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
- 54
- 55
- 56
SUMMARY: “I wanna get you pregnant” is not the most appropriate or romantic way to say “I love you;” but, in this instance, it'll do.

WARNINGS: Hermione and Draco talking about sex, hovering vaguely around Ronald Weasley’s junk; offhand, comedic reference to bestiality; and more fucking romance than you can shake a stick at (please, can I kill someone soon? It's getting too fluffy in here....)

CONSCIENCE:

THE WORLD, ACCORDING TO ONE MISS HERMIONE GRANGER

“They're getting married?”

Hermione resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. She couldn't fault Ron, though. She hadn't exactly taken the news well when Harry informed her of these hastily concocted nuptial delusions shortly after sunrise. Ron was taking the news remarkably well, all things considered.

This was one of Harry's Significantly Un-Brilliant Ideas, as the Weasley clan referred to such hairbrained schemes behind closed doors. Harry had hatched some awful plots over the past seven years; searching for the Philosopher’s Stone, the exodus of Norbert, flying Mr. Weasley's Ford Anglia from London all the way to Hogwarts... and those were all before puberty! Harry's machinations only got worse the more his voice dropped.

Marrying Draco Malfoy could not be counted amongst his better designs. And yet, there were worse traps for Harry to get his pecker caught in.

It was a singularly unusual day indeed when getting hitched to Draco Malfoy wasn't the worst option in sight. The thought made her philosophically—nigh epistemologically ill.

Then again, Malfoy wasn't quite the same bullying blond of their youths—nor was Harry the same little boy, bright eyed and true, picking cupboard cobwebs from his unruly hair. They'd both grown... and neither necessarily for the better. Both had changed, seemingly overnight. If this union was terrible or good, she couldn't say anymore. That was a privilege she'd forfeited back in August, when she'd walked out on Harry in the midst of his first true adolescent crisis. Leave it to Harry to kill his Defence instructor at age eleven and bounce back in a matter of days, yet be so floored by love. Love with another chap, albeit, but love just the same.

She could only look upon this sudden union with pursed lips and an air of fondness. Having failed Harry once, when he'd apparently needed her most, Hermione was determined to keep herself out of this one—wand, nose, opinions, everything. She would be silent and supportive. She would be the good friend she’d failed to be once before. Never again.

So she shrugged off Ron's guffawing. If things didn't work out for Harry and his new spouse, there was always wizarding divorce—which worked precisely the same for same-gendered couples as it did for the mixed kind. Even cross-species marriages. She’d done the research. There was no chance of Harry losing his property or fortune to Malfoy in an ugly divorce; as Grimmauld Place and Harry's Gringotts vault had come to him by way of inheritance, both would be beyond his spouse's reach in the event of a split. The only thing which could be hurt by this endeavor was hearts, egos, and perhaps a reputation or two... nothing which Harry or his intended were too meek to gamble with. They'd both taken risks all their young lives, so what was one more?

When it came to Harry Potter, Hermione knew when it was time to step back and let The Boy Who Lived do as he would. This morning had been one of those moments—he'd glared at her in the weak light spilling through the French doors of the Head's foyer, the trickling of the lion fountain a faint splatter in the background as she was riveted to her dear friend's face. His eyes had dared her to speak a single word against him. And she could not, frozen to the spot in something like a seizure of awe and astonishment, face a silent tableau of emotion, everything laid bare across her sleepy features.

There wasn't a thing she could say or do to sway him, short of holding a seance to call the ghost of Albus Dumbledore to talk some sense into the raven haired boy. Then again, Dumbledore might've liked the idea of Harry and Malfoy together, putting aside their differences and old rivalries and all that rot. The old Headmaster had been big on inter-house unity, bringing down the barriers between pureblood and muggle-raised... but this was a stretch. Two seventeen year old boys were talking about getting married. Tonight. She doubted even Dumbledore's pleas of caution could halt Harry in this. He was too far gone, too deeply given in to the idea to turn back now.

He wanted Draco Malfoy. More than anything. And when Harry wanted something that badly, the way he reached for Malfoy now... nothing would stand in his way, that much was certain.

He'd said to her, plain as day, “We're getting married, Mione. Tonight. No but's. I hope you and Ron will come. I’ll speak to him about it myself but, if you happen to catch him, you can break the news if you like. Might be easier on him, hearing it from you first... maybe give it time to sink in and all. But it's brilliant, yeah?” And then he'd ducked off to meet with Headmistress McGonagall before she'd had any chance to react.

Harry's face. He'd been glowing—stern and fierce and enchanted, all at once. He was in love and doing what he thought was right... making his dreams come true. After all, the only thing Harry really wanted was a home and a family. He had that now, with her and Ron, with the Weasleys and the Order and now Grimmauld Place, lovesick and loyal Malfoy at his side to make it all complete.

She wanted, more than anything, for Harry to have what he wanted. To be happy. He deserved happiness and love. Acceptance, too. Seeing Harry so alive had done her in, silencing the protests even as they rose up in her throat, leaving her chewing her lip and smiling helplessly. Joy was infectious like that.

“Married?!” Ron repeated, gripping the armrests of his chair as though they were the reins of a noble steed which could carry him away from this nightmare. His shoes tapped the legs of the armchair like thumping a horse's sides. His mind was likely galloping a hundred kilometers a minute—and in circles. That was how she felt, anyway. This whole morning had been surreal.

Hermione steeled herself, licking at her lips. “Yes, Ron. Married. Tonight, if the Ministry can send a special license in time.”

“But...why?” Ron looked nothing short of flabbergasted.

She gestured aimlessly, searching for the right words to convey what she'd glimpsed in Harry—the fever fire in his heart and how senselessly happy this whole thing made him.

“Ron, I know. I know! It's truly strange; I'm still wrapping my head around it, myself—and Harry only sprung this on me, what, less than an hour ago? But... it's...” and here she slowed, choosing her words carefully. This was the closest she and Ron had ever come to a declaration. After hounding Harry for not conducting proper conversations with Malfoy about their feelings and the state of things between them, she would be a hypocrite if she didn't lay everything out on the table with Ron. What was the worst that could happen? They cared for one another, same as Harry and his pureblooded prince. Putting words to it was just a formality—more like an eventuality, like sunlight after the rains.

Her gaze flitted somewhere around her knees, her heart beating a pitter-patter rhythm against her throat; still, she managed to get the words out. “Harry feels about Malfoy the way you... feel about... me.” It was an offering: her heart on a platter.

Ron blinked quickly, head cocked, contemplating.

“He wants to get Malfoy up the duff?”

Hermione started. Then her expression softened.

“Ron...” she breathed, “y-you want to have children with me?”

“Of course,” he said, still looking dazed, a charming little half-smile quirking his lips. “Hermione, I love you. Everybody knows that.”

And all was right with the world.

- - -

Draco Malfoy had no right to look that... chipper. It wasn't in his temperament: the population of Hogwarts would agree. Yet the pureblood was practically bouncing off the Goddamn walls in NEWT Charms that afternoon.

Everyone noticed. The normally waspish, snippy and downright cold Head Boy was jabbering like a liberally medicated foreign dignitary, all gentlemanly smiles and politeness as he weaved about the classroom, occasionally slamming into a desk corner or chair as he wasn't paying much attention to where he was walking. The rest of the seventh years silently raised their eyebrows when Malfoy spoke to them, wondering who had slipped him the prescription-strength Cheering Potion.

Then again, Malfoy had every reason to be ecstatic. It was his wedding day.

Hermione gave an involuntary twitch. She had to resist the urge to pinch herself.

It was hard to believe her best friend was marrying the arrogant, smarmy Slytherin she'd punched in third year. Then again, the world had stopped making sense a long time ago.

Ron caught her eye from the next table over, where he was partnered with Dean Thomas for the practical portion of the lesson. Her own partner, Malfoy, was making the rounds like a bride at her wedding reception, careful to visit each table lest any guest feel slighted. Hermione had to admit: the expression on Malfoy's pointed face was rather fetching... in a sweet, lost sort of way. She could tell he was waiting on Harry, waiting on sunset and a hasty owl from the exiled Ministry so that Harry, his hero, could carry him away.

“Where's Harry?” Ron mouthed at her. There weren't many students taking Charms at the NEWT level, so they were absent the usual din of spell-casting which normally shielded their conversations. Ron was trying to be discreet.

Hermione hitched a shoulder. “Still with McGonagall.”

Reading her lips, Ron nodded, shoulders slumped as he returned to his efforts in charming a photograph of an animal into the real thing. Dean wasn't making much headway on his own—his parchment had teeth.

She tried to focus on her coursework. But the events of last night—what might one day be called the Battle of Malfoy Manor—played over and over again in her head. They'd done well, the three of them, despite not finding the cup, and Harry running off like a man possessed. Yet they were almost a team again. Almost. For a brief, run-away moment, out there on the snowy lawn... they’d had it, been themselves again. Hope wasn't lost, nor affection, nor loyalty. She suspected that, with time, things could be patched up between herself, Ron and Harry. The three of them, together again and up to no good. It might not be like it was before... but they still cared for and respected one another. That counted for something: it had been sufficient to bring the old gang back together on the lawns of Malfoy Manor—hopefully it would be enough to rally around, to keep the three of them together for good.

Malfoy plopped down beside her, fanning himself with a stiff bit of parchment. His small, neat handwriting littered one side, blurred as he beat the paper against the dead air of the classroom.

“What do you think of this business, Granger?” he posed under his breath, as though they were talking about the weather and being clandestine for laughs.

She kept her torso facing forward, bent under the pretext of reexamining her notes. She pitched her voice low, so only the Head Boy and perhaps Ron could hear.

“What business are you on about, Malfoy?”

The pureblood waggled his already arch-shaped brows. “The cup. Or have you not heard?”

Helga Hufflepuff's cup, suspected horcrux of You-Know-Who? Hermione turned—only her head, still hunching over her parchment.

“Heard what? Did Harry find it?”

“Not Harry,” Malfoy shook his head. “Some American chaps rooting around the Manor. On Harry's orders, I'd imagine. He's probably having a look at the thing right now, undisturbed.” His lip curled at that last word, close to sneering.

“Shame we weren't invited,” Hermione muttered bitterly.

Malfoy mirrored the sentiment. His pale hair caught the light, a bored and simultaneously pained expression etching small lines in his features, their pinched formation saying what his acid tongue managed to hold back. She could all but hear his voice in her head, prattling with practiced ennui: This is our lot in life, Granger. The Chosen Twat tells us what he sees fit, invites us in when he pleases and leaves us out in the cold the rest. I would have thought you'd be accustomed to it by now.

“Ugh,” Hermione sighed. She had enough Draco Malfoy in her life—she didn't need his drawl rattling around in her head. Her forehead fell against her parchment, wand clattering from her hand to roll across the table. “I give up,” she groaned.

“Really?” Malfoy teased. “Reptile conjuring isn't so difficult if you put your mind to the task....” He twisted his hawthorn wand, easily turning the banded garden snake adorning their parchment into the real thing. It slithered across her Charms book, little pink tongue flickering.

Hermione waved her own wand, banishing the snake before it could reach her arm. “Not the charm—I mastered animal conjurations the end of last school year,” she rolled her eyes. “I meant... trying to understand Harry.”

Malfoy let loose a playful snort. The dark cast to his eyes warmed subtly. It was hard to see unless you were really looking.

“I gave that up quite some time ago,” he murmured. “I find it liberates a great deal of my time, not wondering what's brewing under that rat's nest of his.”

Hermione picked up her wand again, tapping it idly against the table in a see-saw motion, tip then handle and then tip again. Something occurred to her.

“Malfoy, where'd you hear about someone finding the cup?”

The Head Boy leaned conspiratorially toward her, until he was close enough to whisper in her ear.

“How about from that unmentionable knight, Sir Cadogan, who woke us at half five this morning to escort several Americans onto castle grounds?” She could hear Malfoy's eyebrows waggling in the cadence of his drawl. “Perhaps we went to meet them at the castle gate. Perhaps I saw the cup delivered with my own eyes.”

Hermione perked up. She couldn't imagine Malfoy voluntarily going anywhere with Sir Cadogan The Mental, as Ron called the painted fellow. She cocked her head. “The royal we?”

Malfoy came close to blushing. He corrected himself with an inclination of his head, almost like a courtly bow made to her shoulder.

“Harry and myself. Naturally, as he's been kipping in my bed for some time now.”

Hermione cracked a wry smile. “I remember a time not too long ago when you were kipping in his bed.” She could still picture Harry standing in the doorway of the room she'd used at Grimmauld Place, wringing his hands with worry as he mumbled about Horcruxes and Draco Malfoy having a lie-down in his four poster. If only she'd known then how things would turn out.

Malfoy gave her a funny look—like he didn't suspect she had a devious bone in her body, and was therefore incapable of making raunchy jokes. The way his lips pinched, it would appear Malfoy thought she was taking the mickey out of him. Which she was, a little. The blond seemed surprised more than anything, not expecting an adult conversation—let alone a sexually-inclined conversation—to ensue with her of all witches. He shook the thin sheen of shock from his pointed face, trading it for silver-eyed devilishness in a heartbeat.

“Wonder Boy and I... we like to switch it up, if you know what I mean.”

Hermione bit back a nervous laugh. “I'm sure I don't.”

“My dear Granger,” Malfoy scoffed, pulling away to meet her gaze head-on, “my poor old girl, surely you have an inkling? The mechanics of l'amour des hommes are not what one would consider complex—invented by men for men, after all. Nothing too difficult, nothing a bloke couldn't execute in a drunken stupor.” Malfoy smiled—rakish, the scourge of Hogwarts and deflowerer of best mates. “One has a pointy, stabby bit dangling between his legs, the other a waiting and sometimes rather unsuspecting hole; and, with a dash of lubricant—”

She surged forward, clamping a hand over Malfoy's mouth before anybody heard him. Quickly, she scanned the room for eavesdroppers.

Ron looked their way, startled, as an animated and affronted Malfoy wormed his way out of Hermione's grip like a buttered eel, shoving her hand away rather violently before righting his borrowed Gryffindor robes with a tremendous huff to ruffle his bangs. The Head Boy folded his arms across his chest, all indignation and scowling.

“Wot's all this?” Ron leaned in her direction.

“Nothing!” Hermione insisted quickly. “Nothing!”

Ron didn't believe her. He was sliding his chair closer, hoping Professor Flitwick wouldn't notice, tied up as he was with Seamus Finnigan's latest botch. How the hapless Irishman made it to NEWT Charms was anybody's guess.

Hermione used her foot to push Ron's chair right back where it belonged.

“Mind out. This is... uh... girl talk,” she told him sternly. “Wedding night stuff. Trust me, even I don't wanna know.”

Nothing could have scared Ron away faster. His face was a vivid Gryffindor red as he made a determined return to his Charms work. Turning back, Hermione caught sight of Malfoy casting Muffliato just to be sure they weren't overheard.

“Are we seriously having this conversation?” she hissed at him through her teeth.

Malfoy's eyes widened, mock-innocent. “I'm not the Mademoiselle who started it.” He licked his lips ponderously, tacking on beneath his breath, almost scandalized, “For once.”

“It's not a typical topic of conversation for Gryffindors,” she admitted.

“Unlike us Slytherin rots, talking blow jobs and buggery amid our careless, days-long benders, you mean.”

“I didn't say that...” Hermione cautioned, holding up a hand to stay him. “Gryffindor House has had its share of fun-loving spirits like yourself.” Malfoy scoffed. She huffed right back, sardonic, “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you prefer 'bad ass'?”

Malfoy tapped his chin in consideration—pompous little shit.

He was quite the court fool today, playing a sort of character—jester and entertainer. She wondered if this was a side of Malfoy seen more by the Slytherins. Over in the corner, Zabini hadn't been at all fazed when their Head Boy went careening around the room, soaking in the attention and happy as a niffler in Gringotts. Yes, this was Malfoy in his princely capacity, presenting his wit at court for the entertainment and delight of his peers. That the act sated his prideful, attention-seeking nature was an added delight seen all over his glowing ferret face.

“Take Fred and George Weasley,” Hermione offered. “They slept with girls and stirred up trouble. Then there's James Potter. Or Sirius Black. Both became Animagi illegally while at Hogwarts. They did it just to stir up trouble with their friend Remus Lupin, the teenage werewolf.” It didn’t take much to go on, once she got rolling on the house’s more colorful history. “And I'm sure Dumbledore would have ruffled a few feathers in his day. So you're hardly the first rogue to grace Gryffindor with your lecherous ways. And I doubt your, uh, buggery,” the blond made a silent whoop when she said the word, pumping his fist in the air like his Quidditch team had just scored a goal. “Well, you and Harry certainly aren't the first instance Gryffindor Tower has ever seen. Nor will you be the last, I'd expect. Don't act like you're special.”

“But I am special,” Malfoy whined, preening sarcastically. He sounded remarkably like Lavender Brown—she'd been told Malfoy had a talent for impersonations.

Hermione smiled despite herself. “It's the bride who's the center of attention on her wedding day. That's the same on the wizarding side as it is with muggles. I've read all about the customs.”

Sly, Malfoy tipped in his chair until only the back legs were on the ground, a knobbly knee tucked under the table being the only thing keeping him from toppling backwards on his smug showman's arse. He had to be the center of someone's attention, it would seem, or his life wasn't complete.

“Brides, yes. My point exactly,” the groom simpered. He gave her a look down his long pointy nose, eyebrows disappearing under his lazy blond fringe.

Hermione promptly shut her mouth before she could be caught gaping.

She'd read about the practice of binding marriages with magic, begun when the ceremony's audience raised their wands and completed at the union's consummation. Because the history of wizarding marriage was predominantly of the heterosexual variety, all of the literature she'd read described the completion of the bonding process as when a new husband ejaculated inside of his wife, during the intercourse of their wedding night.

Never had she paused to think how those rules applied to non-traditional couples—lesbian witches, gay wizards, ghost-human marriages and the more obscure cross-species unions where the partners might not have anatomy conducive to reproductive sex. She didn't want to think about that awful wizard and his kneazle with the muggle Morse code machine; the poor magic cat would be tap-tap-tapping out a steady stream of “no, no, no.” At least Harry and his future spouse enjoyed one another that way.

She could never tell, at times like these, whether Malfoy was joking or deathly serious. But it would seem he was naming himself the bride, the receiving partner in the consummation of their impending nuptials.

“Silly question,” Hermione began, glad Malfoy was gazing at a shaft of sunlight stretched across the stone ceiling. She didn't want to see the gleam in his eyes. “The, um, 'depositing of sexual fluid' portion—to complete the binding spell. How does that go for non-traditional couples?”

A muscle in the young man's jaw flexed. It was his only reaction. Just a slight ripple near his ear and tracing a tendon down his pale neck, highlighting one vein bluer than the rest. He didn't look at her.

“Vaginal intercourse is a misnomer, actually. No hymen-breaking necessary... for binding magic, anyway. Fellatio will do. It gets a dash more complicated with kneazlers, of course—lesbians—but you get the idea. One partner orgasms, the other receives... or otherwise imbibes. That's all you need.”

“Rather one-sided...” Hermione mused.

“As marital sex often was in the history of our kind. Arranged marriages, unwilling brides. All the brutishness which makes History of Magic fun.”

Hermione snorted. “Somehow I missed that part of Binns' lectures.”

“Binnsy always skipped the good parts,” Malfoy shook his head.

“Rape and... fellatio,” Hermione felt her cheeks going red but she soldiered on, chuckling and incredulous. “Those are the good parts?”

“Hush, Granger,” Malfoy waved a pale hand. It landed on the back of her chair. “A spirited game of 'No Means Yes' isn't likely to hurt anyone. Bruises can be spelled away.”

“Oh my God, Malfoy.” Hermione buried her face in her hands. “You're incorrigible.”

“You adore me, Granger,” he shot back in his most honeyed, witty banter voice. “You fucking love me an' you're too bloody scared to admit it, even after all this time. I give you something to rally against. A ruddy figurehead, so that you might define yourself as my antithesis. I kick house elves—you knit them caps. I seek power—you waste away your hours with Cauldron Destroyer and Weasel King, the most pathetic excuses for wizards I've seen in all my life. I know he's sitting right there,” the blond rolled his eyes grandly before Hermione could utter a word in Ron or Neville's defense, “and I take delight in insulting him and his ilk from a meter away, protected by darker magic. For I am the greatest coward that ever was. I am who and what I am. I'll own greed and cowardice as my vices any day. Hatred, too. I loathe the Weasleys, what they stand for in lifestyle and taste—and you're fellating one. That sums it up right there.”

She wanted to say something in defense of the Weasleys. They were kind people, generous and loving, loyal and good. Molly and Arthur had taken Harry in like one of their own, and Ginny was like a sister to Hermione. If Malfoy meant to marry Harry, he would in effect be marrying himself into the Weasley clan. She wondered how much of Malfoy's dislike was based on family resentment and how much came from blasé observation and the occasional scuffle over the years; it was doubtful he might have ever allowed himself to see how heartfelt and genuine the Weasleys were. He would see that very soon, when Molly welcomed him into the family with open arms. Being Harry's beloved would wash away any sins of the father in Mr. Weasley's eyes, too. And that was only part of why the Weasleys were wonderful.

Regardless, Malfoy's mind was not one to be swayed by any argument Hermione could present. She knew that. And as such she kept her thoughts to herself on the matter: Harry could deal with Malfoy when the time came for him to interact politely with a Weasley... or she'd have words with Harry, who was at least sympathetic to her cause.

She found a way to turn Malfoy's barb around, aiming it at the blond instead of herself and Ron.

“Positively wicked, that's what you are,” she scolded. “And you talk about snogging the one-eyed snake rather often,” she observed shrewdly.

Malfoy smirked at her. “A fault of my gender. And you, madam, have deftly avoided my accusation! Brava. I'll make a proper witch of you, yet.”

Malfoy was rather fun like this—inappropriate and vaguely embarrassing, of course, but fun never-the-less.

Hermione batted her eyes, playing along. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are blowing Weasley, then?” The Head Boy inclined his white-blond head in Ron's direction. There was altogether too much head going around for Hermione's tastes.

“I never took you for a gossip, Malfoy.”

The Head Boy pursed his lips. “I'm taking that for a 'no,' Granger,” he mused, gazing up at the ceiling. “Not that I blame you. How could I?” and Malfoy gave a little fake shiver. “Two words to end it all: fire crotch.”

Hermione choked on her own spit. Malfoy kept right on going.

He ranted, “I object even on principle—let alone the mental image! A gingery mane surrounding... no. Oh no no,” his white-blond head shook violently. “Gods no! I couldn't bring myself to it, either. Not for all the gold in Gringotts. I don't know how you do.”

Hermione looked away. Malfoy's lips took on a cheeky, devious little shit grin.

“That's right—you don't.”

Hermione didn't say a word.

Malfoy kept on. “Well how could you?” He seemed to be... pitying her. Yes, that angelic tilt of his brows, the raising of one skinny shoulder.... Malfoy felt bad for her, for having to one day bury her face in Ronald's ginger bush. She herself had put off thinking about it until the time arose; her wedding night, perhaps? Apparently so, if Malfoy's word was to be trusted. She ventured another question, since she had the willy guru at her disposal.

“Do people really give head on their wedding night?”

Malfoy tapped the back of her chair, still leaning precariously on his own. His fingers made a little drumming sound in time with his sighing breath.

“As I understand, it's more a matter of personal preference than anything else. Some prefer it to the alternatives.”

“I suppose.” Her nose wrinkled at the thought. “Not wanting to get pregnant would be a factor....”

“Hardly! Amortius Intentia has prevented many a bastard or otherwise unwanted pregnancy for nigh on two thousand years!”

“You've mentioned the spell before.” She twirled her wand, looking busy as Professor Flitwick scurried by. Malfoy remained in repose, hand draped over the back of her chair like a pet snake. She spoke after Flitwick had passed. “But I couldn't find it in any of the usual references.”

Malfoy made a noise like a cat hacking up a hairball. The wet cough quickly transformed into a squealing peal of laughter, like a donkey's bray sneaking out of his chest.

“You would, Granger!” the Head Boy wheezed, giggling to himself. “Looking up ancient pureblood sex magic in the sodding school library... tha’s downright precious!”

“I didn't know it was sex magic,” Hermione spluttered, on the defensive. It was hard not to laugh along with Malfoy—that childish titter of his was infectious at times.

“I mentioned it to you, girl,” he chastised. “Draco Malfoy, school rake, it would seem. Clearly it was sex magic. Or the Dark Arts.”

“Anything to vex me,” Hermione smirked.

Malfoy smirked back. “Indeed, you're catching on.” His arm slipped down around her neck, draping over her shoulder like they were old chums—a pureblood and a mudblood, the oldest and best of mates. “Anything to vex you, Granger.”

- - -

They would look at one another—sly glances cast across the Great Hall, Harry standing with Professor McGonagall and Malfoy at the other side of the star-and-candle-lit hall.

Malfoy was engaged in conversation with his Romanian friends. Hermione guessed that Harry had invited the muscle-bound pair, if the muddled expression of pleasure and surprise on Malfoy's pale face was anything to go by. Malfoy talked with his hands, smiling at the burly brothers and their tall, tattooed companion. Harry's eyes would watch the path of Malfoy's hands, gaze settling on shoulders or hips, mapping the contour of the wizard's bony body beneath a simple black wool blazer. When their gazes met, Malfoy's eyes would brighten to shafts of silver, lighting his face. He made Harry smile.

She was surprised Malfoy wasn't wearing dress robes. It was his wedding, after all. She suspected Harry had had some influence in their dress. His own attire was equally muggle in nature—plain wool trousers with a matching black jacket, what she recognized as one of his white uniform shirts, freshly pressed, and a dragon hide belt peeking out from his unbuttoned blazer. The only piece she didn't recognize was a vintage necktie, striped in Slytherin silver and green. The tie was thick and heavy, and of a very particular, old-fashioned style. If she had to guess, she'd say it was at least fifty years old, perhaps more. It would have been a staple of the Slytherin uniform back when You-Know-Who had been a Hogwarts student. In the back of her mind, that thought gave her chills. So to replace it, she decided that Harry was honoring the tradition of “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” The necktie was old and likely borrowed, as was the Gaunt family ring sparkling on Malfoy's finger. The pair of them were developing a collection of relics from that time, from purebloods and dark wizards and things she knew too little about.

Too many omens, she decided, giving herself a mental shake. She wanted to see trouble, and so it was appearing before her eyes. Thoughts of You-Know-Who and horcruxes had no business here. Weddings were supposed to be happy occasions, and she was doing her best to hold herself to that belief. This was certainly the strangest wedding she'd ever attended.

Members of Dumbledore's Army had arrived in the Great Hall, peering around quietly, the place plain and familiar. They had no idea what was coming, of course. At Harry's request, Hermione had sent a message through their old charmed galleons, saying to meet in the Great Hall at half ten that night. Several people had approached her over the course of the school day, inquiring for details. All she told them was a curt “formal dress.” Even so, a few souls stumbled in in their pajamas and dressing gowns, curiosity plain on their faces.

Most of the old DA stood together to one side, Neville among them. He wore a handsome set of navy robes, picking nervously at the hem of his sleeve. Malfoy's little shadow, Kieran Gweir, traipsed in, having ducked out of Gryffindor tower behind Seamus and Dean, Harry’s Invisibility Cloak barely concealed beneath the boy’s robes. Malfoy fixed the boy with a stern look before catching his small shoulders in a one-armed hug, congratulating the lad on his ingenuity and penchant for rule-breaking. There was something said in a mumble—something about the both of them becoming proper Gryffindors yet.

Luna Lovegood arrived with Professor Flitwick and Madame Hooch, the three of them in varying shades of blue. Luna's robes were the lightest, a powdery robin's egg hue which complemented her skin. She went right to Malfoy, taking his hands and kissing him on both cheeks. She beamed at him, seemingly in on the big secret.

Harry broke from his position beside Professor McGonagall, striding across the hall. He was making a beeline for Hermione and Ron.

Her boyfriend had been surly and silent the better part of the evening, arms folded over his chest and hardly speaking two words together. It was like having a statue-Ron, carved out of stone and placed at her side.

She knew why.

Harry had picked someone else to be his Best Man. Ron was crushed. And this was how he dealt with his emotions—shutting people out, sulking, grunting, and generally being miserable.

She couldn't exactly blame him for being in a mood, though. He and Harry had been best mates since first year. They shared a special bond—something which she could never get close to, never come between. But Malfoy had gotten between her boys in the end—shoved his skinny rump right in the middle of it, really, cocking up the perfect chemistry between her best friends, the friction of it causing a blast violent enough to send them veering this far off course these last five months. Only now were they getting back on track. This wedding business challenged everything. And she had no clue what was passing through Ron's head as Harry approached.

Ron seemed to cool his temper, so that the red head was only fuming slightly by the time Harry reached them.

Harry seemed different. The green of his eyes was tired, rimmed with shadows visible through the frames of his glasses. He pushed them up his nose before addressing his friend.

“Out with it,” Harry said quietly. It was clear who was speaking—Harry the Commander, a leader on the battlefield and a man who would not rest until he had whatever it was he wanted. Any trace of the little boy she'd met on the Hogwarts Express all those years ago was gone—replaced by this calm, self-assured gentleman with strong purpose and a good head on his shoulders. Harry had grown up. Fast.

Ron spluttered a moment, arms falling to his sides in wordless defeat. Eventually, he found a sentence worth uttering.

“It's not a queer thing. Honest. It's... Malfoy.”

Harry took a very deep breath before answering. “I understand what you're saying. I do, now. Every time you look at him, you see Lucius Malfoy's son: a Death Eater. Someone who’s made terrible choices in the past, choices which hurt the people you care about. You see the reckless, scared side of him. But when I look at him,” and Harry's gaze went off to his left, as though to catch Malfoy in his line of sight and tell Ron the first thing which came to his mind. A fond smile turned the corners of his mouth as he observed the blond, talking animatedly with his foreign friends. “When I look at Draco I see this morning, when he wiped toothpaste off my lip. I see the man who makes me biscuits for breakfast and leaves crumbs all over the counter; the wizard who still tries to teach me to dance even when he knows I'm hopeless.”

Harry's smile broadened, until he looked about to laugh at himself. The thought of Draco Malfoy, Ice-Prince of Slytherin, making biscuits was rather absurd. Harry shrugged, his gaze returning to Ron. “The reality of Draco is probably somewhere in the middle of those two extremes. He's trying to find himself again after having everything he's ever known up-ended in his face. I know he's been... well... touched, mentally.” Hermione felt her eyebrows rise of their own volition. “It’s something he has to work on. Just understand that underneath all that prickly personality is a human being—someone I love and am spending the rest of my life with... however long that might be,” Harry shrugged, dismissive of the danger he faced. “I need you to be okay with that. Both of you.”

“I've made my peace with Malfoy,” Hermione offered. “He's certifiably insane, mind you, and we'll never be girlfriends or anything,” she added hastily, “but I see how happy he makes you. I won't stand in the way of that.”

She knew she’d be run over in an instant should she ever try. It wasn’t worth it. Harry’s heart wanted what it wanted. She couldn’t control that.

Harry brushed her hand with his. “Thank you.” His eyes fell to Ron, who paled and blushed at the same time.

“It's not a queer thing,” Ron repeated defencively. “I've got no problem with Charlie.”

“Speaking of which,” Harry interrupted. “I've had a look at the tapestry Draco fixed.” He leaned closer, raising his eyebrows at Ron. “It hasn't filled in all the way, but I think there may be another wedding in the family sooner than you think. A gay one.”

“That's fine by me,” Ron nodded quickly. His bangs rearranged themselves, splaying over one eye. He pushed them aside. “I know I was... not the best, when you and Malfoy first... you know.”

“Not the best,” Harry repeated in a monotone. Years spent with Harry let them both know that he was kidding. Harry was one of the most sarcastic people she knew, save for Malfoy and perhaps Professor Snape.

“Shut it,” Ron's neck went red. “I was horrible. I reacted so badly, mate. I can see that now. I just....”

“I get it, mate. You need more time... to get used to the idea of me and him,” Harry inferred. “Thanks for coming this far and all. I'm grateful you're here—both of you,” he shot Hermione a small grin, but the happiness quickly faded from his face. He looked older. The tiredness was settling into his features, transforming him from a boy to a man. It was startling to see the transformation occur before her eyes, in the span of only a few seconds, reminding her of all the parts of Harry's life she'd missed these last few months. Only now were they starting to get back on track. She hoped it wasn't too late.

“You understand, though,” Harry went on, choosing his words carefully, “why I can't have you stand with me. Not as Best Man, anyway.”

Ron's gaze was fixed to the floor. Above them, a cloud scuttled past the moon, cutting off the bluish light which had filled the room. The candles brightened, turning the light around them to an orange hue. It reflected off of Ron's hair, his head bowed.

“I don't like it,” Ron muttered at last, “but yeah, I get it.” His shoe pushed at an invisible clod of dirt. He still hadn't raised his eyes. “Who'd you pick, then?”

Harry's vision darted to the side. He seemed to be looking at Malfoy at first, but his gaze was a hair too high. His chin rose, and his eyes returned to Ron's bowed head.

“Radić.”

“Who?”

The question had been on Hermione's lips as well. She didn't recognize the name. Harry jutted his chin.

“Nebojsa Radić. Tall chap standing next to Draco.” Harry’s voice dropped to a whisper. He drew closer. “The one who was impersonating me while we were away.”

Hermione followed the line of Harry's chin. Standing beside Malfoy was a tall, gaunt-looking wizard. She'd seen him before—though he'd been in far better health—at meetings of the Order of The Phoenix, and he'd been at the Battle of Malfoy Manor, relegated to a support role due to his injuries. He leaned on a wooden cane as he and Malfoy chatted. The foreign wizard was liberally mottled with piercings, with the hint of a tattoo crawling up his neck in black ink. His robes mostly covered the design itself, but she suspected there were more. With his close-cropped hair, severe features and long, billowing black robe, he reminded her of a warrior monk—a villain from a muggle kung fu film, dark and ominous. The cane he used didn't help, putting her in mind of Lucius Malfoy's sinister cane, and the rapier that was rumored to be concealed within.

She wondered what this foreign soldier and Harry could share—this man with a killer's eyes, like blue ice as his gaze slid over her and Ron, catching on Harry.

The man, Radić, winked. It felt like witnessing a death threat.

Hermione had never been one to put stock in “auras” and “vibrations.” She left that to crackpots like Professor Trelawney. But this fellow, for whatever reason, gave her the creeps. She rubbed at her arms until his cold gaze fell away, drawn back into conversation with Malfoy and his friends.

“From the Order, right?” she posed weakly. “I've, uh, met him once or twice. He's very... quiet.”

Harry chewed his lip. “He fought by my side at Ravenwood. And he understands the whole thing with Draco and the Death Eaters, so... I thought he was a good choice. He and Draco get on well. And there's the whole queer thing.”

“That bloke's bent?” Ron spluttered. Apparently he'd found the courage to return to the conversation.

Harry shrugged one shoulder. “I think he's bi, actually. Dmitry's gay.”

Hermione couldn't keep track of their names. “You mean...?” And she pointed to herself, silently inquiring if Harry meant the wizard who’d walked in her skin. Harry gave half a shrug and a swift nod in reply.

Hermione took a second look at the burly chap who had supposedly been impersonating her through the use of illegally-obtained Polyjuice Potion. At least Harry had chosen a homosexual wizard upon whom to grant access to every girls dormitory in the castle. That at least showed foresight... perhaps it had been Malfoy’s idea. Secretly, she couldn’t help but wonder how the fellow had dealt with having breasts for nigh-on two weeks. If he were truly gay, had he been ambivalent about her body... or repulsed? Maybe it was for the best not to think on it.

“That big fellow there?” Ron pointed before rounding back to Harry. “You're telling me Tihomir Ionescue—maybe the biggest, baddest Death Eater ever—has got a gay son?”

Harry didn't show any emotion as he answered with a quick quip, “Had two bent sons, actually. But now he's down to just the one. Estranged, of course, given the circumstances.”

Ron's expression went very serious. “Malfoy told me about it. Awful stuff.”

“Yeah.” Harry agreed. Before he could say more, Professor McGonagall signaled to him and Draco. The foreign blokes followed Malfoy, so Ron and Hermione tagged along behind Harry. Under his breath, Ron proceeded to fill Hermione in regarding the tragic history of the Ionescues—how the father, a Death Eater, had murdered his oldest son, and was hell bent on the destruction of the other queer child as well. The tale made her cringe down to her toes. Ron was just finishing his story when a hissing sound caught Hermione's attention.

Harry was speaking Parseltongue. To Radić. And the sickly fellow answered, hissing back. Beside her, Ron gave a twitch of surprise. Parseltongue was a rare skill. As far as she knew, Harry and You-Know-Who were the only publicly-known Parselmouths. She couldn’t blame the foreigner for keeping his skill a secret; Parseltongue was forever associated with the Dark Arts thanks to the legacy of Salazar Slytherin. Hermione wondered what the two could be talking about in their secret snake language.

Headmistress McGonagall cleared her throat. If Hermione didn’t know better, she’d say the woman sounded nervous. “Now remember, boys,” she said in an undertone. “Forty-eight hours. No more.”

“Forty-eight hours for what?” Harry asked.

Malfoy’s eyes reached the heavens. He brushed a lock of blond from his forehead.

Radić leaned, muttering in Harry’s ear. “To conzumate zhe marriage.”

“Twit,” Malfoy added under his breath.

Harry smirked. When he opened his mouth, the hiss of Parseltongue escaped. A tiny jerk of his dark brows told her he was being sarcastic—and perhaps, sexual? She couldn’t quite place the depth of his voice through the language barrier, but his body and facial expression told her much of what she needed to know. He’d said something perverted. Likely asking if last night counted or something equally vulgar. He’d learned that, for better or worse, from Malfoy.

All four men laughed: Malfoy, Harry, Radić, and the gay one, Ionesque.

Hogwarts’ Headmistress gave them a questioning look before her eyes swept the Great Hall. The staff began to gather, students following. Several more foreigners and a handful of people from the Order stepped forward, forming a loose knot of bodies at the center of the room. Hermione and Ron did their best to stick with Harry at the center.

A table was conjured. Professor McGonagall handed Harry and Malfoy each a sheaf of parchment. Luna Lovegood flicked her wand, producing a blue-feathered quill. Hermione smiled at the inclusion of “something blue.”

Each of the bridegrooms stretched their parchment out over the table and began to read. Hermione inched closer, having never seen a magical marriage contract up close before. Similar to muggles, witches and wizards had prenuptial agreements, and Hermione wondered if that might be what Malfoy was perusing with so much care.

No one quite knew what was going on yet. They watched with poorly-veiled interest. Luna Lovegood glanced up at the ceiling, seeming to count the stars. Radish earrings swung to and fro from her ears as she gazed up, observing the moon and clouds mirrored in the ceiling above them.

Hermione drew closer while she still could, standing just behind the “happy couple,” peeking over shoulders. Thankfully they were both quite short. She examined the parchments.

Harry had the prenuptial. He was crossing things off left and right—giving Malfoy everything in the event of his death; Malfoy, on the other hand, had been given choice over the wording of their vows. He rolled his wand between his thin fingertips, considering.

“You'll do the traditional, then?” Hermione asked. It made sense, Malfoy being the formal sort.

“Eugh,” the pureblood grunt-snorted back, his face wrinkling. “Wonder Boy thinks they're strange,” the blond subtly rolled his eyes in Harry's direction, though fondly. “And I seriously doubt he could memorize them in the next quarter hour.”

Harry leaned over from his own official scroll. “You mean all that ‘I am your hand, ever at your side’ rubbish? Like Bill and Fleur's wedding?”

Malfoy pushed pale fingertips against his lips to keep from laughing. His eyes closed a moment, holding it back. “I would be the hand, Potty. But yes, those are the traditional vows.”

“But we're both blokes,” Harry protested good-naturedly, gesturing with the quill. “Does it really matter who says what?”

Hermione didn’t know the answer to that, herself, and was eager to hear. Just then she heard a thump, followed by a choked-off sound. She realized it was the Serbian wizard, Radić, not-so-subtly stepping on his beefy boyfriend's foot. The poor fellow promptly took a cane handle to the stomach for good measure, silencing whatever information he'd been about to offer. It felt as though there was a secret the Serb was attempting to cover up. Perhaps he and Malfoy were in cahoots?

Hermione didn't have a chance to ponder as Harry kept on. “But you're right, love. I could never remember all that. Is there something else? Maybe something, uh, shorter?”

“They made a new form,” Hermione offered. She gestured toward the parchment with the vows.

The new form was supposedly more romantic, brought into popularity during the last rise of You-Know-Who. They were likely the vows Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had said, along with Lily and James, Harry's parents. The words were sentimental: they had history. They were syllables she and Ron might one day recite. Harry read the first few lines and blanched.

“I don't think so,” he said quickly, recoiling. “I've never talked like that in my life.”

“Let's not start now,” Malfoy agreed, shooting daggers Hermione's way.

She held up her hands, muttering, “It was just a suggestion.”

The newer vows spoke of destiny, things meant to be, and love through thick and thin. They were perhaps more tailored to a woman's notion of marriage and happily ever after. At least that's what Malfoy would say. The pureblood would likely dismiss them as bollocks and trite invented by half-bloods over-running the magical world. Anything to avoid the truth—that these were vows of passion and love, spoken freely to your partner for life. And as it stood, Harry and Malfoy both would likely die a thousand deaths before uttering a word about their feelings in the middle of a crowded room. That was how things were with them. They’d rather act their feelings out, since they couldn’t make the words.

“Here,” Malfoy jabbed his wand at the scroll. He indicated a single paragraph, quite short, almost neglected at the very bottom of the page.

Harry got closer, pushing his glasses up his nose to read the words. “It says 'Suggested For Battlefield Or Death Bed Ceremonies.'”

Malfoy bit his lip, shrugging helplessly—and perhaps there was a note of flippancy in his voice when he crowed, “At least it's short.”

“And to the point,” Harry agreed. “I think I can memorize two sentences.” He looked up at Professor McGonagall, telling her with a smirk, “We'll do this one, thanks.”

“Very well then,” she replied, eying the two, and then the little crowd surrounding them. “Who will be standing with you? I need them to sign the documents first, as witnesses.”

Harry turned, reaching through the crowd to pull Radić forward. The Serbian wizard was more than two heads taller than Harry or Malfoy. His height and the shape of his face caused him to look down his long nose at Professor McGonagall. She peered back at the fellow over the square rims of her spectacles, only vaguely disapproving. That was about as good as it got with Professor McGonagall on a first meeting.

Malfoy turned. He offered his hand, palm up, to Luna Lovegood, drawing her forward like a princess presented at court. Malfoy could certainly turn on the charm when he felt like it.

“Miss Lovegood,” McGonagall started. “I wasn't aware you were of-age!”

Luna smiled, her radish earrings swinging merrily as Malfoy directed her to the parchment she was to sign. “It was my birthday last week, Headmistress.”

“Then I have no objection,” McGonagall declared whilst fingering her wand, almost fidgeting, as though she couldn’t wait to get this over with—before the Gods and the ghosts of the Founders themselves struck her down for what she was about to do. The rapidly graying Headmistress glanced around once before indicating the bottom of the prenuptial. “You'll affix your seal here,” she laid down a second scroll, pointing with her wand, “and here.”

Two copies, just to be thorough. No one was messing about here. With McGonagall, you wouldn’t expect any less. That must have been why Harry and Malfoy asked her to officiate. With Harry’s new clout at the Ministry, they could have gotten just about anyone; Scrimgrour himself, even, if Harry would sign an Auror contract. But that would be too much like signing his life away. It seemed as though Harry had other plans now.

Luna Lovegood and Draco Malfoy stood side-by-side, Malfoy watching the blonde witch sign.

Hermione was a little surprised to see Luna standing for Malfoy. They were so... different. Luna was tender and gentle where Malfoy was spiky and impossible. It was amazing that they'd learned to tolerate one another, let alone walk the corridors together on their Prefect's rounds. Their blossoming relationship boggled the mind; then again, so did many of the events of the last six months. This happening was, in comparison, relatively easy to swallow.

It was odd enough that they'd become friends. But now Luna was standing, in essence, as Malfoy's Maid of Honor. The gesture led Hermione to wonder just how much of the feminine Malfoy would be adopting in this ceremony. Earlier, he'd hinted at intentions of, well... of being on the receiving end for their wedding night activities. Perhaps to do so, he would also have to suffer the traditionally female role in the ceremony leading up to. That he had selected Luna and not one of the other blokes he got on with—someone like Blaise Zabini or an ex-Durmstrang student—seemed to speak to his purpose. With a woman standing for him, there could be little doubt of his intent.

Luna and the Serbian wizard signed their names, casting a non-verbal spell alongside their signatures. Hermione had never seen anything like it.

Ron pressed close behind her. “Pureblood thing,” he explained; sensing her curiosity, it seemed, by the tilt of her head and the angle at which she leaned closer in order to see. Ron spoke against her ear. “Some of the oldest families still have crests to go with, but we've all got a seal. It's a measure to verify our signature with magic, in the event it's ever called into question. McGonagall's being thorough.”

“Probably a good idea,” Hermione whispered back, “all things considered.”

The Serb signed first, and Luna second, handing the blue-feathered quill to Harry with a grin. “Congratulations,” she told him. “You've been through so much—you deserve every happiness in the world.” She kissed Harry on the cheek, then Malfoy again, before stepping off to the side.

Hermione recognized the sight of Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, screwing up his courage. She'd seen that expression before—the look caught somewhere between hope and constipation—as his brow scrunched, lips pursed, glasses sliding down his nose and shoulders so square you could mistake him for granite beneath his dark dinner jacket. She imagined that to be exactly how he’d looked as a first year, staring down You-Know-Who to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone, or in fourth year, locking wands with You-Know-Who in order to escape the graveyard and return Cedric's body. She'd seen enough of that face during the Triwizard Tournament itself, and again the following year, fighting Umbridge and then the Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic; and even now the expression lingered. It was such a familiar and yet tragic sight, that Harry had shouldered so much in his young life. And here he was taking on yet another burden. But at least this time it was of his own choosing—small comfort, but at least this trouble, for better or worse, was all his own.

Harry's brows descended further as he nodded, allowing his pierced, tattooed foreigner of a Best Man to instruct him in the casting of an ancient pureblood seal to accompany his signature.

Before long, Harry pushed up his sleeve and signed.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Did the muggles teach you to write, or chimpanzees?” There were a few startled snorts of laughter, mostly from the teaching staff. “I swear,” Malfoy drawled, “when we're hauled before the Wizangamot to prove the validity of this contract, every last one of them is going to have a good laugh at your penmanship. You wait and see,” he waggled a bony finger at Harry, who was chuckling along with everyone else.

“I don't zhink ve need zhis contract,” Yuri the wandmaker joked. “It zounds like zhey're already married.”

A whisper spread back. Robes and pajamas rustled with whispers and shifting feet, hands brought to mouths as word rippled through the tiny crowd. It hadn't been quite clear up until now—no one had said it out loud. But Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were tying the knot. Getting hitched. Jumping the broomstick. Call it what you will. Faces warped, some lighting up with glee and others filling with discombobulation. She watched as Seamus and Dean handed several sickles each to an elated Colin Creevey, his brother Denis by his side. Colin proceeded to count his coins, making sure the seventh year boys hadn't shorted him, while Denis stuck his tongue out, clapping his hands with ill-contained glee. Hermione caught the excited grin which graced Kieran Gweir's face. The boy shared a quick hug with nearby Professor Flitwick, the pair of them all-but jumping up and down with childlike joy.

Harry and his intended stood perfectly still... smiling at each other, like they knew they were doing something stupid and naughty and instead of feeling bed, they reveled in it. The feelings reveled in their eyes.

Headmistress McGonagall sighed at the pair of seventeen-year-old boys before her, sliding the contract over to Malfoy.

Harry laughed, extending the quill between them. He raised his eyebrows. “You'll have the rest of our lives to put me in my place, Malfoy. But only if you sign.” He grinned, cheeky. “There's still time to back out of this, you know.”

The smirk on Malfoy's face made him look positively devilish. Hermione spotted some of the beauty of him, then—round apples of cheeks, and a light in his eyes under that fringe of blond hair. Perhaps it was that fiendishness and quickness of wit which had drawn Harry in. He'd certainly found something of Malfoy to love, with the way they were looking at each other—as though they were the only ones in the room. Possibly the entire universe.

“You'd like that too much,” Malfoy quipped.

Harry sidled closer. “Not going to get sick of me, are you?”

“I could never tire of your...” Malfoy gave a dramatic pause, searing gazes held, “...vault at Gringotts.”

Harry laughed loudly. Malfoy smiled, his cheekbones twinging pink—almost a blush.

“Sign the damn papers, Draco,” Harry said. His voice was lower than she'd ever heard it; rumbling, but not too rough. “So I can marry you proper.”

In all the years she'd observed Draco Malfoy—sneering and simpering and casting less-than-charming hexes her way—she'd never until that night seen the details of the man. He'd always been a blur of unpleasantness in her mind. She worked now to create a new image of the man. His skin was nearly translucent, he was so pale: half his coloring came from the golden flickering of candles, or a passing shaft of moonlight from the starry sky above. The color of his eyes seemed to absorb shadows and the blackness of his suit, their shade tinting with darkness or color depending on where his gaze fell. In light or dark, his bone structure was apparent; jutting from his face in sharp angles brought out by the whitewash of him against black fabric—black jacket, black trousers, black shirt, black tie, all impeccable, precise, planned to the last matching stitch. He kept his wand tucked in his breast pocket, the jacket of his muggle suit bubbling slightly as he reached for the quill Harry was handing over, having just signed their marriage license.

Malfoy was left handed. She'd never noticed. His silver-grey eyes scrunched whenever his lips moved, whether in snarling or now, in a satisfied, rather toothy smile.

And with a flourish of feather and ink, Malfoy wasn't a Malfoy anymore.

Several people surged forward all at once, shouldering Ron and Hermione aside. Presents were showered upon the couple—a small sack of coins from several of the professors, scrolls of well-wishing parchment from Luna and the Creeveys, and a small, ornate potion phial from their foreign friends. Hermione read the name of the brew from their lips—Compenti Omgressus. She'd heard the name once before, from... she couldn't bring herself to call the blond by his Christian name, but what was he now? Potter? Too strange. Malfoy-Potter? Even stranger. She'd heard of the potion from him, and vowed to research its origins.

The room got louder. Her foot trodden on, Hermione reached for Ron’s hand, looking up at him. “What about the vows?” she mouthed.

“Soon,” Ron mouthed back. He bent to her ear. “They’re legally married now. Not everyone does the magical bonding.”

The Headmistress waved an arm over the ruckus. “Boys?!” she said loudly. “We'd best get on before half your guests violate their curfew.”

“Good point,” Harry nodded, reaching for Draco's hand. The pureblood glanced away, but placed his hand in Harry's none-the-less. Several people clapped and cheered again. Hermione wondered what the reaction would be were the pair to kiss—they might find out soon enough. Harry was all but laying claim to his pureblood with just his eyes.

The crowd backed up, presents deposited on the table. The shorter guests were ushered to the front of the group—Gweir and Flitwick standing beside Luna, the Creeveys with the Durmstrang boys, and the adults of the Order of The Phoenix ringing them. Ron found them a gap beside Neville.

“Quite the surprise,” Neville offered. Half his face was grinning. The other half looked tired.

“You can say that again,” Ron agreed.

Hermione shushed them. The Headmistress had raised her wand, prepared to conduct the formal portion of the ceremony as soon as quiet fell.

The boys stood before the professor, facing one another, the blond’s hand still clasped in Harry’s. The Gaunt family heirloom glittered black and silver on his finger—the ring finger, she realized. Of his left hand. He’d been wearing it as an engagement ring, then. She wondered for how long.

Harry's fingers moved, working the old ring from his partner's skinny finger.

A look passed over the pureblood's face—as though he were about to vomit, eyes snapping closed and his pallor going slightly green—before Harry transferred the ring to his right hand, preparing for the exchange of rings in the formal ceremony about to begin.

She couldn’t quite hear, but stood near enough to read Harry's lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

No-longer-Malfoy's eyes remained shut as he shook his head, expelling air like a man who'd just out-flown a dragon and lived to tell about it. He pressed the back of his free hand to his cheeks, one and then the other, checking his temperature with those cold hands of his. Hermione could make out a bluish-purple vein fluttering at the side of his neck. He looked faint.

“Yeah,” his lips moved, shaky. “I think I'm alright.”

Harry moved closer, looking worried. “Was it the ring?”

Silver eyes rolled grandly. “You think, Scar Head?” The childhood insult was so plain, even now. “It's over now.” Their foreheads made contact, noses brushing, twin fringes running together, framing intense gazes. Hermione felt she was trespassing just looking at them. The room quieted, all attention turned to them. Malfoy mouthed, “Let's do this—before you lose your nerve.”

“Scared?” Harry asked.

“Not in the slightest,” the blond rebuffed. “You?”

Harry's lips turned up. “You wish.”

Professor McGonagall looked down at them over the square rims of her glasses. “Are we ready now?”

“Vait!” someone said. Heads turned.

An arm was raised. Then wands. No-longer-Malfoy flinched.

The boys from Durmstrang sang—chanted, really. Simple, low notes building in unison to form a melody. Light came from their raised wands, stretching in an arc above the couple. Luna raised her wand, then Kieran Gweir, and soon others—catching the strands of light so that they formed an arc over the couple’s bowed heads. They were like boughs, magical tree-like limbs blooming with specks of light, mirroring the stars in the night sky above.

Harry gazed up in wonder. The blond flushed with embarrassment, looking at their joined hands, his thin lips pressing painfully tight. The light played in their hair, illuminated bits tumbling down like enchanted snowflakes, melting the moment they touched solid shoulders.

The singing, the light—it was beautiful in its simplicity, the moon taking that moment to break through the clouds, bathing them with crisp, blue-white light. Light danced, as though it were snowing faery dust all around them.

Distracted by the sight, Hermione was one of the last to draw her wand and join in the silent spell.

At the center of it all, the pureblood bridegroom drew his wand right-handed. He looked shaky.

Harry didn’t wait for McGonagall’s signal. He spoke over the singing—spoke to Draco alone, though the whole room could hear him clearly.

“I take you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, to be my husband. To love and to cherish, to honor and obey, from this day until my last.”

His wand tapped twice against a pale finger, conjuring a plain silver band.

“And I take you... Harry James Potter, to be my husband. To love and to cherish, to honor and do my very, very damnedest to obey.” Harry couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “From this day until my last.”

Two taps of a hawthorn wand, and a silver ring appeared on Harry’s finger. They waved their wands as one, casting a Concealment Charm—a silent warning to all present that their union was to be a secret one. Their rings disappeared, but their marriage was already forged, lives and magic bound. Hermione suspected the magic sparks falling down around them had something to do with it, lending strength to the vows by some ancient, pureblood ritual. Or perhaps it was just music. It still danced up her spine.

The light died with the music. Harry and Draco were left standing, two boys holding hands at the center of a silent room, every wand raised.

“Then, by decree of the Ministry of Magic of Great Britain, and the oath of those present here, you are now wed.”

Harry took his husband by the shoulders, planting on his lips the most passionate and simultaneously innocent kiss Hermione had ever beheld. Their lips pressed, opened, full and familiar. They rarely kissed in public, and the sight took their audience by storm.

A tear snuck down Harry’s cheek. And it was the first time she’d ever seen him cry for happiness, for pure, unadulterated joy.

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.

Sordid's official AFF Forum Post. Accept no imitations.

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