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
- 6
- 7
- 8
WARNINGS: relationship drama, a moment of terror, awkward teenage boys flirting

SUMMARY: The gang tries to get to know the new Malfoy—including Malfoy. Relationship drama. Malfoy's birthday rolls around and Harry has engineered a special present.

DISCLAIMERS: The English version of “Can't Help Falling In Love With You” was written by George Weiss, Hugo Peretti and Luigi Creatore for Elvis Presley, 1961.

CONSCIENCE:

HEART'S DESIRE

Potter had kidnapped Viktor Krum and so Draco was left with Granger for company lasting at least until lunch time. They sat in the front room reading; or rather, Hermione tried to read while Draco quickly became bored with Quidditch Through the Ages for the thousandth time and decided to be friendly instead.

“I'm going to take a wild guess and say that you asked Potter to invite Mr. Krum here,” Draco said into the silence. “What's left to determine is whether your motives are altruistic or more personal.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione placed a marker in her muggle book and glanced up at him. She did well keeping a neutral expression on her face. Draco had heard Potter's lecture to his friends that morning and was curious how closely they would keep to his request.

“Viktor Krum,” Draco said slowly. “He obviously has feelings for you. Do you return them, or are you using him to force Weasley's hand?”

“That's really none of your business, Malfoy,” she returned to her book.

“If I had two galleons to rub together, I'd put them on fits of jealousy leading to a declaration,” Malfoy sighed. “But I only say that because I have a rather base opinion of Weaselby. Perhaps if I thought well of him, I might peg him for the kind to step aside. But as it is the man's a rutting barbarian—”

“Enough, Malfoy,” she snapped, slamming her book shut and rounding on him with an icy glare. “Harry said you were committed to behaving yourself but I see you have no such intention. I certainly don't have to put up with this.” She got up and slammed the door behind her. With the front room now empty, Draco took the opportunity to ferret around for something of interest. And he quickly found it.

Harry and Krum entered the front sitting room to find Malfoy rooting around on all fours behind an overlarge trunk backed against one wall, his ass in the air and dust on his knees. Harry cleared his throat loudly. Malfoy straightened to his knees and looked at Harry and Viktor around the side of the massive trunk.

“Oh, Krum!” he called. “Glad you're here. I can't seem to find the mechanism for this piano. Would you mind?”

“Not at all!” Krum said, rubbing his hands together and making his way over to the trunk.

“Piano?” Harry followed, bewildered.

“Yes,” Malfoy responded, behind the trunk once more. He seemed to be feeling along the joints for a mechanism, as he said. “I'm not surprised you weren't able to open it, but the Weasleys are close enough to the blood line that one of them should've.... Well, never mind,” he sighed. “I can't find the damned thing anyway.”

Krum sighed too and scratched his head. “Maybe it's underneath,” he suggested. “It could've been moved around and accidentally placed on its side.”

“Maybe,” Malfoy replied, picking a cobweb out of his hair. He seemed full of energy. “Could you two lift it and I'll have a peek?”

“Sure, you're zhe smallest.” The way Krum said it, it sounded like a compliment. Harry walked to the other side and found himself a decent grip by which to tip the massive thing on its side. With Krum's strength, they were able to lift it a third of the way off the ground.

“A little more,” Malfoy said, squirming under the trunk. If either Harry or Krum lost their grip, the blonde would be dead in a heartbeat. Harry redoubled his grip and clenched his teeth. The “piano,” trunk, or whatever it was was damn heavy. “There, I see it. I'm coming out now.” Malfoy backed out, pushing with his arms. Harry and Krum lowered the thing with a clang Harry thought sounded vaguely musical. Maybe there was a magical piano inside. Apparently one cued to the Black bloodline, as Malfoy had suggested only he or one of the Weasleys might be able to open it.

Malfoy was brushing dust from his knees as he spoke to Krum. Something about having to move some furniture around first. Harry did as he was told and helped shove a sofa and two chairs to the center of the room, leaving a healthy-sized patch of floor for this piano.

Once again Harry and Krum braced themselves on opposite sides of the massive old trunk. Just as they were about to lift, Malfoy stopped them.

“It needs a wand,” he said. “And I don't have mine on me. Either of you?”

Harry shook his head. He didn't typically keep his wand on him around the house, but perhaps he should start. Krum nodded and removed his wand from his pocket. As Harry remembered, it was short and thick with a little whip to it. Malfoy gave it a few introductory flicks, producing white sparkles and several feathers, before returning his attention to the box.

“Alright, let's give this a whirl.”

Harry and Krum strained and the box tilted half-way off the ground, giving Malfoy ample room to crawl beneath it. Harry watched him curl up and wedge himself in tight, taking a bit of the trunk's weight onto his hip and shoulder. Harry wasn't sure that was such a bright idea but he kept that thought to himself. Malfoy prodded the wand into a small indent on the underside of the trunk and began muttering a complex incantation. He repeated it for about a minute or so before stopping. Harry had begun to think it didn't work when he heard the tiniest of clinks from inside the box. Then Malfoy was scrambling out as fast as possible as the trunk began to levitate, its material twisting and contorting to quickly take on a recognizable shape. Harry knew nothing about pianos, but this one was of average size and made of the same cherry-lacquered wood as the trunk had been. The piano even had a few of the brass hooks, nobs and braces from the trunk. Harry thought it was very attractive. Its innards were the last to find their places and it floated down with a soft thud. Malfoy and Krum exchanged grins.

“You play?” Malfoy asked.

“Of course,” Krum replied with a hawkish grin.

“What on earth is—” Mrs. Weasley came rushing into the room at the sound. It must have been louder than Harry had thought. “Oh, my!” Mrs. Weasley cried in delight. “My mother had a little case piano when I was a just a girl. I never knew there was one here!” She clasped her hands over her heart and gave a little sigh. “I've never seen one so large! Did you boys open it all by yourselves?”

Krum and Malfoy had it tuned shortly after lunch. Mrs. Weasley kept requesting Malfoy play Celestina Warbeck songs and she sang along. Ron retreated to his room to escape his mother's singing but Hermione stayed on, though she read her muggle books while sitting on the sofa, her back to Malfoy. Harry flipped through Quidditch Through The Ages and listened. After a while he noticed from his vantage point that Malfoy would stop to rub his hands while Mrs. Weasley thought of another song she'd like to sing. He hadn't had his potion for a few days and must be in pain. If he was, he didn't say anything as Mrs. Weasley thought of one song after another. Sometimes Malfoy wouldn't recognize a title. Mrs. Weasley would hum a few bars and then he would smile and play the song perfectly. Harry got the impression Malfoy was humoring her in order to have another ally in the house. As it was, he was being utterly charming. Seeing him smiling at Mrs. Weasley, thin fingers expertly playing one pleasant tune after another, it was hard not to like him. He was handsome as well as talented. Then Harry noticed his hands actually shaking as he played the chords to yet another request. When the song was finished and Mrs. Weasley gushed, Harry came up and put his hand on Malfoy's shoulder. The blonde started, sounding a discord of notes on the instrument.

“Mrs. Weasley, I think I'm going to have to steal Malfoy from you,” he said apologetically. “Professor McGonagall sent the potion ingredients and, well, I really need the Potions practice. I'm sure Viktor might play something for you. I hear he plays,” Harry gave Krum a little nod. Krum looked at Hermione who was seated across from him and buried in her book.

“Hermiohne?” he asked, putting a big hand on her knee. She jumped. “Is zhere anything you vould like to hear?”

“Do you know any muggle songs?” She closed her book but left a finger at her place in it, expecting the answer to be no.

“I know one or two.” Krum made his way to the trunk piano and Mrs. Weasley urged Hermione to follow. Krum sat and plunked out a few chords.

Malfoy moved to stand next to Harry. He didn't even sense the blonde until he was whispering near Harry's ear.

“We might want to get out of here, Chosen One,” there was a very devious smile on Malfoy's lips. “Krum's taking his shot.” Malfoy gave Harry's arm a tug to get him moving towards the door. Before they were into the hall, Harry heard Krum begin to hum the melody. The song was “Can't Help Falling In Love With You.” Krum's humming held a decidedly Elvis Presley-like lilt. Good thing Malfoy had gotten them out in time.

Harry sent Malfoy ahead to the kitchen while he ran upstairs for his cauldron and potions kit. He came into the kitchen to find Malfoy seated at the table, his head resting in both hands as he poured over the instructions. Malfoy looked drawn and ill.

“You really shouldn't push yourself so hard, you know,” Harry chastised, unpacking his things and getting a little fire going under the cauldron. “You're still recovering.”

“Like I don't know that, Potter,” Malfoy vituperated. His voice was scathing but didn't have its usual heat or verve. “And you had to rescue me.” He caught Harry's gaze to stare him down angrily. “What a fucking hero you are, Potter, rescuing the poor little Death Eater from the big bad piano. I'll have you know I was actually enjoying myself, for once.”

Harry could feel his ears burning; apparently, Malfoy did not accept assistance very graciously. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I was just trying to help you.”

“You've helped me plenty, Potty,” Malfoy snapped. His mouth opened to continue but Ginny entered the kitchen and he had the good grace to shut his trap. Harry peered around Malfoy's arm at the instructions.

“Mum refused to let me into the front room just now,” Ginny said slowly. “Any idea what's up?” She directed her question at Harry, as though Malfoy was not even in the room. Harry was trying to uncork a bottle of rose oil with his teeth, giving Malfoy time to answer for him.

“Krum and Granger are—” Comprehension dawned on Ginny's face.

“Where's Hermione?” Ron had entered the room, speaking over Malfoy.

“Front room, Weaselby,” Malfoy smiled serenely and handed Harry a moon stone for the cauldron. Ron took off before anyone else could say a word.

“Do you know what you've just done?” Ginny put her hands on her hips and glared. “You're such a bastard, Malfoy.”

Malfoy shrugged and went back to resting his head in his hands. Was Harry the only one who saw how sick he was?

“It's Granger's elaborate plot, not mine,” Malfoy drawled softly to the kitchen table. “Slytherin knows I don't scheme anymore. This is what she wants, isn't it? To make your brother so jealous he'll admit his feelings for her and then they'll live happily ever after, flowers and bunnies and kittens?” He snorted.

Ginny let out an affronted gasp.

“Potter suspected,” Malfoy continued. “I thought you'd be in on it, if anything. That brother of yours needs a shag worse than Potter. If I had two galleons to rub together I'd buy them a tom myself.”

“You are unbelievably vile, Malfoy, and I'm sorry the Order rescued you,” Ginny's anger was a palpable crackle about her. She turned her attention to Harry. “Good luck finding a shred of human decency in this creature. I don't know what you see worth saving.”

Ginny stormed from the room, but Harry could hear glass and woodwork creaking as she stomped down the hall. Having his ex-girlfriend and her family live with him for the summer was possibly the dumbest idea he'd ever had. That or befriending Malfoy.

“What in the hell was that?” he demanded of the blonde in exasperated tones.

Malfoy folded his arms on the table and laid his head down on them with a huff. “I didn't insult her, her brother or Granger. I didn't abuse a house elf or practice the Dark Arts. And I was perfectly civil in expressing my humble opinion that you and Weaselby are quite repressed, sexually, and could do with a bit of filth to polish your wand now and again. Where's the problem, Potter? She's the one who said I deserve to be tortured to death. Not exactly civil.”

“Malfoy, you are incorrigible,” Harry muttered, preparing the next ingredient for the potion.

“No, I'm stubborn,” he muttered. “And three Ursin petals, not five. Read the bloody instructions before you kill me.”

- - -

Harry flopped down on his bed after walking Malfoy to his room. Malfoy had protested until Harry reminded him that if he fainted in the hall it would be Hermione, Viktor or one of the Weasleys who found him. After that, Harry got the impression Malfoy would've let Harry tuck him into bed. He had an ample supply of the potion to manage his pain and help him heal. When he thought Harry wasn't looking, he snuck a few Lettlock berries into the brew. Lettlock berries were a sedative Harry would sometimes swallow straight when the nightmares got bad enough, so there had been a few bumping around in his potion kit. Perhaps Malfoy was having nightmares, too.

There was a knock at the door and Harry dragged himself across the room. Ron stood on the other side of the door, looking like he'd taken a Bludger to the stomach.

“What happened?” Harry asked. Ron came in and sat on Harry's trunk at the foot of the large four poster bed, his feet dragging.

“Hermione,” he whispered. “Krum. Kissing.”

“I'm sorry, mate.” Harry sat next to him and stared ahead.

“I—I think I like her, Harry. I think I really like her.”

“Maybe,” Harry suggested, “you love her?”

“Wha'?” Ron's forlorn eyes set on Harry.

“Have you told her how you feel—however you feel, that is?”

“'Course not,” Ron shook his head. “Should I?”

“I think so, Ron. Otherwise you might lose her to Viktor Krum.”

“You think I've got a chance in hell against him?” Ron's voice was incredulous.

“Seriously, Ron? You have to ask me?” Harry could have laughed. “She's loved you since first year. Do you know why McLaggen missed his last goal in Keeper trials last fall?” Ron shook his head. “Because Hermione Confunded him, that's why. She's always been nuts about you, Ron. You just have to take some initiative. Isn't it worse to never try at all?”

“You know, you're right, Harry.” Ron picked at a loose thread on his trouser leg. “But... how can I tell her now? With Krum here and all. What can I do? I can't compete with that.”

“You're selling yourself short, Ron,” Harry slapped his friend on the back. “I'm sure you'll think of something. Just be yourself—that's the person Hermione likes the best.”

“Thanks, mate.” Ron started for the door, already muttering to himself.

Maybe Malfoy was right. Maybe he and Ron needed to get their brooms waxed something fierce. Otherwise they might become permanent pushovers.

- - -

Not much changed over the remainder of the week. Krum continued to go out for Hermione's affection, Ron paced the house mumbling to himself, and Hermione waffled between the two of them like an especially frizzy brunette ball in a tennis match. Ginny refused to be in the same room with Malfoy while Ron and Hermione would tolerate his presence but only in small doses and typically over meals so that meaningful conversation could be avoided. Krum entertained Malfoy whenever the lack of progress with Hermione became overpoweringly sour—which was often for poor Viktor. Mrs. Weasley took Malfoy aside every afternoon to entertain her at the baby grand. Harry usually sat in the front room with them and listened, faithfully calling Malfoy away for a game of wizard's chess after an hour or two. Malfoy was sour over the interruption at first but stopped complaining after Harry left a generous supply of Lettlock berries on his pillow. Harry always lost their chess matches but it was never on purpose. Malfoy was a brilliant tactician and always managed to outsmart Harry, Ron and Viktor... even when they teamed up against the blonde.

In short order, the day of Malfoy's seventeenth birthday arrived. Tonks delivered some Office of Magical Law Enforcement scrolls for Malfoy to fill out and despite Harry's offer to do the writing for him, Malfoy insisted on doing it himself. He sat alone in the front room for most of the day in order to finish it all, going through most of his potion reserve in the process. A more stubborn son of a bitch there never was.

Harry entered the front room to find Malfoy at the small writing desk. He was just sitting quietly, the empty potion goblet still in his hand as he stared at the piano. His blonde head bobbed slowly, as though he was hearing its music in his head. Harry cleared his throat and Malfoy seemed to come out of his trance, his eyes coming into focus and rounding on Harry.

“Were you able to finish?” Harry asked.

“Of course, Potter.” His tone was terse. “I am capable of completing my own paperwork.”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly, clasping his hands behind his back to have something to do with them. “It's not a bad thing to accept help when you need it, though.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes dramatically and slammed his cup down on top of the stack of scrolls with considerable force. His hand shook a little.

“Do you intend to rob me of my pride as well as my dignity?” His sharp tone cut across the empty room.

“I—I didn't...” Harry stuttered, searching for words to prevent Malfoy's outburst from escalating. Stress and fatigue made the man especially testy, but Harry couldn't blame him for having a shortened fuse. “I'm not—”

“You didn't come here to pick a fight, Potter, and you didn't come to stutter at me. So what is it you want? I'm tired.” Malfoy turned in his seat to face Harry fully, draping a hand over the ornate chair back. Malfoy had the uncanny ability to disarm Harry with this sort of sudden, honest expression. It was distinctly Malfoy and Harry was coming to almost enjoy it.

“I'm sorry, Malfoy. I figured you would be tired,” Harry replied. “I just wanted to tell you that dinner is ready.”

- - -

The number of people in the Grimmauld Place kitchen must have given Malfoy quite a shock—he jumped at least six inches in the air and reached back to clutch Harry's arm. Maybe he was just the nearest person, but Harry sorely wanted to take it as a sign that Malfoy was beginning to trust him just a little. Malfoy's thin fingers dug into Harry's arm as he reigned himself in. Harry moved to stand beside him, patting Malfoy's hand at his arm to help pass the gesture off as pleasant surprise rather than momentary, illogical terror.

“Happy Birthday, Malfoy,” Harry said. “We wanted to give you a little party—nothing special, just dinner and cake. But we thought you'd enjoy it.” Harry thought he could see the cogs working behind Malfoy's cold grey eyes. He was trying to work out whether Harry was actually doing something nice for him or if the food was laced with Veritaserum or perhaps poison. He looked around at all the faces: mostly Weasleys and a few Hogwarts professors Harry had snuck past Malfoy via the floo. Bill had come with Fleur—with their pale hair, delicate features and expressive eyes, she and Malfoy could pass for cousins, perhaps siblings. Harry brought Malfoy over and made the introductions. Malfoy was especially quiet, stringing a few words together here and there but never more than two sentences together. The surliness was very un-Malfoy. Harry was glad he'd spoken to Mrs. Weasley regarding the seating arrangement for the evening. Malfoy was between himself and Viktor, both relative allies, and across from Professor Flitwick, who would never have a cross word for anybody.

As everyone took their seats, Harry realized the reason for Malfoy's discomfort as he watched the blonde tug at his sleeve to cover the Dark Mark. Harry hadn't noticed the uneasy stares until they abruptly ceased. Harry felt sick to his stomach for not warning Malfoy, for wanting to make it all a big surprise. He should have prepared Malfoy; after all, he was responsible for the man's well-being. Harry knew how awful it was to be stared at because of a mark, because of what people thought you were. He used pouring some wine in Malfoy's glass as an excuse to lean closer.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered in the blonde's ear.

Malfoy started and looked at him sideways. His gray eyes reflected the dark navy of his cardigan and flashes of sparkling silver from the table settings. Harry had never seen someone's eyes pick up colors quite like that before. He couldn't help thinking it was very pleasing to look at.

“I should have known better than to surprise you,” Harry continued. “I wanted to try to do something nice for you.”

“You are nice, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, his face unreadable. “You don't have to try. Pass the rolls, please.”

Malfoy made him feel like a bumbling idiot. Harry smiled. A moment later, he caught the ghost of a smile cross Malfoy's face, too.

Dinner was passed amiably with several toasts offered to Malfoy's continued recovery and good fortune in the coming school year. No one was ridiculous enough to affect anything more than a pleasant but distant acquaintance with Malfoy and so conversation stuck to very neutral topics: Malfoy's favorite subjects in school, whether or not he would go out for Quidditch in the fall, and his candidacy for Head Boy—the last of which was news to Harry. When he thought about it, though, Harry wasn't surprised. Malfoy always seemed knowledgeable, even when they were magically lobbing spit balls at one another during shared classes. Harry found himself laughing at a joke Malfoy made about N.E.W.T.'s, refilling his wine glass again: Malfoy was a healthy drinker. At least, Harry thought, the wine helped him loosen up enough to make a joke. Everyone was seeing the real Malfoy now, like he did. Malfoy certainly had his faults: he was self-centered, short-tempered, and highly judgmental—but he was also bright, charming, and wickedly funny. He could also be disarmingly humble—vulnerable, even—given the right circumstances. Harry knew what was wrong with Malfoy yet he couldn't resist the urge to get to know him just a tad better. Tonight would demonstrate whether Malfoy was willing to accept the offered olive branch.

When Mrs. Weasley had approached him about Malfoy's birthday cake, Harry surprised himself by knowing exactly what Malfoy would like. Years of staring daggers at Malfoy across the Great Hall during feasts and mealtimes had given him a vast and specific knowledge of the man's eating habits. Every desert, Malfoy went right for the nearest piece of chocolate. He drank his coffee with cream and extra sugar and his tea with a little milk and no sugar at all. And when fruit appeared with morning porridge, Malfoy would always eat the blackberries and ignore the porridge. So Malfoy's cake would be chocolate with chocolate icing, blackberry sauce and extra berries on top. And they should have coffee. Malfoy's face was immobile with surprise as Mrs. Weasley set the cake before him. He didn't hear everyone singing 'Happy Birthday' to him and Harry had to elbow him when it was time to blow out the candles. As the cake was cut and served, Harry went to the sideboard to collect a small package. Returning, Harry waited until Malfoy's mouth was full of cake before he spoke: it would give Malfoy a reason not to respond right away.

“I got you a gift,” Harry said quietly, placing the box next to Malfoy's plate without ceremony.

To his credit, Malfoy only choked on his cake a little.

“Quite unnecessary, Potter,” he muttered, getting himself under control. “But thank you.”

“Aren't you going to open it?” Professor Flitwick inquired.

“Well,” and Malfoy actually blushed. “If you insist....” He ripped at the paper, pulling off the matching silver ribbon. Inside was a pretty little wand case Harry had ordered from the Flourish and Blotts catalog. It was black lacquered wood polished to a mirror shine with silver bracings and Malfoy's name inlaid in silver on the lid. Malfoy opened it to find his wand inside. When Harry had posed the idea to Professor McGonagall via owl, she'd said it was as nice a thought as any—and certainly better than just handing Malfoy back his wand without pomp or circumstance. Malfoy was a believer in pomp and circumstance. Harry had polished the wand and case, both of which seemed to attract fingerprints and smudges like the devil, knowing Malfoy was the type of person to keep his possessions immaculately clean and tidy.

“Why thank you, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, closing the case. “It's lovely. Very much my taste.”

“Er, there's something else inside,” Harry said quietly, pointing at the wand case.

Malfoy opened the box and peered at it, expecting the “something” to jump out and bite him. Harry reached over and lifted a corner of the black fabric lying beneath Malfoy's wand. Malfoy got the idea and stuck a hand under the fabric. He withdrew the piece of plastic and eyed it skeptically.

“It... has my name on it as well,” he said slowly. “I'm sorry, Potter. I don't know what this is.”

Hermione struck up a loud conversation with Ginny just then. The other guests quickly followed suit, allowing Harry and Malfoy a flimsy screen of privacy.

“Well, I know you'll be staying at least a little while longer and... I wanted you to have some things of your own. Clothes and personal things, whatever you need. My clothes don't fit you, anyway; and I'm sure it's getting old, having to borrow everything off me and Ron.” Malfoy gave only a slight nod to show his understanding. His eyes were unreadable. “This is called a credit card. Muggles take it as money. Hermione and Viktor are going to take you out tomorrow. I—I didn't want to pick things out for you. I thought you'd rather do that yourself, get out of the house for a bit.”

“And... what?” Malfoy slowly rotated the card in his hands. He was speaking to Harry's collar instead of his face. He was anxious. “I would owe you?”

“No,” Harry shook his head and smiled. “It's a gift. Get whatever you want.”

“What's in it for you, Potty?” Malfoy whispered. The question was playful, rather than charged. He was still toying with the plastic in his hand but the look on his face was pleased.

“I get my favorite jumper back,” Harry replied.

“And?”

How did Malfoy know there was more to it?

“I, er, want to help you,” Harry sighed. “We're not friends but... I'm finding I no longer want to hex your face off.”

Harry watched Malfoy digest this bit of information. For the moment, his features were utterly transparent. Perhaps for the first time, Harry saw genuine hope on Malfoy's pale, pointed face. And possibly trust. Malfoy was taking the olive branch.

“I...” His mouth clamped down to a hard line as he struggled to get the words right. He bit his bottom lip—there was a bit of chocolate on his tooth. “Me too, Wonder Boy,” he said at last.

“You don't sound too sure about that,” Harry chuckled.

“Let me have some cake,” Malfoy said playfully, picking up his fork. “Maybe I'll change my mind and blast you one.”

Malfoy was such a little shit. And Harry was getting attached. He forked a bite of cake off of Malfoy's plate and ate it. Malfoy let out an indignant growl.

“Definitely going to hex you,” the blonde muttered.

“Bring it,” Harry shot back. He leaned close to whisper in Malfoy's ear. “Ya cunt.”

Malfoy let out a squealing, delighted laugh. He laughed like a little kid, his hand flying up to cover a mouth with chocolate cake in it. That rambling, happy squeal was Malfoy's real, honest-to-goodness laugh. And it cracked Harry up. Everyone stared at them. Cake threatened to come out both their noses, they laughed so hard.

“Not supposed to... call me names... on my birthday,” Malfoy gasped.

~ * ~

“Reaaaaally, Malfoy?” she couldn't help but whine.

“Really, Granger.”

Malfoy hadn't liked any of the clothing stores so far. He said everything was plebeian. Thankfully, he'd restrained himself from using the word “muggle” or whipping out his wand in the streets of London. But he was still being a git. To her, he stood out like a distinctly magical sore thumb—like a blast-ended skrewt in the W.K.C. dog show. Hermione watched Malfoy saunter into the very overpriced designer store he had just pointed out. It was the first shop he'd actually wanted to go into and they'd been out for almost an hour already. Viktor shrugged and opened the smoked glass door for her.

They had less than three hours left. That was how long the Auror detail shadowing them could be spared from their real jobs. Harry had recruited a few Aurors as well as Hermione and Viktor to accompany Malfoy on this little shopping trip, it being too dangerous for Harry and Malfoy to step out together. Malfoy had been beyond upset when he had come downstairs to only to learn that Harry would not be going with.

Hermione watched Malfoy flip absently through a rack of shirts, the Gaunt Family ring glittering on his finger under the shop's elaborate lighting. Upon being told that Harry would not be shopping with them, Malfoy had taken Harry by the shirt collar and dragged him into the hall. They had returned some twenty minutes later, the black stone ring on Malfoy's scrawny finger. Even now, Hermione could feel the Shield Charm Harry had placed on it pulsing. Really! Harry wasn't supposed to be doing magic, but here he was catering to Malfoy's every whim. And Malfoy had come to expect that kind of behavior from Harry—his whining and teasing became more elaborate every day, all designed to elicit certain responses from Harry. If Hermione didn't know better, she'd say Malfoy had a crush.

She watched a salesman approach Malfoy and engage him in conversation. After a moment he led Malfoy to another part of the store, Hermione and Viktor trailing behind. The salesman showed Malfoy a suit and began guessing at the blonde's measurements. Viktor caught her arm and turned her to a nearby dress rack. It displayed a tiered, floor-length dress in a dark pink.

“Do you know vhat zhat reminds me of?” he asked.

“My dress for the Yule Ball?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning closer to put an arm around her shoulders. “You don't wear dresses anymore, Hermione.” It was more of an observation than anything else.

“No. We're at war, Viktor. I just don't see a reason to dress up,” she sighed.

“You always look beautiful. But you should have beautiful zhings, war or no. You deserve zhat. I could give zhat to you, Hermione. Zhat kind of life.” His grip tightened as he turned her body to face his. He gazed fondly at her with his handsome, dark eyes. “I could take care of you,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you.”

“Viktor, I....” Hermione looked away. She hadn't been prepared for Viktor to breech the subject so soon. She was still unsure of her feelings. Would Ronald ever come around? She loved him, but he was still in many ways a boy. Viktor, on the other hand, was all man. He was older; he had a career, passion and ambitions. He was polite, intelligent and reserved. He was everything she'd ever thought she'd wanted in a man, a husband. Try as she might, she couldn't dismiss thoughts of Ron. He had potential. She would bring it out of him if it killed her. Viktor was looking at her. He was waiting for her reply.

“My friendship with Harry puts me in the middle of this fight, whether I like it or not. But I choose to fight. That's why I put in to join the Order last week.” For now, her answer would be to change the subject. At least until she figured out how to reject Viktor without breaking his poor heart. He was very dear to her, after all. She wouldn't want to lose his friendship over this.

“You truly believe in zhis Order?” Viktor asked slowly, his hand warm against her arm.

“Yes, I do,” she nodded. “The Order and Harry, too.”

“Zhen so do I.”

“Viktor, I'm so glad,” she said, giving in to the urge to hug him. “But—you're doing this because you believe in the cause, not because of me, right?”

He was silent long enough to cause her worry.

“I believe in you,” he said, hugging her to him. “I trust you. If you say zhis is zhe way to stop Безименния, zhen I am vith you. Ve have groups in Bulgaria but maybe not as organized. The Order of zhe Phoenix is serious about stopping Лошия. You're a part of my decision, but I'm doing zhis because it's zhe right zhing to do.”

“Oh, Viktor!” she squeezed him just as tight.

Malfoy clearing his throat broke them apart. He had emerged from the dressing room in a truly spectacular black suit and was having alterations noted as he stood before a large set of gilt mirrors.

“Granger, they say it'll be a week for the tailoring. Can I pick it up or must we have it sent?” His expression was sour but he kept his back perfectly straight so as not to ruin the tailor's measurements. It all looked very practiced on him.

“We'll have it sent,” she replied, smoothing her hair. “Harry keeps a post box for these sorts of things.” Any packages that arrived were scanned by Aurors before being owled on to Grimmauld Place. It was an expensive service but it guaranteed no one poisoned Harry or the Order via any mundane muggle purchases. It also served as protection against any more love potions being sent Harry's way.

Malfoy looked put-out that he wouldn't have another outing to the lavish store. Hermione saw some of the price tags: Malfoy was being very free with Harry's money. No wonder he'd kept the credit card a secret from everyone! Harry had a particularly soft, guilt-ridden spot for Malfoy. Hermione couldn't wrap her head around the idea of those two not only getting along but actually being remotely fond of one another. It was just a little too much.

After the first shop, Malfoy developed a knack for finding the most expensive stores around Hyde Park. He'd dragged them through most of Chelsea, Green Park and parts of Soho. She and Viktor had followed him into the most famous of the upper echelon—Dior, Prada, Thomas Pink, Gucci and Armani—where Hermione had watched Malfoy pay £14 for a single pair of boxer briefs. Now Versace. She sat on a beautiful white sofa facing the dressing rooms, shopping bags arranged in a little ocean around her.

Malfoy stepped out of the dressing room and Hermione almost choked. She was so used to seeing Malfoy in Harry's clothes that the sight was only more jarring: Malfoy wore a sharply pressed dress shirt in dark green, the top few buttons left undone and the sleeves rolled up so his Dark Mark was visible—accented, even. The nerve. His black trousers rode low on his bony hips. And tight. Very tight. So tight she was left in no doubt of the generosity of Malfoy's anatomy. It was obscene. She preferred men with a bit more substance. And sense. The unbuttoned shirt displayed his scarred, muscled chest in a rakish way. He looked like sex on a stick.

That was why Hermione liked Hogwarts robes. Everyone looked about the same in school robes. It created an even footing. She wished she had a set of robes to throw over Malfoy right now.

Malfoy's salesman returned, bringing Hermione a glass of water. She took it and drank deeply, glad for an excuse to look anywhere but Malfoy's crotch.

“Does everything look brilliant on you?” the salesman teased Malfoy, who was preening himself in a large mirror as the salesman flirted with him.

“I feel like it's missing something,” Malfoy said, deep in thought as he examined his reflection.

“A vest, maybe? Or a solid tweed blazer?”

“A blazer?” Malfoy said pensively. “I saw a gray one with blue stitching. Do you have it in my size?”

“I'll go check,” the man replied. “Great tatt, by the way.”

As the man walked away, Hermione watched the color drain from Malfoy's already pale face. He spun on his heel and walked away from the dressing rooms in the opposite direction. Hermione watched him turn a corner and, when he thought no one could see him, he leaned his whole body against the wall and gingerly closed his eyes. He looked about to cry. It was the oddest expression she'd ever seen on Malfoy's cold, sneering face. She couldn't exactly feel sympathy for him—he was a cruel, spoiled, bigoted little creature, but he'd been through the wringer, so to speak. She surprised herself and mustered up a dash of compassion. She was about to go check on Malfoy when Viktor returned from conferring with the Aurors keeping watch over them. She offered him a sip from her water glass.

“Ve have maybe thirty minutes,” Viktor said, drinking. “Zhey are suggesting Ve take zhe underground back. If somezhing happens, it vill be easier to Apparate out.”

“Okay, sounds like a plan. Now we have to drag Malfoy away from the clothes.” Viktor gave the smallest roll of his eyes. He was getting sick of Malfoy's antics, too.

Malfoy and the salesman returned at the same time. The salesman handed Malfoy his blazer and Malfoy held something out to Hermione—a very red, feminine something.

“You,” he said casually, pointing toward an open dressing room. “Try it on.”

“Oh, really, I couldn't!” Hermione spluttered. She looked to Viktor for support; instead, he gestured with the half-empty glass that she should try it on.

“Please?” he asked, a smile twisting his thick red lips. “Humor me.”

The dress fit like a glove, falling just above the knee and showing more cleavage than she was aware of possessing. Viktor insisted on buying it for her. “A beautiful woman needs beautiful things.”

- - -

“Absolutely not!”

“But—please, Granger?!”

“We can't,” Hermione reminded the recalcitrant blonde. He was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring with naked longing at the display window for Liberty of London.

“You're no fun at all,” Malfoy whined but his feet began to carry him away from the shop. He walked backwards, forlorn, waving good-bye to a particularly handsome leather jacket in the window. Hermione, who normally didn't give two straws about clothes, could tell it was expertly made. The leather was so supple, the cut so rugged and romantic, it made you want to jump through the window and kiss the mannequin. A banner proclaimed the name of the designer to be Vivienne Westwood. The black jacket was the only thing in the window and rightly so.

“It's a brilliant coat, Malfoy, but Harry will worry if we're not back soon.” She knew it was a cheap shot but she had to take it.

“Fine.” Malfoy let out the most wistful little sigh, as though he were leaving the love of his life behind instead of a jacket. Hermione felt compelled to retort: the softness of her own words came as a real shock.

“Maybe we can come back another time.”

“Oh, Granger, I could kiss you!” Malfoy bounded up to walk beside her.

“Please don't,” she muttered. She let Viktor hold her hand through all the shopping bags. After an afternoon filled with Malfoy, she needed the comfort. They walked to the Oxford Circus station in silence. Hermione demonstrated to the men how to work the turn-style and then they were waiting on the platform for the next train. Malfoy began shifting from one foot to the other, absently twisting the ring on his finger. Hermione cast him a sideways glance.

“God, you're impatient,” she said.

“Something's wrong,” Malfoy replied, looking nervously down the platform. Hermione followed his line of sight but didn't see anything in particular.

“Vot do you mean?” Viktor asked.

“Um...” Hermione watched Malfoy swallow. He blinked wildly, fighting down competing emotions. “Never mind. Just stay alert.”

The train arrived and nothing bad happened. They rode a few stops before connecting to the line that ran closest to Grimmauld Place. The next train was more crowded and Viktor and Malfoy were unable to find seats. They stood nearby and held on to the rail.

Suddenly, Malfoy gave a wracking gasp and doubled over, clutching at his arm. It was the Mark. It sounded like Malfoy was choking to death, unable to draw breath. Then Hermione saw a man in a dark suit struggling through the crowded train to get to Malfoy. His wand was out, a nasty expression on his face.

“Rookwood,” Malfoy managed to gasp the man's name. The blonde looked small and frail, about to faint.

“Quick!” Viktor said, holding out his hand. The muggle people in the car were beginning to panic.

Hermione had only a moment to react. She took Viktor's hand.

Viktor reached in his pocket and threw a handful of something at the approaching Death Eater: Peruvian Darkness Powder. The entire car was instantly engulfed in an impenetrable black cloud. Had she not been holding Viktor's hand, she would never have found him after that. Malfoy let out a terrible yell. Hermione worried Rookwood had gotten to him. And then Viktor was Apparating, bringing them along.
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Conscience