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
- 51
- 52
- 53
SUMMARY: Draco passes time at Hogwarts while unfortunate news wings its way to the castle.

DISCLAIMER: Opening quote taken from “The Chain” by Ingrid Michaelson, released by Cabin 24 Records, August of 2009.

Lyrics mentioned by Harry are from “The Girl In The Dirty Shirt” by Noel Gallagher of Oasis.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The adorable, pint-sized owl mentioned is the Northern Saw-Whet variety, native to Canada and the United States. Saw-Whet's are known to winter in the Ohio River Valley.

CONSCIENCE:

THE CHAIN

“I’ll never say I’ll never love;

but I don’t say a lot of things,

and you my love are gone.”

The Chain

Ingrid Michaelson

Harry would be leaving soon. Draco could feel it in Wonder Boyfriend's tighter-than-usual hugs; the way he held on a moment too long, sniffing Draco's increasingly messy blond hair. He paid less attention to his looks when Harry was about. Probably because they spent all their time in bed or otherwise on their backs.

Harry was drawing closer before they had to pull away.

His last night in the tower, he asked Draco to play the piano for him. When asked what it was he wanted to hear, Harry shrugged, saying, “Anything. Surprise me.”

He smiled when Draco played Oasis, Harry's favorite band. But Draco didn't sing the simple lyrics—just pounded away on the keys, mimicking the strumming of guitars. The words slipped through Harry's head in Noel Gallagher's voice, “You've got a feeling lost inside, it just won't let you go. Your life is sneaking up behind, it just won't let you go.”

He looked up when Draco began to hum along.

“Why don't you sing, love?” Harry asked from the sofa. “You know the words. I can tell you want to.”

The blonde scoffed. “I certainly do not! Wha' eva gave yeh such a barmy idea?”

“Just... the look on your face,” Harry sighed, lying back down. “You can sing if you like.”

“No thank you,” the blonde snipped regally, pointed nose in the air.

Harry pressed his luck, asking, “Would you sing for me?” A pregnant pause met his request. He tried sweetening the deal with a please. No luck.

“Absolutely not,” Draco replied firmly. “I don't sing. Not publicly, anyway.”

“Since when am I public?” chortled Harry.

“Since I'd like ta have sex with ya again,” Draco, his hands now still upon the keys, looked over at Harry. The pureblood's expression was light—and vaguely distant. “I jus'... don't sing. I love music an' it always struck me as odd tha' my parents discouraged my havin' singin' lessons along with the piano. But I've neva sung a note in my life an' I'm not 'bout ta start.”

“That's pants, Draco,” Harry stretched out on the sofa, his hands folded behind his head in thought. “Did your mother sing?”

“All the bloody time.”

“Then why weren't you allowed?”

Realization slapped Draco across the face. Hard. “My father thinks singing is effeminate,” he said slowly, gazing unseeingly at Harry. His grey eyes slid to the fire in the hearth as he recalled. “Once, when I was very young, I broke my nose playing Quidditch. When I cried, Father beat me with a switch. Any semblance of the feminine, any emotionality or weakness, was unacceptable. I'm sure my little boy soprano echoin' through the Manor,” Draco waggled his long white fingers, mimicking his sweet boyish notes floating through the halls of the old Wiltshire house, “would have set him on a murderous rampage.”

“That's.... Cor, that's awful,” Harry stuttered, propped up on his elbows to look at Draco. Harry understood, having taken a few belts to the back himself. “I know how much you love music. You should sing if you want to. I promise I won't lose my hard on if you're awful... but you won't be.” Harry smiled warmly.

“Advice on living from the boy who came of age in a cupboard,” Draco muttered, a slight answering smile crinkling his features.

“So would you sing for me?” Harry persisted in a yawning, sleepy baritone.

“I'll... think 'bout it,” the blonde conceded. “Is tha' alright? 'Cause I think I'd need ta get royally lashed before I'd consider givin' it a go.”

“Sure,” Harry nodded, pushing himself to his feet and stretching through another mighty yawn. “I mean, I'd really like to hear you sing. But I can wait 'til you're comfortable.” Harry came over to rest both hands on Draco's bony shoulders. “I'd wait forever for you.” He kissed the top of his fair head.

Draco rolled his eyes, swatting Harry away with a mumbled, “Get stuffed, Wonder Boy.” Harry only waggled his eyebrows at the innuendo, pulling at the hem of his shirt suggestively. Draco's eyes darted between his partner and their bed. He got up from the piano bench, stalking after Harry as the brunet walked backwards toward the bed. The Boy Who Lived To Tent Draco Malfoy's Pants paused in the middle of pulling off his shirt.

“You'll keep playing for me, yeah?” Harry's expression was earnest, brows raised, as though he expected Draco might stop playing piano in front of him altogether in order to rehearse his singing. “I like listening,” Harry shrugged rather shyly.

“That's why I don' wanna sing,” Draco muttered darkly, backing Harry against the bed. “I'd rather you continue enjoying. Na shut up,” he smirked. “An' I'll show ya somethin' we both know I'm very good at.”

~ * ~

To pass the time, Draco arranged for a skirmish between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Quidditch teams. Many saw it as an informal rematch after Ravenclaw’s stunning defeat. Their captain, Chaser Alan Chambers, was hesitant at first, unsure what angle Draco might be playing at. Several owls later, the captain relented. Ravenclaw was slated to play against Slytherin next, and they could use all the practice they could get if they hoped to stand a chance against the green and silver tide. Slytherin was playing especially big and brutal this year. Though they could be easily outmaneuvered, it would take an immense talent to outsmart them. Several of Slytherin’s mountainous players only looked like idiots. They weren’t to be taken lightly. Draco understood this perhaps more acutely than most.

Gryffindor would face Slytherin in the first match after returning from winter hols. It was in both Draco and Chambers’ best interests to keep their teams in top form—Draco more so, as his players would have more down time between matches.

He had a secret reason for wanting to practice with the Ravenclaw team—or, to be more specific, with Ravenclaw’s Beaters. This year the ravens had two brothers on their roster, Michael and James Grant. And while the twins couldn’t compare to Slytherin’s Durmstrang imports in size, they were an equal threat on the field. Slytherin’s captain, sixth year Maldon Rees, focused on size alone when building his roster. Chambers had selected his Beaters for their cunning, their exceeding intelligence and pure deviousness, on and off the pitch. Only last week, Draco and Granger had hauled the Grant brothers into Headmistress McGonagall’s office by their ears, having caught the pair in the Restricted Section after hours, poring over books. They’d nearly been suspended; instead, Draco had been able to sway McGonagall’s decision, lessening their punishment to a series of grueling morning detentions with Professor Weasley.

Chambers had thanked Draco profusely. It wasn’t everyday that a rival captain rescued his opponent’s strongest players from school administration; Draco had used every centimeter of clout and charm he possessed to see the thing through. The Grants, however, weren’t quite as pleased after their first session with Percy Weasley. They said assisting the Ministry man was like watching paint dry. Still, they’d promised to keep their arses in line after their Head Boy had stuck his neck out for them. Draco used this good turn to grease the cogs with Chambers, getting their skirmish scheduled around detentions, practices and other commitments. The whole thing took days to set up.

Draco kept an ear to the ground for gossip. It didn’t take much to glean that the Ravenclaws were nervous to stand against him a second time. Panic rippled through Ravenclaw Tower when it was discovered that Harry Potter would not be present—apparently Draco was far more sinister when outside of Potter’s supervision. He made a mental note. Everything could be played to his advantage.

Slytherin still managed to crush Ravenclaw in an overwhelmingly hostile match. The point spread was over three hundred by the time all was said and done, with the match itself lasting less than an hour. Draco had been particularly impressed by Slytherin’s Seeker; a previously unremarkable fourth year whom Draco knew only as ‘Harper.’

He spent the evening in contemplation, sipping a glass of port before the fire, before it occurred to him that he knew the boy—was in fact related, if somewhat distantly. He searched the family tree imprinted in his mind, tracing back to where his father’s great-great grandmother, Celia Harper, had married into the French wizarding family de Conde, producing a single daughter, who would marry into the Malfoy family. The Slytherin Seeker was on the Irish side of the family; more closely related to Harry’s mentor, Leon Harper, than he was to Draco. Still, they were perhaps fifth or sixth cousins.

Harper was slight like Draco, though as dark-haired as Draco was blond. Like Draco, Harper used his smaller stature—and resulting speed—to his advantage. The entire match, Harper and Rees had barricaded themselves behind their Beaters, Czeslaw Vïtols and Yuri Král. In his early Slytherin days, Draco would had played much the same as Harper. Now he would have to devise a strategy to throw off the Slytherin team’s balance—bringing Rees out of hiding, fucking with his head enough that his resulting decisions would be rash. Only then could Draco sneak in, when Rees’ guard was down, and strike. He would have to confuse Harper as well if he hoped to succeed. His best hope was to get Harper to the forefront of the field. He’d been trained to stay back, so Draco hoped that luring him into a more offensive playing style might disrupt his game, causing him to lose sight of the Snitch.

Beaters would always be Gryffindor’s biggest obstacle. Draco’s team was small and quick, like himself. A single well-delivered hit could potentially take out a number of his key players—tiny Angelika Whipple, for example, or his younger Chasers, Samantha Young and Natalie McDonald. Somehow, he had to eliminate the threat—Slytherin’s muscle—before dealing with Rees and Harper.

Draco had his work cut out. He drank his port and thought.

~ * ~

“Malfoy?”

Nothing.

“...Malfoy?”

Scratch, scratch, scratch went Draco's quill across the parchment.

“... Malfooooiiiiieeeeee!”

At last, Draco broke down.

“What is it, Gweir?” He may have spoken for the first time in forty minutes but he didn't turn from his place at the coffee table, carefully scripting yet another triumphant NEWTs essay.

The answer came at him in a sweet drawl. “Wha'cha dooooin'?”

Draco gripped his quill very tightly.

“What does it look like I'm doing?”

“Risking premature hair-loss,” the lad giggled. Draco twirled around in his seat to catch him running pudgy child's hands through his hair in imitation of his Head Boy. He must have been watching Draco very closely, indeed, because he nailed the image—right down to the way Draco's tongue had a tendency to play lizard, poking in and out over his thin-drawn lips whenever he concentrated.

“It's important work,” Draco sighed. “And needs doing.”

“Can't you play chess with meee?” Gweir whined, lolling across Draco's bed like a lanky, mop-haired sloth. His face was tiny and bunched up like one, too.

“No. Schoolwork. Of great import...” he trailed off, trying not to laugh at the funny upside-down creature about to slither off the side of his bed.

“Piano lesson?”

“I can't.” Draco set down his quill before he crushed it. “Work before play. And don't you have coursework as well?”

“First years don't get nearly that much. It's bloody Saturday, Malfoy!”

“I'm well aware what day it is,” Draco simpered, turning back toward his essay with renewed conviction. “That today is Saturday does not in any way alter or negate the fact that this research, in addition to another seventeen inches on the subsequent Sophist influence, is due this coming Tuesday. I'm sorry—but I have to finish this.”

Draco pushed his sleeves up past his elbows and set to work. He could do so because Kieran was accustomed to the sight of the Dark Mark by now—the boy was completely unfazed by it, as though the darkness upon his arm was like any other vanity-induced or commemorative tattoo. Kieran had touched his bare arm over multiple piano lessons, the only person besides Harry who would dare do so—the only person aside from Harry whom Draco would allow. They were the only ones who came close enough to touch. The mark was private, personal, a symbol of his own self-inflicted hell. It wasn't something anyone needed to see, let alone run their fingers over. Kieran understood, though, that the Mark had been his downfall, his undoing. It was a sign of shame to him; like his scars, it stood as an outward sign of poor decisions, lack of foresight and a weak stomach. And that wasn't something anyone need see.

These private quarters were one of the few places Draco felt comfortable rolling up his sleeves or walking round in a tshirt. He scratched out another three inches before the next interruption.

“Ugh,” the boy grunted, throwing himself onto his stomach with a drawn-out sigh. “What's your essay about, then?”

“Se Impetro Munus.”

“What's that?”

Draco took in a sharp breath through his nose. The air smelt of ink and persistence. “It's a two thousand, seven hundred year old theory, love, about the passing of magical aptitude from elde—you know what? Here!”

He got up, crossing the room in half a dozen powerful strides, throwing open his and Harry's trunk to rummage through the contents. He found what he wanted shoved off in a corner—one of those Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Patented Daydream Charms. Harry had gobs of free products lying about, gifts from the ginger twins which he never seemed to use. Scar Head had packed them up for Draco to bring to school. Now the blond threw the pink and purple pastel box at Gweir.

“Have fun,” drawled Draco.

“Oh, ace!” the boy cried, tearing open the frilly packaging with delight. “Thanks, Draco!”

And, face consumed in a puff of white smoke as the spell bloomed from its box, the twelve year-old Harry Potter look-a-like tumbled back onto Draco's bed, slack-jawed and dreamy-eyed, where he would remain for the next hour and a half.

~ * ~

Kieran piled his breakfast plate high with bangers, eggs and bacon.

Beside him, Draco dished up a small bowl of fresh fruit, sliding the bowl down the table and into the vicinity of Kieran's dangerously overflowing plate.

“Malfooooiiiiieeeeee...” Kieran whined, eying the fruit with limited enthusiasm.

Draco shot him a lifeless smile, the wizard's patience running thin. “Humor me,” the blond insisted. The older boy could be a real kill-joy sometimes. Kieran rolled his eyes but stuck his fork in a chunk of melon just the same.

“Fine,” he grumbled, popping it into his mouth. He later took a sip of the Head Boy's coffee when his back was turned.

He should have been in Slytherin. He knew that now. Sometimes, he thought, they both would have been much happier down there in the dungeons. Him and Draco, together. Abigail Brown wouldn't chase him, or try to kiss him, if he were a Slytherin boy. He wouldn't have to wear a red tie—his least favorite color. And he and Draco could sit in the Common Room and play chess or study without anyone making stupid, nasty comments. Fagging was a normal part of boarding school life, especially for boys. His Mum had told him all about it; how younger years would attach themselves to an older boy and follow him around, shining his shoes or bringing his robes to the house elves for mending.

Some boys did it because they were dumb as a sack of garden gnomes and needed help with their studies. Some boys fagged because they wanted to get ahead in a school club like Quidditch or Gobstones. Other boys just wanted to be popular, so they elected to spend their time getting in with the most handsome and charming fellows of the elder years, picking up hints and making the right connections to advance socially. Still others offered themselves freely out of admiration and respect for a particular older boy with great skill or a strong personality... somebody like Draco Malfoy.

Draco was easy to follow. Sure he was mean sometimes, but only when he was stressing over exams or worried about his boyfriend, Harry Potter. Draco pretty much disappeared when Potter was around—but that nirvana never lasted long; never more than a handful of days, usually just a quick drop-by in the afternoon or maybe a weekend spent ensconced in Draco's quarters, hardly emerging for meals. Draco was always happy when Harry showed up, and anxious when he took his leave. Draco kept saying that Harry was off fighting You-Know-Who: that knowledge—while it made Kieran along with everyone else feel a little safer, knowing the war wouldn't go on much longer—didn't do much for Draco's moods when his brave bespectacled hero was gone for weeks at a time. Kieran wished Harry Potter would make time in his oh-so-busy bad-guy-hunting schedule to pop by and snog his boyfriend a little more often. Perhaps bi-weekly? Just a quick grope in a broom cupboard or something. Peace at Hogwarts was in direct proportion to the quantity and duration of their kissing sessions. And it seemed Harry Potter was about the only bloke who didn't understand the correlation.

All things considered, Draco was a benevolent fag-master. There were worse people to tail around Hogwarts; at least Draco was terribly interesting. It didn't hurt that he was rather attractive as well—and bloody charming when he chose to be. Draco played piano, and a host of other instruments. He was Head Boy. He captained the Quidditch team. He wasn't shy of a debate. He drank and swore and smoked cigarettes out on the Heads' private terrace. Draco could be fun at times. He knew a lot about magic. Like his counterpart in academics, Hermione Granger, Draco seemed to have swallowed a few text books in his time at Hogwarts. Kieran hoped that someday he could know as much about so many things. Knowledge was one of the things which could make a wizard truly great. In that category, as well as many others, Draco Malfoy had quite a lot to offer.

As a fag-master, Draco wasn't at all cruel. Kieran had heard a rumor that last year, a Prefect in Ravenclaw called Anthony Goldstein had ordered two first years clean the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw in their Common Room using only a ladder, a bucket and their own toothbrushes—no magic—in order to prove their worthiness to fag for him. By that standard, Kieran was insanely, ridiculously lucky to have Draco bossing him around. The worst Malfoy did was look over his coursework and force him to eat the occasional fruit or vegetable. Sometimes they went flying together, both squeezed in tight on Potter's Firebolt, snow whipping through their robes as they flew over the white-blanketed grounds. Other times Draco would tutor him at the piano. One night, when Hermione Granger had been nagging him something fierce, Draco had offered Kieran a shot of some muggle liquor called tequila. It burned on the way down. A few sips later, Kieran had been drunk for the first time in his life. Unwound, he and Draco had banged on the piano, told lewd jokes and collapsed on his big fluffy bed in fits of giggles, their legs skyward and kicking.

Once Kieran knew for certain what hard liquor smelled like, he could occasionally detect its odor lingering around Professor Slughorn during Potions lessons. There wasn't anyone in his year with whom he could share a laugh over that tidbit. Just him and good old Draco.

He half expected to find the bitter bite of almond liqueur at the bottom of Draco's coffee cup this dreary morning. It had been quite some time since Potter's last visit. Draco wasn't the only one getting antsy as November snows blew in. Hermione Granger pounced on every bit of parchment which made its way into the castle, eager for news. She'd nearly torn Lavender Brown's copy of Dutch Witch Weekly to shreds a few days back. Ron Weasley sat beside her, a hand on her knee under the table. The gesture looked romantic-enough but Kieran knew better—it was to keep Granger from flinging herself at other people's post like a niffler on galleons.

Kieran was beginning to despair that there would be no owls today. It had been several days, and Angelika Whipple was expecting an Afrikaner Quidditch periodical from her brother back in KwaZulu-Natal. The Quidditch rag was sure to be passed around Gryffindor Common Room as soon as it arrived—a relic of the outside world. It was rare to get news of any kind, even something as simple as Quidditch or celebrity gossip. Whenever someone heard from their families, it was always that they were afraid to venture into any wizarding parts of town, that parents had stopped going to work or were packing up, moving themselves and any younger siblings to a relative's house. The further away your relatives lived, the better. Outside the UK was good—another continent was better. No one wanted to stay in Europe right now. Samantha Young, a fourth year on Draco's Quidditch squad, kept bragging to anyone who would listen about her relations in California, where her mother and younger brother had gone to stay after the Ministry fell.

Kieran glanced up at a familiar sound—the rush of owls, feathered wings beating the air as they flew past the beams at the uppermost reaches of the Great Hall's ceiling, post and papers clutched in their talons. There were a good number of them today, perhaps a dozen. That either meant there had been some major breakthrough in the fight against the Death Eaters, or there had been another tragedy, another skirmish, another handful of nice, innocent people killed and not nearly enough Death Eaters taken down with them.

Kieran set his fork aside and waited, muscles in his legs and arms tensing as a mixture of excitement and dread leaked down from the rafters. He tried to nail himself to the bench, ready for his seat to be upended if anyone nearby received post.

He watched the owls swoop down to their recipients; a good distribution between the houses this time around. There was one letter for Slytherin, the smallest house, two for Hufflepuff, four for Ravenclaw despite it being the second smallest in population, leaving the remainder to drift toward the Gryffindor table.

A Ravenclaw girl with auburn hair plaited in pigtails shot to her feet, hopping up on the table to grab her pet owl, all but ripping her post from the weatherproof holster on the bird's leg. She turned and sat right down on the table, her bum nearly landing in a plate of kippers. Someone's quick Summoning Charm saved the platter—and the girl's robes—at the last second. The pigtailed girl batted hands away and anxiously unfurled her prize: several pages of a wizarding newspaper, not enough to be a whole paper but clearly the first few pages, perhaps even a complete section. Or maybe that was all the presses were printing these days. A large headline appeared in Cyrillic script, moving pictures decorating the space below. Kieran squinted, peeking between moving bodies to try and get a peek at the photograph.

One last owl came fluttering into the Great Hall; tiny, quiet and virtually unnoticed in all the commotion. Kieran only caught sight of the bird as its wobbly flight path neared his end of the the Gryffindor table.

It was a chubby little thing, not much more than fluff and feathers. The creature had the biggest, yellowest eyes he'd ever seen, with a body not much larger than a cricket ball. There were white and honey-brown streaks on its chest, white spots decorating its back and a cream-colored undercarriage, itty bitty black talons peeking out under all that fluff. The bird looked almost cartoonish, too small and cute to actually be something living. It had to be a foreign breed. He'd never seen one quite like it before.

It kept winding closer and closer. Kieran began to fear the little thing had lost its way, or its mind, harassed by the much larger and more aggressive birds which had beaten it to the dining tables. The little owl skittered, unable to come to a complete stop, stomping its feet to slow its progress as it slid down the center of the Gryffindor table. At one point, it actually rolled over head-first—which did nothing to stop its momentum but caught the attention of quite a few students as serving utensils and a danish were sent flying. The bird collided with a pitcher full of pumpkin juice, not heavy enough to tip the container. It shook its head a bit, rumpled its feathers as though bucking up its courage, and marched right over to Draco Malfoy.

“What a sweet little owl!” cried one of the third year girls. “Would you look at those eyes!”

More people turned to look, watching as Draco held out a pale, slender hand for the bird to perch on. Draco clamped the bird's feet with his thumb, unhooking the equally miniature satchel attached to its leg. Kieran hadn't seen the leather pouch past the feathers. The owl jumped up to Draco's shoulder as soon as he released it, preening at a strand of white-blond hair over Draco's ear before seeing to the state of its own downy fluff. Draco raised a careful brow at the bird before electing to ignore it in favor of the missive it had carried from far, far away.

Draco's letter was sealed with a heavy, formal-looking crest set in green wax. There was a dab of red on the parchment beneath the seal—a drop of blood and some highly advanced old magic, together ensuring that only the intended recipient could break the seal. As Draco unfurled the parchment, Kieran read the print on the wax seal upside-down. Ministry of the Americas, it said in official script, Field Operations Services – Task Force Capt. Leonidas Harper.

Not many people seemed to notice that Draco too had a letter. Noise was building behind them as the Ravenclaw girl prepared to translate her newspaper to a growing gaggle of onlookers.

Vaguely far-sighted, Draco held his letter out away from himself in order to read it, the square of golden-colored parchment dotted with an untidy black scrawl. Kieran wormed his way closer, catching a better look from the crook of Draco's shoulder.

The letter read:

Draco,

I think of you constantly. You are always on my mind and in my heart.

Everything reminds me of you. Your face is the last thing I see falling

asleep each night and the first thing I want upon waking. I miss you so

much I don't know what to do with myself except carry on, survive and

plan each miserable day until I'm in your arms again. Know that I would

rather be with you than off saving the world. The only thing really worth

saving is you.

Know that I love you.

Yours always,

Harry

Draco's chest hitched. His bottom lip went weak, hanging out from his profile and wobbling soundlessly. Emotion threatened his steely eyes. Kieran was sure a part of the Head Boy was mortified to be showing this much of himself in public. But the rest of him was stunned silent, feeling running off his face in waves. His hand was less than steady as he lowered the parchment to the table, resting his forearms at the edge of his plate as his blond head dipped, hiding his face.

They both started when a cool hand alighted on Draco's shoulder, stroking the little owl's round head.

“Lovegood,” Draco greeted her without turning.

The sixth year girl was uniquely pretty, with a dreamy sort of look to her face and fashion, several silver-wrought bracelets on her wrist clinking whenever she moved. Kieran guessed Draco had identified her by the sound of her jewelry. There were radish-shaped dirigibles hanging from her ears, mostly hidden by the fall of her wavy blonde hair. Her features had a kind quality, relaxed and open. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, leaning, trying to catch a sideways glimpse of Draco's hidden face.

“Malfoy?” she said slowly. “Are you—”

Draco didn't let her finish. Instead, he held the letter up over his shoulder, effectively pushing it into her hand. She glanced down at it, her expression shifting as she caught sight of the untidy penmanship.

Her eyes flickered. “A letter from Harry? Is he alright?”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, his gaze settling on a nearby pile of toast but hardly seeing it.“Harry's... working on a project. He's frustrated because it's challenging—likely very dangerous—and taking longer than expected.”

“Oh,” Luna spoke knowingly. She eyed the weary set of Draco's shoulders, speaking to his back. “Is that what the letter says?”

Draco put his elbows up on the table, resting his head in his hands. He squeezed until his knuckles were a mess of ivory and red. White strands stuck out at odd angles from between his fingers, a carbon copy of Potter's messy hairstyle. The two were more alike than most people realized. Either that, or Draco was missing Potter so much he was emulating the chosen dolt.

“No,” Draco deadpanned. “I'm reading between the lines. Read it for yourself.”

Luna's eyes widened in astonishment as she read the short missive, her hand frozen in mid-air, half-way to covering her mouth in surprise.

“This is a love letter,” she stated matter-of-factly. She aimed a look at the top of Draco's bowed head, eventually settling the parchment on the Head Boy's empty breakfast plate. She looked as though she wanted to put a hand on his shoulder—he was clearly suffering so. Instead she said, “I shouldn't be reading that; it's just for you. You keep it in your breast pocket, close to your heart. That's what Harry would want.”

Draco nodded numbly, tucking the paper away in his robes.

Lovegood looked like she wanted to say something: Draco looked as though he couldn't make a single word if his life depended on it, he was so lost to his tumbling, restless thoughts.

Someone shoved pretty Miss Lovegood out of the way, trying to get to Draco. It was the Ravenclaw girl with plaited pigtails, holding her newspaper aloft.

“Malfoy!” The auburn-haired witch said loudly. She had a Russian accent. “Vhere iz Malfoy? He'll vant to see zis!”

Draco's head snapped up at the sound of his surname, his face a disturbing blank—pale and pointed and devoid, like a dead person, incapable of response. It was scary. His silvery eyes were dead.

The newspaper was waved in Draco's face even as he stood.

“What's this, then?” he intoned, pushing the newsprint away from his face enough to focus on the many little moving pictures. People were shoving their way down the House tables, trying to get closer, to see Draco's reaction to the news. Kieran knew there wouldn't be one.

Draco promptly sat down on the bench. His hand wilted around the printed page. Their Head Boy went limp as a rag doll, collapsing back against the table with an audible thud. Students knew to give him a wide berth, then. No one wanted to be near him on the off-chance he exploded—or worse. So Kieran pushed forward, not stopping until his chest was flush with the Head Boy's side, gazing up at his impassive face. Draco was more of a carving than a man, hard as marble and rooted to the spot as though he weighed a thousand stone.

Draco's ghost-white lips formed a single word. “No.”

The Russian girl pointed to the newspaper's headline settled in Draco's lap, pitching her voice to carry down the row as she translated.

“Hit Vizards Stationed at Azkaban Overzhrown—Death Eaters On Zhe Rampage, Led By Lucius Malfoy.”

Whispers rippled through the crowd of students. Faces paled in a wave.

“Zhey have escaped,” she told Malfoy.

A muscled Slytherin chap stood beside her—one of the Beaters for Slytherin Quidditch. He gazed down at Draco with some sympathy in his eyes.

“It vos only a matter of time,” the big Slytherin offered. His voice was so deep it rumbled nearby flatware. “Iz not Malfoy's fault. Blame hiz fazher. He iz zhe criminal.”

Kieran rested his hands on Draco's shoulder, shooing the fuzzy little owl away.

“Draco,” he whispered in his friend's ear. “Draco, you alright?”

Draco said nothing. The spark of life, of hope and faith and believing, was gone from his chest. His eyes were dead, focused on nothing, no color in his face or strength in his limbs. He was hardly breathing, shoulders still as stone beneath Kieran's fingers. Perhaps he thought he was going to die—that someone with a beef against Lucius Malfoy would try to slit his son's throat in the night, or that people would blame him for his father's actions, for his escape from prison. Maybe Draco thought his dad would come to Hogwarts, just like Sirius Black had broken out of wizard prison and come after Harry Potter several years ago.

That had to be it. Draco wouldn't be afraid of just anyone coming for his head. He was used to witches and wizards and stupid wankers hating him—for his name, for his family, for his Dark ways, for the person he loved. Very few things scared Draco. He could handle anything. He executed flawless Wronski Feints the likes of which would leave a lesser man trembling in fear. He ventured into the Forbidden Forest, practiced the Dark Arts and fought with Harry Potter, arguably one of the most powerful wizards of the age. Draco didn't frighten easily.

But the thought of his father, escaped from prison and gunning for his heir, scared the very life out of Draco.

His own father, Lucius Malfoy, was coming to kill him.
- 51
- 52
- 53
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Conscience