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
- 5
- 6
- 7
SUMMARY: Malfoy goes batty and Potter seems to be the only one worried by it. He decides to help the poor twitchy fellow. A few additional graphic details of Malfoy's torture.

WARNINGS: crack!Malfoy, mental break down, potion-ing without consent, more graphic details of torture

CONSCIENCE:

LIGHT IN AUGUST

There's a knock on the door.

“Malfoy?”

More knocking.

“Malfoy? Are you decent? It's—it's Potter. I need to talk to you about something.”

The desired Malfoy yanked open the door with the warmth of an arctic blizzard.

“What?” he snapped.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Yes.” A dignified huff. Blonde locks were blown back into place in a practiced manner. “I happen to be reading. Can't this wait until, say, never?” The door began to shut.

A ratty-trainer-clad foot appeared in the door's path to be squashed by inertia.

“No, Malfoy, I'm not waiting until you deem me worthy of getting around to. I'm coming in and we're going to talk, so go hide your knickers.” And, with that, Harry shouldered the door open.

Once seated on the spare bed and facing Malfoy, Harry began. “There are two reasons why I came here to deal with you.”

“Really? Do you think you can remember them both?” Wide-eyed mockery. Harry was prepared for their encounter to be unpleasant but Malfoy's behavior was out-of-sorts, even for Malfoy. Harry ignored it for the moment and continued to disseminate information.

“Yes. The first reason is that there's going to be another guest in my home—”

“Another one?!” Again with the blithe irreverence.

“Yes,” Harry sighed. “Because you're not enough of a headache. I need more people in my house.”

“And where-ever will they sleep?” Pretending to care and doing a purposefully poor job of it.

“With the pigs, Malfoy,” Harry said sarcastically. As soon as the words left his mouth, Malfoy stiffened visibly. The expression on his face was closed, eyes nervous and shifty. Harry was a bit unsettled but continued on. “The second reason I came to talk to you—if this can even be considered a conversation—is that you have a birthday soon. Correct?”

“Awh! You remembered!” Malfoy shouted, grinning from ear to ear and hugging himself as though he were an overlarge stuffed animal. At this point, Harry wondered for the blonde's sanity. But Malfoy regained his former countenance almost immediately; the familiar Malfoy expression, delicate and sour, snapped over his pointed face like a mask. “How kind,” he drawled, every inch Malfoy... if a little deadpan.

“And before you ask me where-ever all the presents will fit—” Harry rolled his eyes.

“With the pigs, I remember.” Sardonic and droning.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed wearily. At least Malfoy was following the conversation, if somewhat sporadically. “There's an actual present you might be able to earn. From me. I have a proposition for you.”

“I'm flattered,” Malfoy batted dirty blonde eyelashes. “But no. I'm not that desperate.” And the deadpan expression returned.

“I don't understand you at all,” Harry looked away. “But if you want your wand back for your birthday, you have to agree to live here by my rules. It's my house. You'll follow the rules until your birthday. If you don't fuck up, you get your wand back. If you fuck up—”

“I sleep with the pigs.” Malfoy's face was unmoving but his gray eyes flash as his gaze darted around the room. He had yet to make eye contact.

“Actually, I was going to send you back to Voldemort wearing a Hufflepuff girl's uniform, but whichever.”

This proclamation was met with slow, even paced blinking and dead silence. At least Malfoy didn't start wringing his still-healing hands—Harry didn't think he could handle the sight. It would evoke too much sympathy and he needed to be firm with this neurotic son of a bitch.

“Well, my rules are simple. We're not your house elves, so you'll have to come downstairs for meals. Don't call anyone a mudblood. Don't insult anyone, for that matter. That includes the Weasleys. No fighting. No punishing or otherwise abusing the house elves. Be civil to all of my guests. All of them. And their pets and personal items and things. And clean up your own mess whenever possible.” Harry paused after this, hoping for a reply. Malfoy sat corpse-like, except for the occasional blinking.

“Is that all?” the blonde's voice was barely a whisper.

“No. No Dark Arts, either.”

“Well, shucks,” he said sarcastically. There was a trace of energy in his tone.

“That's my offer, take it or leave it. You can follow the rules or not, that's up to you. Lord Voldemort, a Hufflepuff uniform and the pigs will be waiting for you, just in case.” Harry stood up, adjusting the overlarge tshirt he'd borrowed off of Ron. “Enjoy your reading, Malfoy.”

- - -

“How'd it go with ferret-face?” Ron asked the minute Harry entered the sitting room.

“Um,” Harry paused, considering. “I'm not sure. Hermione, you'll have to riddle it out for me.”

“Of course Harry. I'd be glad to help.” She closed her textbook. “Ron, Ginny, would you like some tea?” Ron and Ginny were playing wizard's chess. Everything seemed very strange to Harry after his odd exchange with Malfoy. Everyone was just a little too calm.

“I'll take some, but not if you're making it just for me!” Ginny said brightly. Ron made his move and Ginny shifted to concentrate on defending her remaining pieces on the board.

“Harry,” Hermione turned to him, “would you like tea?”

“Er, yeah. I'll come with you. The kitchen?”

Hermione laughed, nodding.

“Yes, Harry.” She drew nearer to place a hand on his arm. “You're acting funny. Are you feeling alright?”

“Um,” Harry was nervous now. He wrung his hands and won't make eye contact. “Tea?”

“In the kitchen, dear.”

The first words out of Harry Potter's mouth upon entering the kitchen may or may not have been “Draco Malfoy fucked with me.” It is still debatable. But that's what Hermione heard fall out of his mouth, so that's what we're going with.

“Draco Malfoy fucked with me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can't think straight, Hermione! He's gone batty, I swear. Can you catch crazy?”

“Harry, calm down,” Hermione rushed over to Harry and made him sit down on the bench at the kitchen table, flicking her wand to orchestrate tea. A cup floated out the door for Ginny. “Just calm down and tell me what happened.”

“It was like a dozen crazy people were talking to me through Malfoy. And none of them seemed to actually be Malfoy. I donwanna talkaboutit.” Harry accepted a cup of tea.

“You sure?” she posed quietly, raising a questioning brow.

“I... made a joke about pigs, and he just kept going on about it, finishing my sentences with things about the pigs and then going all crazy and happy and hugging himself and yelling cause I mentioned his birthday and then it was back to deadpan again and—Hermione, I don't think I can handle talking to him. Maybe the torture addled his brain and it all just caught up with him.”

Hermione sighed.

“Harry, you've got to calm down. Drink your tea.” And he did. “He's just messing with you, playing power games like always. He wants us to think he's crazy so that we'll underestimate him.”

“That's why you told me to threaten him with Voldemort, right?”

“Exactly,” Hermione nodded before urging him to drink more tea. “We know what he's really afraid of and we have to use it to our advantage until we find a better means of communication or until he's ready to cooperate and play nice with us.”

“But what can we do to make him cooperate?” Harry asked.

“Beyond threatening him?”

Nodding, Harry sipped his hot tea.

“I suppose we ought to create a sense of normal life for him. Encourage him to join us for dinner or time in the library. Maybe he'd care for a new book. He's been holed up with that last one for four days. I'm sure he's quite sick of it by now.”

“Which book was it? I didn't notice.”

“It's a famous muggle book,” she supplied. “It's called Light In August by William Faulkner.”

Harry slurped his tea.

“Hermione, how is it that you always make everyone feel better?”

“I put Calming Potion in your tea.”

~ * ~

Late that night, once everyone was asleep, Harry put on his dressing gown and snuck down the warm, shadowy hall to steal Light In August. Malfoy slept curled up in a ball at the edge of his twin bed, his arm hanging off the side and the muggle paperback dangling from his thin hand. A few pages had been dog-eared and Harry vowed to figure out why. Malfoy had a firm grip on the book, forcing Harry to take a knee in order to pry it from his pale, spindly fingers.

Harry spent the better part of the next two days holed up in his room reading the book. After two days, he came down for dinner. He had no appetite; instead, he glared at Hermione across the old kitchen table, not bothering to take a seat before he embarking on a solid tirade.

“How could you possibly think giving that book to Malfoy was a good idea?” he demanded.

“Hm?” Hermione took a sip of her Butterbeer. Ron ate calmly beside her. Ginny fixed him with a Mrs. Weasley-like frown while the matriarch herself was no where in sight.

“Hermione!” Harry countered angrily, banging a fist on the table so hard the silverware rattled. “The main character of that book is an orphaned social outcast who has sex with animals, murders his girlfriend, cuts her head off and lights her house on fire! When the authorities catch up with him, a deputy named Grimm castrates him and makes him eat his own parts before executing him. Grimm has red hair—like half the people in my house—and Malfoy was tortured and unstable to begin with! So I repeat, how could you think this bollocks was a good idea?”

Silence met his proclamation.

“Er—I,” Hermione stuttered, “I suppose I should have read the cliff notes first. I knew it was a famous American novel, but that's all.”

“And I'm no longer hungry,” Ron announced, throwing down his knife and fork, a nauseated expression overtaking his face at the mere mention of castration.

“Do you think I should go speak with him? Apologize?” Hermione asked.

“Definitely not,” Harry replied. “The story revolves around the idea that women always have their own agenda and can't be trusted. I'll go talk to him,” Harry huffed, pushing away from the table. “But don't be surprised if Malfoy stays up there for the rest of the summer.” Or the rest of his miserable, lonely little life, Harry thought with more than a twinge of guilt.

- - -

There was a quiet knock on the door. Draco rolled away from the sound and pulled the heavy blankets over his head, willing it to go away. The knocking came again, soft but insistent.

“Fine,” he grumbled from under his blankets. “Come in.”

With a squeak from the door's hinges, the fine hairs at the back of Draco's neck stood on end: he knew immediately that it was Potter. He threw the blankets off and bolted upright in bed. Potter stared at him. Draco knew he must look a right mess but he was beyond caring. He studied Potter's face, reading a mix of anxiety, nerves and... pity. It was unbearable. He got out of bed and tugged on a shirt. He kept wearing Potter's rather ugly, oversized jumper because the long sleeves hid his arms. But said jumper was no where to be found; instead, he faced Potter in an old Chudley Cannons tshirt, his Dark Mark and ugly scars exposed.

“Malfoy, I...” Potter trailed off, not meeting his eyes.

“Well, if you're not here to kill me you might as well sit down,” he gestured towards the spare bed. Potter shrugged and sat. Draco did the same.

“I took this,” Potter said, reaching behind himself to pull a familiar, dog eared copy of Light In August from the waistband of his jeans. He held it out between them. “I'm sorry for sneaking around, but I wanted to read it.”

“Potty, you always sneak around. Since first year. It's in your nature. Don't apologize for it.”

“Alright, then,” Potter sighed and tossed the book onto Draco's bed in defeat. “You're making this bloody difficult, by the way.”

“That is my nature,” Draco said quietly, “and I'll not apologize for it.”

“I would never expect you to apologize, Malfoy. I'm the one who needs to apologize.”

Draco was stunned. “Oh?” he breathed at last. Unconsciously, a pale hand went to cover the Mark at his arm.

“Yes.” Potter's hands fidgeted at his sides and his gaze wouldn't settle. Draco watched his face, the man's jaw vastly in need of a shave. He looked as though he hadn't slept well for days, if at all. His round glasses were smudged. “Hermione should never have given you that book. She hadn't read it yet and didn't know what it was about. I'm sorry I let her give it to you. And I'm sorry it upset you. I...” Potter gulped and started over. “No one's going to castrate you, or kill you, or send you back to Voldemort. I just said that to scare you so you'd stop being such a prick. I don't want to hurt you, Malfoy. You've been hurt enough.”

“What about Weasley King?” Draco muttered. “I'm sure this 'apologizing' business wasn't his bright, shiny epiphany.”

“No, it wasn't,” Potter admitted readily. “That's not in his nature, either. I'm sure you can understand that. But he knows that you're a guest in my house, too, and he has to be civil. I can't threaten to send him back to Voldemort, but he's my best mate and he'll do as I ask just the same.”

“Alright,” Draco said uneasily. “What about Granger?”

“I told her what the book was about and she felt awful, after what you've been through—”

“What do you mean, 'what I've been through?'” Draco spat. “You don't know the first thing about what happened to me.” He squeezed his arm so hard he knew it would bruise. He needed to get the tension out and speaking just wasn't enough.

“Er,” Potter blushed a bright pink and cleared his throat. “I did some sneaking around in my Invisibility Cloak when you met with the Order. I sort of heard, well, everything.”

Potter knew. Potter knew “everything,” apparently. Potter knew what that fucker Mulciber did to him. Draco could feel the vomit rising in his throat.

“I'm gonna be sick,” he gasped, stumbling for the bathroom. Sodding Potter followed and stood there while he wretched his guts out. He took his time washing his face and spitting cool water into the sink. Potter waited, a hand on the counter and the other in his pocket. He looked like he expected Draco to collapse any second.

“I'm fine, Potter,” the blonde spat at last, drying his face with the hem of his tshirt. Potter's eyes went as large as dinner plates when he saw Draco's stomach. There were shiny pink scars where Mulciber had set a dog on him at one point. He'd learned not to look at his body—he barely recognized the pale expanse of flesh that had once been his meal ticket to a satisfying and varied sex life. What kind of sick pervert would want him now—scarred, half chewed up and spit out, broken, marked and undone? He was a man in disgrace.

“It must've been horrible,” Potter whispered, a far-away look in his eyes as though he were the one who'd nearly bled to death a few dozen times.

“It was a walk in the park, Potter,” he drawled defensively. “You should try it sometime. Does wonders for the libido.”

“Really?”

“No!” Draco snapped. “I don't even know if my dick still works.” Suddenly dizzy, he sat where he was, slumping against the cupboard. Voicing the thought was somehow a thousand times worse than thinking it.

“I'm so sorry,” Potter said awkwardly, sitting next to him. He leaned against the cupboard, too, so they wouldn't have to look directly at one another. “Is there anything... um, I can do?”

Draco actually laughed. It was a weak wheeze. The sound shocked him as much as it did Potter, but it was an actual laugh.

“No, Potter. But... thank you.”

They sat for a few minutes in silence, Draco's legs stretched out in front of him and Potter's brought up near his chest, elbows resting on his knees. Draco realized he must be using Potter's shampoo and such, because they smelled alike. He realized it might be a very long time before he could pick up a bottle of his favorite sandalwood cologne. And what money would he use to buy it? He was penniless and friendless, now. He looked over at Potter who returned his gaze, dopey green eyes holding an uneasy truce behind smudged lenses. Draco would have to take it—there weren't exactly any competing offers.

“You gonna be okay?” Potter asked.

“Sure. I just need to rest a minute.” Draco assessed his aches and pains and came up with a few more than he'd like. “McGonagall didn't send a potion today?”

Potter shook his head of spilled ink hair. “I'll owl her. Maybe she can send the ingredients and Hermione could make it for you, instead. That way we won't run out. We'll always have some when you need it.”

“That would be much appreciated.” Draco massaged his jaw. It had been magically broken several times and in several places. Weaselby's facer hadn't exactly aided the healing process. Now vomiting had given him a headache as well as knocking something out of place. Pain bloomed as he tested the bones so he stopped, letting his head thunk against the cabinet. When he opened his eyes, he noticed a scar on Potter's arm just above where the Dark Mark was on his own. “That must've hurt,” he said, indicating the scar.

“Oh,” Potter jumped, then appraised his own arm. “Like hell, actually. I got it fighting that basilisk second year.” He paused, looking at Draco. “Probably didn't hurt as much as those,” and he pointed to a line of burn marks running from Draco's collar bone up his neck. They had almost faded away with the aid of magic, but Potter was close enough to see.

“I'm still alive,” he shrugged.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I don't know, can you?”

Potter snorted. “May I?”

“I'm too dizzy to stand, so ask away.”

“How?” Potter asked very softly. “How did you get through it? How could you stand it?”

Draco sat breathing for a long time, trying to put together some semblance of a response.

“You don't have to answer, Malfoy. I was just curious. It gets me in a lot of trouble sometimes.”

Draco spoke to the borrowed socks on his feet—Potter's socks that had been darned, undoubtedly by the Weasley woman. His voice wasn't as steady as he would have liked it to be.

“I thought of biting his stubby little dick off every time he pulled it out. Of course he only made it hurt worse when I thought stuff like that... but it was the only way I could fight back. I'm stubborn that way.” Draco smiled, even though it hurt. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yeah,” Potter's head of dark hair nodded beside him. “I guess I know what you mean. I'm pretty stubborn, myself. It's how I throw off the Imperius Curse.”

“Me, too,” Draco sighed. “There's that voice in the back of your head that tells you to give in, give up. You just have to fight it with everything you've got.”

“That's how I feel about fighting Voldemort.” Draco flinched when Potter said The Name. The Chosen Bitch had balls. “I just have to keep fighting.”

“Do you think you'll stop him?” Draco couldn't help but ask.

“Honestly? I dunno,” Potter's jaw was set, “but I have to try. I have to fight. If I don't fight with everything I've got, then I've already failed.”

They sat in silence again. Draco's head pounded and he closed his eyes. It was good to know there was another person in the world as stubborn as he was—even if that person was Harry Sodding Potter.

“Malfoy, you're in pain,” Potter said all of a sudden.

“What tipped you off?” Draco was indignant with his eyes shut.

“You moaned, just now.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.” Draco heard Potter get up and opened his eyes to slits. Potter was hovering over him, a hand extended to help him up.

“What on earth are you doing?” Draco questioned. He wished he could summon the energy to sound indignant again. Even to his own ears, he sounded knackered.

“I'm helping you up. You're obviously in pain and need to go back to bed. Let me help you.” He said that last sentence in the same matter-of-fact tone as the rest, but it landed on Draco like a Hungarian Horntail.

“This doesn't make us friends or anything, Potter,” Draco muttered, using the counter to leverage himself to his knees. The cold tile bit into his joints and he might be forced to take Potter's hand or risk falling. He waited a moment on his knees.

“Of course not,” Potter agreed.

“You pity me,” Draco said out loud as the realization hit him. He tried to hoist himself up using the counter and found at the last moment that his arms wouldn't hold him. When he started to lilt to one side, Potter caught him. With Potter's arm, Draco steadied himself enough to whip around and glare at the stupid git. He had the counter to lean against and was able to focus his energy into a piercing glare.

“I did,” Potter admitted, meeting his gaze with an angry one of his own. “Before. But now, I fucking respect you. I don't want to because you're a prick and you've made my life and my friends' lives miserable, but there it is. I didn't know there was another man alive as thick-headed and stubborn as I am, but here you are. And I have to bloody respect you for that. I didn't think you and I had anything in common,” Potter's rage seemed to die out, arms falling to his sides. His look was still dark, but it didn't bother Draco one bit.

“But, as you say, there it is,” Draco said in conclusion. “I don't like this situation any more than you, Potter, but we're both stuck in it and we might as well make it liveable. I will never be your friend... but I respect you, too.” He couldn't help but add, “you cunt.”

Potter started laughing and it broke what little tension remained between them. He leaned against the opposite wall and roared with laughter, exclaiming, “Shit, Malfoy!” Draco chuckled a bit, himself. They had a good laugh until one of Draco's knees buckled and he slapped both hands to the counter in order to remain upright.

“Okay,” Potter said, “time to get you to bed. You'll take my help?” Draco, chasing the laughter from his abdomen, just nodded. “Good. Um, do you need me to carry you?”

“I don't think that will be necessary,” Draco said, eating his pride with a chaser of shame. Potter might end up carrying him if he fell. He steeled his nerves. “Just... get me to bed? And don't let me faint where Granger or Weasley King might find me.”

“Done,” Potter replied, stepping forward. “Which is the bad knee?”

“The left,” Draco said, trying not to sound as weak and winded as he felt.

“Okay, then.” Potter reached out and grasped Draco's arm. That calloused hand, warm and heavy, had him by the Dark Mark. Draco flinched involuntarily. Potter just lifted his tattooed arm and rested it across his muscled shoulders, bracing and then taking most of Draco's weight. “Go ahead and lean on me,” Potter said, his other arm wrapping around Draco's waist. “I'll get you back.”

“Thanks, Wonder Boy,” Draco drawled. Somehow, he was no longer able to summon the venom and hatred he'd always felt for Potter. Maybe he'd taken their truce a little too much to heart.

“You're welcome,” Potter whispered, smiling. “Ya cunt.”

~ * ~

Harry knocked on Malfoy's door the next morning on his way to breakfast. The response he received was alert but disgruntled. He went in anyway.

“Feeling better, Malfoy?” he asked, receiving only a quiet grunt in reply. Malfoy was sitting at the foot of his bed, tugging on Harry's socks. He'd showered and his hair was still wet, dripping onto the shoulders of his jumper. It was Harry's favorite jumper. He normally wore it in the winter because it was so warm. Malfoy would be sweating by the time he arrived downstairs.

“Are you cold?” he asked. Malfoy just shrugged and went to put on some trainers. “Then why do you wear that? You must be boiling.”

Malfoy turned and fixed him with a scathing look.

“Sleeves,” he said simply, waving his arms a little, and Harry instantly understood. “The Mark makes your friends uncomfortable, I think.”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “That and it reminds them that you really were a Death Eater. I kept telling them all school year and they never believed me. So it's kind of a reminder that I was right.”

“Oh,” Malfoy stopped tying the trainer, a thoughtful look ghosting across his pointed features. “In that case, get me a tshirt.”

“You're sure?”

“If it'll annoy Granger and Weaselby,” Malfoy smiled. Harry was a little shocked by its genuine nature—devoid of arrogance and entitlement. Malfoy looked almost pleasant, although plenty devious. Harry dared to hope that maybe the Malfoy he'd known at Hogwarts was a public façade and this was Malfoy's real self. Harry smiled back before going to his room to find a shirt small enough for Malfoy. He was scarcely an inch shorter than Harry but girlishly slender. Harry would never say that to his face, though. Well, not now, anyway. He returned and threw the plain cotton tshirt at Malfoy, who caught it and promptly stripped off the wooly jumper.

Harry made a strangled sound when he saw Malfoy without his shirt. He couldn't help it. The burn marks and scars were devastating to look at. A chunk of flesh had been taken out of his side, apparently by an animal's jaws. The healing skin was vivid red and angry looking against the paleness of the rest of him. Malfoy caught sight of Harry's flinch and shrugged on the grey tshirt, covering the terrible marks covering his body.

“Is it really all that bad?” he asked, starting towards the hall.

“Should get you some serious chicks,” Harry joked. Malfoy just rolled his silver eyes.

“What's that?” Malfoy asked, pointing to Harry's hand. After seeing Malfoy's injuries, he'd forgotten. He'd brought a navy cardigan that was tight in the shoulders for him, so would fit Malfoy just fine. “In case you get cold later,” he said, handing it to him.

“Thanks.” Malfoy pulled it on and hiked the sleeves up to his elbows. Harry started towards the kitchen but Malfoy ducked into their shared bathroom. Harry stopped to watch him fuss with his hair in the mirror.

“You coming or what?”

“Unlike some people,” Malfoy drawled but Harry sensed it was empty of malice, “I care about my appearance. You might want to do something about your hair, Potty. It looks like you combed it sometime last week.”

“Very funny.” Harry watched Malfoy go back to adjusting his appearance. Malfoy always was a snappy dresser. He even made Harry's simple clothes look well-thought-out. The dark sweater and his light skin drew your attention right to the Dark Mark. Harry couldn't help a smile—Malfoy really wanted to piss Ron and Hermione off and he was going to do a bang-up job. “Well, my new house guest should be here any minute. I'd better go. But you should come down. I think you'll like him.”

“Why on earth should I like him?” Malfoy asked absently, trying to decide whether to neatly roll the sweater sleeves or just bunch them up. He decided to roll them and set about fixing both sides to mach. “He's friends with you, isn't he?”

“His surname isn't Weasley,” Harry offered.

“You're right, I do like him,” Malfoy tossed Harry an easy grin, his eyes bright and a bit of color coming to his cheeks. Harry realized with a jolt that Malfoy was actually a very attractive bloke. Years of hatred had apparently barred this fact from surfacing. If it weren't for his personality, Malfoy might make some lucky girl very happy one day. As it stood, he was still a bloody bigoted tosser. But a very good looking one—handsome, even. Real easy on the eyes.

“Scoot!” Malfoy was saying, adjusting the fall of his platinum hair. “I'll be along in a minute.”

- - -

Harry entered the kitchen to find Hermione, Ginny and Mrs. Weasley entertaining his new house guest: Viktor Krum. This had been the favor Hermione had asked for. Viktor had repeatedly requested to visit her in England and Hermione had felt compelled to refuse each time, her parents not approving of an older and very famous wizard coming expressly to see their daughter. Harry suspected Hermione wanted to try to get Krum involved in the Order, which wasn't a bad idea at all. Harry had also worried that Krum still harbored some romantic feelings for Hermione, but she'd waved off his concern with the old “he's just a dear friend” line. In this case, Harry wasn't so sure. Perhaps Hermione wanted to invite Krum to give Ron a little push. Harry decided he wasn't going to interfere and instead went to shake hands with Krum.

After ensuring that the man was well settled with a comfortable room and a large breakfast plate, Harry saw Hermione beckon him to her side of the table and into the seat furthest from Mrs. Weasley.

“Harry, I'm surprised to see you in one piece!” Hermione hissed under her breath. “I heard you and Malfoy laughing last night and thought you'd finally hexed each other to bits.”

“No,” Harry actually smiled at the memory. It struck him as odd to be thinking about Malfoy and smiling, but not enough to make him stop.

“What, then?” she pried. “Don't tell me the two of you are getting along now?”

“A little, yeah,” Harry admitted. “Malfoy's actually really funny.”

“So he opened up to you?”

“I dunno if I'd put it that way,” Harry shrugged and helped himself to a piece of toast, “but we talked. We came to an agreement.”

“And what agreement would that be?” Mrs. Weasley asked. Their conversation hadn't escaped her notice. Harry shrugged.

“That we're not gonna lose our tempers and curse each other into oblivion, I guess.” Harry tucked into his breakfast and Hermione and Mrs. Weasley left him to it. Breakfast was especially ample that morning and Harry helped himself to a little bit of everything. He secretly suspected the ladies had wanted to impress their famous guest.

“I must zhank you again for inviting me to visit,” Krum leaned over and said to Harry. His English was much improved but his accent wasn't much better. Harry had to concentrate in order to understand him. “I had no idea you had such a lovely home.”

“Thanks. I actually inherited it last year from my godfather. He passed away.”

“I'm so sorry to hear zhat,” Krum replied. “Was it natural or—”

“Death Eaters,” Harry said. Krum nodded soberly, so Harry didn't feel the need to say more.

“I lost an uncle last fall. Zhe Death Eaters are getting stronger in Bulgaria. Zhey have overrun Durmstrang. Very unpleasant. Many people are dead or missing.”

“Speaking of Death Eaters, Harry,” Ginny said, pouring more tea all around. “Where's ours?”

Krum looked startled. Hermione put her hand on his meaty arm.

“You remember, Viktor? I told you about our classmate who's staying here until the Ministry can help him.”

“Oh, yes. Zhe one who vas tortured,” Krum nodded knowingly. “Sad case. I know vot zhey do.” Krum gave Harry a meaningful look. He didn't want to discuss the worst parts in front of Hermione and Ginny. It wasn't the sort of thing women should have to hear. Harry agreed in full.

“What do they do?”

“Ginny!” Mrs. Weasley scolded.

“I want to know! Maybe I can forgive Malfoy for acting like a ponce if I know what they did to him.” Ginny folded her hands and looked at Harry expectantly.

“Malfoy was telling me about it last night,” Harry said slowly, “but he didn't give me permission to share, so I can't say much. He was getting sick in the bathroom. By the way, Hermione, he needs more of that potion McGonagall was sending. I owled to ask her to send the ingredients instead; I thought you could make it for him? You're the best at potions. And I think he'd appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Hermione sipped her tea. “I could use some potions practice.”

“Harry, you didn't answer my question,” Ginny persisted. Mrs. Weasley made a tutting sound and opted to go into the pantry. Harry couldn't blame her for not wanting to hear.

“Well... they broke all his fingers, healed them with magic, and broke them again,” Harry began. That was the mildest thing he could think of. “So he couldn't defend himself. They burned him. They used magic to keep him alive when he should have bled to death. They set an animal on him—from what I could tell it was a dog, maybe a wolf or a werewolf, even. Whatever it was, it took a bite out of him, here,” Harry showed the place on his own side. “He showed me. It was a pretty big bite.” Harry cleared his throat. “I think that's all I can say. Everything else was in confidence.”

“Wait, so now we're trusting Malfoy now?” Ginny spluttered, absorbing the information Harry had provided and only looking a little ill for it.

“His name is Malfoy?” interjected Viktor. “I know zhe family—very involved in the Dark Arts. Ve almost had a Malfoy at Durmstrang. Vould he be zhe same man?”

“Yes,” Harry nodded. He turned to Ginny. “And we're giving Malfoy common courtesy now. It's like I met a real person last night. He's not that bad. He's smart and funny... and not as much of a coward as I thought,” Harry admitted. Ginny looked dubious. Hermione's expression was neutral. Krum looked happy that Harry was sticking up for a Death Eater victim. Harry gathered Krum's uncle had been tortured, too.

“Oh, by the way,” Harry added as Mrs. Weasley bustled back into the room with an armload of tinned tomatoes. “Visible Dark Mark today. It was my idea, so pretend like you don't notice.”

“Why on earth would you suggest that?” Ginny exclaimed.

“Because he can't go on wearing my winter jumper in the summer,” Harry tried hard to keep his tone even. “And because we can't ask him to cover it up, to cover himself up, what he was. He came to us for help and we owe it to him to accept him without condition. I know you guys don't like him but you have to give him a chance. I met a different person last night. If you can't trust him, then trust me,” Harry implored.

“Zhat vorks for me,” Krum said, which put a final cap on the discussion.

“I'd better go warn Ron,” Ginny said, getting up from the table. “We can't have him screaming like a banshee when he sees Malfoy's arm.”

“True,” Hermione agreed.

“I think Ronald is still asleep, Ginny,” Mrs. Weasley said. She was trying hard to leave Harry to his own devices in his house and he was very thankful. It was hard enough having the Order camped in his parlor almost once a week. Having some say in his own house was a small but significant victory.

Ginny gave a little chirp from the hallway, announcing Malfoy. She stuttered her good morning to him and a moment later Malfoy entered the kitchen. He froze, mouth slightly open.

“Slytherin's balls,” the blonde whispered, setting eyes on Viktor Krum. Mrs. Weasley then set eyes on the Dark Mark and contained herself to a small scream—just long enough to be a shout of fear rather than surprise, but she decided to pass it off as surprise just the same. She put a hand to her heart and apologized.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley. I didn't mean to sneak up on you,” Malfoy said agreeably before returning his attention to the table. He sat down across from Krum, taking Ginny's place beside Harry.

“Mr. Krum,” Malfoy said reverently. “Draco Malfoy. I am a tremendous fan,” they shook hands over a platter of fruit as Malfoy continued, “and a staunch supporter of legalizing the Transylvanian Tackle. Bulgaria's use in the '95 quarter finals was unquestionably a display of tactical genius.”

“Zhe officials are absolutely backward vhen it comes to regulations,” Krum replied. “One need only look to zhe Falmouth Falcons or zhe Vratsa Vultures. Even Heidelburg.”

“Exactly!” Malfoy leaned forward in his seat, elbowing Harry for his support. “Quidditch is a game of planning, skill, and above all, quick thinking. If you can't play the game—”

“Get off zhe pitch!” Krum finished and burst into laughter. “I can't believe someone remembers zhat speech.”

“Remember it? I memorized it!” Malfoy's grin was so broad Harry thought it would crack his face. It didn't even fade when Ron entered the kitchen and almost passed out at the dual sighting: the Dark Mark and Viktor Krum proved to be too much too early for poor Ron Weasley.
- 5
- 6
- 7
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