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
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SUMMARY: Harry Potter returns from battle to be faced with a far more intimate fight.

WARNINGS: romance

CONSCIENCE:

2 AM

Harry Potter stumbled through her floo.

Minerva hardly looked up. Even the fact that the seventeen-year-old was carrying a bottle of champagne and an ample box of chocolates did little to pique her interest. The gifts were likely for his cankerous sweetheart, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, who had been more than choleric lately due to the increasing danger and duration of Potter’s missions. At least this time, The Boy Who Fought had remembered a Cleaning Charm for the evidence of battle on his person. He’d even repaired the rips in his clothing, save for one at the knee of his trousers.

It had been quite a fight to take Malfoy Manor. The newly rebanded Aurors Office had pulled out all the stops—teaming up with Potter and his new mentor in destruction and rule-breaking, Leon Harper—to pull off what would likely go down in history as the Ministry’s first victory against Death Eater forces in this dreadful Second War. Their combined strike force had held back nothing, employing every method they knew and a few withheld from record, in order to achieve victory, driving the Death Eaters from that ancient Wiltshire home. Preliminary reports had just been smuggled to Minerva’s desk.

Between them, Nymphadora and Kingsley had their ways, and Minerva was infinitely grateful. The Minister wasn't about to knowingly keep her in the loop, after all.

She frowned. Potter’s heavy workman’s boots were leaving dirty prints on her carpet. She set down her quill, giving the boy her attention for the moment.

“Making progress, Mr. Potter?” she inquired—regarding, of course, this mysterious project he, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley were rumored to be working on. Clearly his insistence on reclaiming Malfoy Manor had something to do with the secret endeavor. Many people believed that Potter simply wished to flush out the Death Eaters, or perhaps get to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and end the war. Some suspected he had a wish to return the house to his beloved little pet, Draco Malfoy. Minerva sought to put down those rumors, yet had nothing more compelling to replace them with save the truth—that Harry Potter was up to something. Something sneaky. He always was. He would have made an excellent Slytherin.

“I... think I found something, Professor,” Harry said, tiredness about to overtake him. He looked ready to fall asleep on his feet. It had been an especially long night for The Boy Who Lived, if the reports were true.

He gestured to her office door with the chocolate box in his hand. “Would you mind terribly if I got your opinion in the morning? I'd really like to see Draco.”

Before she could make reply, Harry had already given a small, awkward bow and taken his leave.

- - -

Harry cast a quick Tempus Charm as he hurried down the hall—half one in the morning. He pulled his Invisibility cloak from his bag, though it stunk of sweat and battle, and threw it over his shoulders. He didn’t want to frighten any of the Prefects or professors patrolling the halls. And he didn’t wish to be detained. He’d barely escaped McGonagall’s office without an interrogation.

What he needed most was Draco.

Well, Draco and a good night’s sleep. Everything could be sorted in the morning. He could sort himself in the morning.

He gave the password to the bust of Paracelsus guarding the Heads’ suite, tiptoeing up the incline which led to Hermione and Draco’s rooms. He dropped his cloak and bag beside the fountain, pushing his glasses atop his head before bending to splash some cool water over his face. He wanted to look at least half alive before Draco caught sight of him. A quick peek to his left showed there were candles lit in Draco’s room, judging by the wavering quality of light spilling from beneath his door.

At his back, the door to Hermione’s room opened with a creak.

“‘Mione!” he started, twisting around on his knees. “You’re still up?”

His friend looked horribly tired—bordering on ill. Her hair was caught up on top of her head and secured with a shoddy spell, smudges of ink on her fingers and one across her cheek. There was an Arithmancy textbook in her hand.

“Two days until end of term, Harry,” she muttered weakly, her eyes flitting somewhere just over his head. “NEWTS are just around the corner.”

Harry felt strangely guilty. “You didn’t have to come with me tonight,” he began.

“Of course I did,” she interrupted, the hand with the textbook going right to her hip. She gestured with the other; a sweeping movement, as though she were flinging his concern aside. “I made you a promise, Harry. Ron and I both did—that we would be there with you, no matter what. And we intend to keep it.” Her face softened a little. “All you have to do is call.”

Harry pushed up from his knees, wiping his hands on his trousers before going to her, extending his arms for a hug. She eased into his embrace, linking her wrists at the smalls of his back and resting her chin against his hair, just above his ear. She was still growing taller while Harry seemed to stay the same.

“Thanks,” Harry offered tightly, unsure what else to say. Her free hand traveled up his spine, pressing their hearts together a moment before laying a kiss to his temple and stepping away.

From Draco’s room, Harry heard notes from the Black family’s heirloom piano. Slow at first, each measure coming as though it were testing the last, as though Draco was unsure. Draco paused in his playing, probably muttering. Harry could picture his blonde based solely on memories—how he sat, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed somewhere just past the edge of his instrument, head bobbing with each accented note.

Going back a few bars, Draco replayed the last section, this time changing several key notes and their timing. Harry found the melody haunting but somehow familiar. It reminded him of the way the wind whistled through the Astronomy Tower at night, rustling the trees and the surface of the lake far below. It felt like Hogwarts at night—dangerous, but it was home.

Hermione let out an agitated little sigh. She flicked a hand toward Draco’s quarters.

“Go on, then,” she chided. “I know that’s where you want to be.”

Harry’s head canted to the side. “What are you saying?” he asked, honestly dumbfounded. When he tried to sneak a peek into Hermione’s room, she blocked his line of sight. So, on a hunch, Harry barreled on. “Yes, I want to see Draco. But that’s only natural! I mean, I’m sure Ron came straight up here—”

Her mouth dropped open, eyes widening.

Harry backpedaled. “He’s still here, right?” Harry indicated her room with a casual point.

Hermione’s answer was to slap his finger down, quickly turning prudish. It was dark in the foyer, but with the sliver of candle light coming from her room, he thought he detected a blush on her cheeks.

“Ron visits you, right? Alone?” Hermione’s big, startled eyes dared him to say it all out loud. Harry couldn’t resist a dare. “For sex.”

Her reply was downright affronted. “That Malfoy is a terrible influence on you, Harry. I've thought so from the beginning.” Harry rolled his eyes dramatically, just to be sure she saw the gesture. “As for Ronald and I—we're saving ourselves for marriage. We want it to be special.” She stopped there. But he could tell by the twist of her mouth that she was just dying to tack on an all-together childish “unlike some people.” But Hermione couldn’t bring herself to talk that way.

One day, she’d realize how wrong she was. She and Ron would have sex and then she’d be just like Harry—thinking of nothing else. Sex with someone you really loved did that to you. It was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to have people harping about, on your arse every five seconds about. Eventually, she’d spread her legs and figure that out.

Harry took a deep breath through his nose. And then he let the anger out. It had been a long night and he was through with holding back.

“What're we supposed to do?” Harry’s hands flapped, exasperated, at his sides. “It's not like Draco and I can get married—” he was about to add “with the war going on” but was swiftly cut off.

“Did he tell you that?”

“No. We haven't talked about it.” Harry froze. “Are you saying we can?”

Hermione folded her arms under her bust, looking like she’d rather be explaining Ancient Rune Theory to Trevor, Neville’s escapist toad.

“Wizarding law is loosely written for that very purpose. The Ministry issues a standard form and most Ministry employees are licensed to conduct ceremonies. One can marry anyone capable of reciting vows—man, woman, centaur, ghost, or, in a very disturbing and precedent-setting case, a particularly well-trained kneazle with a Morse code machine.” Her gaze sharpened. “Are you saying you actually want to marry Malfoy?” She said it as though Draco was that well-trained kneazle.

In the silence that followed, Harry heard Draco playing his piano.

“How long has he been at it?” Harry asked, pointedly changing the subject

“Since dinner, I’m told. Which he didn't eat—at least not in the Great Hall.” The way her eyes moved, Harry knew she suspected Draco’s dinner had been liquid of the alcoholic variety. “He's played every night since you left. And usually 'til two or three in the morning.”

Harry hooked his thumbs in his back pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet—they hurt. “He misses me, Hermione. He's lonely. He doesn't have any friends here.” He doesn't have any friends at all, Harry thought morosely. Just me. I'm everything he's got.

Hermione brushed a wisp of hair away from her eye. “You can’t keep doing this to him,” she warned. “Eventually....”

“Wot?” Harry couldn’t help the aggressive jut of his chin. He always got defensive when it came to Draco.

Hermione’s gaze dropped to the floor. She stepped back into her doorway, a hand on the golden door handle, eager to make her retreat.

“Just... please, tell him to stop playing at all hours of the night, okay? It keeps the third year girls awake: like I’ve told you before, their rooms are right on the other side of the wall. I've had to give them all Sleeping Potions.”

Harry held his breath to keep from making a nasty come-back. He tried not to think about all the times Hermione had given him or Ron a potion, sometimes without their knowledge, like the Cheering Potions hidden in their tea back at Grimmauld Place. Granted, he’d pretended to slip Ron Felix Felicis once... but that was different. Perhaps Harry was just more sensitive to it now. After all, someone had dumped Veritaserum into the Gryffindor pumpkin juice, hoping to catch himself or Draco unawares. He didn’t like all these potions going around. It must have shown on his face because Hermione was retreating into her room.

“I'll ask him if he might seal our room so no one’s bothered,” Harry conceded. He tacked on, voice going lower, “But I won't tell him to stop.”

Hermione gave a nod, already in her room and closing the door. “It’s a compromise,” she agreed.

“G’night, then,” Harry shrugged. He turned on his heel and crossed the anteroom in three swift strides, not wanting to wait another minute to hold Draco again.

The door was unlocked and Harry let himself in.

Just as he’d thought, Draco sat at the piano, a feather quill tucked between his skinny fingers as they caressed the keys, trying yet another variation on that eerie melody. He paused, scratching out a few bars on the page in front of him before throwing down the quill, backing up several measures to play the phrase straight and true.

Harry couldn’t hold back any longer.

“That's beautiful, honey.”

“You think?” Draco stood, long legs quickly closing the distance between them.

“Definitely.”

Harry kissed him deeply, chocolate and wine still in hand. Draco wiggled away, taking the sweets from him and—after examining the box and finding it to his satisfaction—setting it and the champagne aside. The blonde fussed with the bottle, spinning it to read the label even as he spoke.

“Well, I always wanted ta try composing. Dinna think I had the knack fer it. But I guess these things can change.”

“Speaking of things changing,” Harry swallowed thickly, pushing the words out. “What do you think of marriage?”

Draco turned to look at him full on, a frown quirking his eyebrows. “As an institution, or are we discussing a particular instance?”

“Well, in general, I guess.” Harry swung his duffel bag off his shoulder, dropping it by Draco's feet. The blonde shuddered the slightest bit, stepping away from it as though he could feel the cold from outside still living in the fabric. His pointed face was wary as he spoke, his tone reserved.

“I think it's very nice, people promising to be faithful to one another an' such. It's also a shame the whole thing so rarely works out.” His face dropped and he rubbed idly at his arms as though they itched. “Why? Are you proposin'?”

Harry shrugged—just one shoulder, playful. “Only if you're accepting.”

When Draco didn't move a muscle, Harry took himself down to one knee. Once his intent became clear, Draco appeared short of breath, his big grey eyes skittering everywhere at once—refusing to actually look at Harry. He wanted to reach for Draco's hand, to hold it in his own.

“Draco, I know right now you feel like you don't belong. I have no idea how hard it must be for you,” he caught both of Draco's cool hands in his, warming them. The Gaunt ring sparkled on his finger. “But I want you to understand that you already belong—to me, Draco. I want to marry you. That is, if you'll have me.”

“Yer crazy,” Draco whispered. It was a tiny, awed sound.

“Well, so are you.” Harry looked up into his silver eyes, reflecting Gryffindor red and firelight. Behind his beautiful gaze, there was madness—a madness born in the Malfoy catacombs, fueled by his screams, surrounded by Dark magic and buried deep within him. Neither of them could escape it. But Harry was ready to embrace it rather than run from it. The madness was a part of Draco now.

“I guess I can deal with a bit more danger leveled at me,” Draco sighed.

“Danger?” Maybe Harry hadn't thought this through very well. Hell, he hadn't thought it through at all! The idea of marrying Draco had possessed his brain like the Imperius Curse.

Draco nodded vaguely. “Yes. The Dark Lord will be livid. He hates gays almost as much as mixed-bloods and traitors.” That made Harry and Draco the Holy Trinity of things Lord Voldemort hated. “But what about our names?” Draco continued in an oddly disinterested voice. “Would you change yours or do you expect me to drop mine?”

Harry's cheeks pinched, wondering where in the hell that question had come from. This wasn't exactly the reception he'd expected to a marriage proposal. “Who says we have to change our names?”

“It's the law,” Draco scoffed. “Helps keep the bloodlines clear; you know, prevent any confusion regarding inheritance and such in the case of children.”

“Two wizards can have children?!” Harry was beginning to believe in miracles.

“Don't be ridiculous, poilu!” Draco laughed, pink flooding his cheeks. “Two blokes, have a baby? Tha's rich. Where would ya get an idea like tha', ya muggle?”

“Oh, never mind.” Harry was getting nervous, still down on one knee without an answer.

“Suppose I would end up changin' mine,” Draco sighed offhandedly. “But only because 'Harry Malfoy' sounds positively dreadful.”

“Draco, is that a yes?”

“We'd need a special license, ya know,” he went on as though he hadn't heard Harry's plea: on bended knee, no less. The stone floor was getting awfully cold.

“I thought there wasn't a problem with two blokes getting married. Why a special license?”

“Well, when the two blokes in question wanta get married immediately, ya need a special license. I suppose—if we owl the Minister now, put yer name all over it an' mark it most extremely urgent—we could have our license by sundown tomorrow.” Draco looked at Harry and smiled. It was the most handsome, happy smile Harry had ever seen.

“Really? You'd marry me tomorrow?” Harry asked, hardly believing Draco was agreeing.

“Quick, mon coeur. Before I change my mind.”

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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Conscience