoulders, pulling her close enough to plant a dry kiss to the top of her head. She was still wearing her red knit cap; he got a mouth full of scratchy fibers and the smell of her school trunk but he didn't care. He breathed in her scent, squeezing the top of her arm until she rested her head against his chest, content.

“We did it, 'Mione,” he whispered into her hat.

“I know, dear,” she smiled, patting his hand absently. “You had it in you all along—just had to put your mind to it was all. Still, I'm proud of you.”

He had a feeling they weren't just talking about Quidditch.

Not knowing what to say—and probably incapable of any sort of speech beyond an unintelligible squeak—Ron swallowed the lump in his throat and kept his mouth shut. He leaned his head against Hermione's, holding her close as his teammates and fellow Gryffindors celebrated all around them.

Hermione turned in his arms, surveying the room with his hands on her curvy hips.

“Have you seen Ginny?” she asked, peering at the window bench behind them as though his sister might be lurking there.

Ron shook his head. “Not in the last half hour, no. You don't think...?” he let that thought trail off, seeing the idea taking form behind Hermione's dark brown eyes as she peered back over her shoulder at him. She chewed her cheek.

“Harry and Malfoy never made it back after the game,” she said slowly—as though, if the words were far enough apart, the idea might never come to fruition.

Ron found the courage to say it out loud. “Gin's off looking for them. Barmy,” he rolled his eyes. “She knows she's gonna find them snogging somewhere... or worse. Why does she bother?”

Hermione sighed in his arms, leaning back against him for strength.

“Harry used to stalk Malfoy like this,” Ron mused, resting his chin on top of Hermione's hat-covered head once more and folding his lanky arms across her midsection. Her smell helped him think—books and ink, feathered quills and flower-petal face cream. She was familiar, homey, after all this time. “It's not healthy behavior. I mean, she knows what he and Malfoy are up to. We all know, since they don't hide it much these days. There's nothing sinister, no reason to be sneaking around.”

“Maybe,” Hermione mused quietly, “she never really got over Harry. She got fed up with him,” Hermione voiced before Ron could interrupt. She knew him too well. It made him smile despite himself. “But I don't think she's moved on, emotionally. She's had strong feelings for Harry for a very long time—and those kinds of feelings don't dissipate overnight. Maybe this is her process.”

Ron let out a puff of air, the stray hairs at his girlfriend's brow dancing in the warm breeze of his breath. He let his chest deflate until he was hunched, giving his weight over to the familiar body beneath his own. She curled her arms over his, folding them together.

“Why?” he pleaded under his breath. “Why are all the people I love bloody deranged stalkers?”

Hermione gave his arm a gentle pat. “We can't all be perfect. Be glad she's not off in the Forbidden Forest, fighting with centaurs or raising giant half-relations.”

Ron smiled. “You've never met my Aunt Mildred. Giants would be an improvement.”

- - -

Her feet were on a mission, the rest of her dragged along.

Ginny barely registered the corridors as they flew by. The castle felt empty, with everyone back in their Common Rooms—Gryffindor celebrating their victory and the Ravenclaws analyzing their defeat, that by knowing its construction they might outwit it next time ‘round.

It was a wasted effort: you couldn't analyze Malfoy. As soon as you thought you understood him, something new would pop up, catching you off-guard. It was truly fucked up, that she knew this much about Draco Malfoy. She watched him all over Hogwarts, as she'd done to Harry her first few years in the castle. At first she'd been following him out of... what was it, exactly? Curiosity? A sick curiosity at best. It had festered, and now she couldn't shake it. Harry or Draco. She wasn’t sure anymore.

They weren’t in the castle. That much she knew. She made her way out to the grounds, scarf hanging limp around her neck despite the cold.

Not milling around by the pitch. Not snogging in the broom shed, either—though a pair of rather surprised Hufflepuffs were.

Keep looking. She had to find them. The ‘why’ of it had ceased to matter a while back.

Masochism. Yes, that had to be it. She was a masochist. With that decided, she made for the Quidditch pitch. She hadn’t checked there yet.

Empty pitch. Empty stands.

The locker room, maybe?

This was pointless, of course. She knew what she would find. Eventually, it would find her. She might as well find the pair of them and get the whole thing over with. At least it was warmer in the enclosure under the stands, away from the wind and the snow starting to fall in earnest. She rubbed her hands together, not actually feeling the cold. But some part of her mind warned her it was there.

Pushing open the door, she immediately heard voices echoing off the tiles.

“No.”

“Come on.” A heavy huff.

“I said no.” Firm.

The first voice—the one refusing—was Harry. She was sure of it. The other had to be Malfoy; yet he didn't sound like himself. The voice was tighter, strained. Like there was a weight on his chest, and he couldn't catch his breath.

“Please.”

Malfoy. Begging.

She closed the door behind her as quietly as possible. It sounded as though they were on the other side of the lockers, either near or in the men's loo.

There were grunts, and what sounded like shoving. A spell was muttered. Someone groaned.

Closer.

Ginny tip-toed, peeking around the corner.

“Yeh like tha'?”

The both had their pants down 'round their ankles, Harry's hands braced at the sides of one of the communal sinks. His stance was wide, back straight as a board. Muscles in his shoulders flexed as he moved, like snakes coiling around each other under a bed sheet, waiting to get out, to strike. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror above the sink, Malfoy's silver-blond head reflected above his own.

Malfoy had his prick up Harry. He held Harry at hip and shoulder, shoving into him so hard they ricocheted off one another, bouncing back a second later, little tremors sent through Malfoy's pale thighs and the meat of Harry's haunches. He leveraged himself against the sink, pushing back with equal force, slamming into Malfoy just as hard. It looked rather brutal.

She'd never seen Harry's face look that way. There was something in his expression like rage and hunger all mashed together, his eyes lit like the Killing Curse lived inside him—a bright green that made you forget everything else. It was powerful. And frightening.

Harry met Malfoy's eyes in their reflection, staring him down. The Chosen One laughed. She’d never heard his voice that low. If her eyes hadn’t been fixed to his mouth….

“Of course I like it. Fuck....” he bit his lip with the next thrust. His head rolled. His eyes came back to Malfoy's in the mirror, stronger than ever. There was light around his hands, like pale blue fireflies zooming in streaks, leaving lines like lightning in their wake. It might have crackled—she couldn't tell over the echo of skin slapping skin, over Malfoy grunting with the effort of doing as Harry wanted.

They stared one another down in the mirror—eyes boring as though they were on opposite sides of the room. It made her skin itch.

She took a step back. That’s when Malfoy’s gaze snapped to her in the mirror. He froze.

“Love? We have company.”

He saw her—saw her face, mouth slack and open, her eyes shocked and wide. It only took her a second to turn tail and run, the door swinging shut behind her.

Apparently all Weasleys blushed that ugly shade of red. It clashed quite horribly with their ginger hair.

Draco’s eyes fell to Harry’s back. He watched a drop of sweat trace the man’s spine, disappearing where their bodies met.

Harry peeked back over his shoulder. He had that look in his eyes—the challenge. “I’ll try to finish if you can.”

Draco bucked up his courage. He really had to beat Harry Potter in everything—or spend the rest of his life trying.

“Baby, yer probably a little sick,” Draco offered, a smile tugging at his lips. He slid forward to the hilt, until Harry was pinned against the cold porcelain sink. He bet it hurt. “But I love you.”

For The Curious: Viktor’s Bulgarian Slang

Vitya Krum calls Draco “priiatelyu,” a casual endearment akin to “dude,” “buddy,” “mate,” or the American “bro.” Viktor’s being friendly, and a little bit cute. He’s trying to butter Draco up.

POST SCRIPT: Can't get enough Conscience? Burning question? Itching for a response to your flaming, blithe and pithy review? There's an App for that.

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http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/28110-review-replies-discourse-conscience/
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