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
- 8
- 9
- 10
SUMMARY: Malfoy is starting to grow on Harry and their deepening connection is giving Harry even more to worry about. The boys' truce is tested when Harry enlists Fred and George to disguise Malfoy for their Ministry Apparition Test. Malfoy takes his displeasure out on Harry.

WARNINGS: painfully awkward teenaged boys flirting, mild violence, angst, fear, Dark Arts, cross-dressing, mention of a casual all-male threesome, more Wizard Swears, and a truly epic description of female breasts (if you're into that stuff)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm taking an artistic liberty with the timing of the novels, pushing everything forward by three years; meaning that Harry was born in 1983 (instead of 1980), started Hogwarts in 1994, the Triwizard Tournament took place in 1997, and it is now the year 2000 (vs. 1997). I'm doing this mainly for later continuity. For now, don't worry about it. A full explanation lies in chapter 21. Just go there with me: good old fashioned suspension of belief is all I ask. (Brownie points to classicists and budding English Majors who understand the spectator's suspension of belief typically associated with early English literature. I am Faucer and these are my Rear-Entry Tales.)

Maybe, just maybe, this thing is NC-17 because of me.

CONSCIENCE:

THE TEST

“And why the hell not?” Malfoy demanded indignantly, a hand on his hip. “I'm fit. Or is it that you don't trust me?”

“I just don't think it's a good idea,” Harry whined.

“Scared I might be better than you?” Malfoy sneered. That got Harry riled.

“Oh, I'm better than you, tosser,” he shot back with a lopsided smirk and a tweaking of eyebrows.

“So you don't trust me, then,” Malfoy concluded. “Figures! I fix that tapestry for you, I get Granger and Weaselby the Hunchback of Grimmauld Place together for y—”

“I wouldn't say they're together,” Harry interrupted.

“Krum's gone and they've been snogging in the pantry; counts as 'together' for me, Wonder Boy. I did my best to get them to shag, but they're bloody Gryffindors,” he sighed, holding up his hands in a “what's a bloke to do?” gesture.

Harry raised his eyebrows again. This was news to him. So his best friends had finally taken that step? He'd seen it coming since fourth year.

“I didn't know you'd taken an interest,” he said mildly, looking at Malfoy in a new light: Malfoy the Matchmaker, possible possessor of a romantic side.

“Boredom,” Malfoy shrugged. “It's not relevant to the argument, Scar Head. Focus. Why won't you do this?” Malfoy's face had gone from flustered and teasing to desperate in a blink. “You're all about interfering—'helping,' I believe you call it. Why this nancy boy all of a sudden?”

“Malfoy... I just don't think you should, that's all.”

“Oh,” understanding spread across his handsome features in a wave. “You—you don't think I can do it. You think I'm the pussy.” Harry opened his mouth to protest but Malfoy cut him off. “Poor little Malfoy. Poor, long-suffering, weakling little Malfoy,” he mocked. His expression turned very dark. “I can take it. And I sure as hell can give it, Wonder Boy. I'll go first,” he tossed his wand onto the piano and spread his arms. “Your best shot. Bet I can shake it in under a minute.”

“Not here,” Harry hissed, snatching up the crazy blonde's wizard's wand and stuffing it back in his crazy hands. “Anyone could see or hear. My room, ya cunt.”

“Ooh, baby, talk dirty to me,” Malfoy licked his lower lip and gestured suggestively with his wand. Harry could feel his face heat.

“Why are you always like this?” Harry ground out through gritted teeth. “Maybe we should get you a lady-friend. Might get your mind out of the God damned gutter.”

“No chance of that, Potter,” Malfoy said with a devious smile, making his way to the hall. Harry followed, leading the way up the stairs and down the hall. He unlocked his room and pushed Malfoy inside without ceremony. He magically locked the door behind him and cast Muffliato so that no one might overhear and get the wrong impression—which seemed to happen rather often whenever Malfoy was involved. When Harry turned around, the irksome blonde was splayed across Harry's king sized mattress, fingering the sheets as though testing their quality.

“You may bring my lady-friend here, please.” He graced Harry with his most dashing smile.

“That's my bed, Malfoy,” Harry said neutrally. “Get off.”

“Fine,” Malfoy pouted, sliding off the side of the bed furthest from Harry and walking to the foot so they might face each other.

“This is ridiculous,” Harry muttered. He unbuttoned his over-shirt and cast it off so he was only wearing a tshirt. This always left him covered in sweat.

“So you'll do it?” Malfoy couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. He nearly clapped and jumped up and down with glee. As it was, he was rocking energetically on the balls of his feet.

“It's ridiculous, Malfoy, but I'll do it. And I'm going first.” Malfoy didn't object, so Harry set his wand on top of the dresser. He cracked his knuckles before looking up at Malfoy. “No funny stuff.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Malfoy wore an angelic face, eyebrows raised.

“Making me leave the room or strip or do anything silly.”

“Make you strip? Why didn't I think of that?” Malfoy's shadowed eyes went decidedly devious.

“Malfoy,” Harry growled.

“Oh, I'm kidding.” He readied his wand. “The fact that you're unable to break through will be embarrassment enough, I think.” Wand leveled at Harry's chest, his pointed features morphed from smug to serious in a heartbeat. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Harry still wasn't quite sure why he was doing this, but he thought it had something to do with Malfoy's very damaged pride: Malfoy needed to prove to himself that he had recovered, survived. Harry dug the balls of his trainers into the carpet.

“Imperio.”

And all at once, Harry's cares were gone. It was the most delightful feeling in the world. Better than steak. Better than kissing. Better than Quidditch. He floated away on a cloud of bliss.

“Take off your shirt.”

Hmm... no. For some reason, that didn't sound like a good idea.

“Take. Off. Your. Shirt!”

I. Don't. Think. So.

Harry floated on, ignoring the voice. It felt like there was something he was supposed to be doing, something he ought to remember, but it escaped him.

“Why don't you have a seat over there?”

That seemed like a reasonable enough request. He went and sat down. Suddenly, there was a great force pressing down on him, painful in its intensity. He knew that whatever the voice told him next, he would bloody well do it.

“Tell me a secret.”

He bit his lip. It was a distraction from the tingling ache taking over his extremities. And then it deepened, down to the bone. The shooting pain spread through him like wildfire. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it. His vision was already a gray haze.

“I—I,” he gasped. “I'm a virgin.”

“That's not much of a secret,” the voice replied. “Tell me a better one.”

The pain knocked him from the chair. It was blinding. It was consuming. He didn't know who he was, where he was. All he knew was that he wanted it to end.

“No,” he whispered. “No.” That word, that defiance, was his link to the world of life. He held on for dear life, whispering it over and over again. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Harry came to. He was lying on his bedroom floor. Malfoy had him by the shoulders and was shaking him, whispering frantically. “Just fucking breathe, Potter. Come on, breathe.” Harry inhaled and immediately started coughing. He was surprised blood didn't appear as he hacked. He fairly dripped with sweat. Everything hurt.

“Two and a half minutes. Not bad,” Malfoy said as though nothing had happened, getting to his feet and offering Harry a hand. Harry didn't take it. He wasn't sure standing was such a bright idea just yet.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Harry mumbled. “It's never been like that....” He thought that over a moment. “Except, maybe Voldemort.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Malfoy drawled, offering his hand more insistently. Harry took it and the slim blonde dragged him to his feet. Malfoy's appraising glance took in Harry's swimming balance and outstretched arms. “You look like you could use a stiff drink.”

“Please,” Harry muttered, looking for a place to sit. The chair he'd sat in under the Imperius Curse had been broken into several pieces. Malfoy sat him down on the edge of the bed and conjured a snifter of brandy. Harry took it in one gulp. The burn was nothing compared to his blooming headache. “You've had serious practice,” he gasped, attempting conversation.

“Well,” Malfoy gestured offhandedly. “More than you, I'll wager. But I'm sure The Chosen One can throw down with a Death Eater reject like me.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said sternly. “I understand self-deprecation is an integral part of your humor and I respect that, but you can't expect me to build you back up when I'm about to puke my fucking guts out. Be practical.”

“Those are some very big words for you, Wonder Boy,” Malfoy teased.

“Yes,” Harry swallowed back brandy-laced bile. “Thank you. I can string a sentence together on occasion.”

“Just don't do it too often,” Malfoy cautioned. “We might realize you're intelligent.”

Harry was putting together a come-back when Malfoy sat down next to him and pressed a warm hand to his back. All thoughts went out of Harry's head when Malfoy's fingertips traced a slow path up and down his spine. It was amazing—it calmed his stomach, settled his nerves and even banished some of his obnoxious headache. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, and let Malfoy stroke his back in silence for a few minutes. He couldn't help but sigh. The soft touch made him want to take a nap.

“Better?” Malfoy asked. His fingers stopped moving but he kept contact with a sensitive spot between Harry's shoulders.

“Much,” Harry said on an exhale. “Never throw an Unforgivable at me again, alright?”

“Deal,” the man replied congenially. “I'm much better at sex magic, anyway.”

“What?!” Harry spluttered, bring on another coughing fit. It took him a moment to figure out how to breathe correctly. “Sex magic?” he managed.

“What on earth was the Weasel chit up to, then?” Malfoy tutted. “Plain muggle snogging?”

“Malfoy, I'm perfectly happy with plain muggle snogging. If there's more out there, I don't wanna know about it. At least not right now,” he added as an afterthought. “Now teach me how to cast Imperius. I've only ever done Cruciatus.”

“Ooh, really?” Malfoy drawled, removing his hand from Harry's back and standing. “Who?”

Once again, there was a chilly place on his back that missed Malfoy's hand the moment their contact ceased. It was a strange feeling that gave Harry the shivers.

“Your aunt,” Harry said quietly.

Malfoy made a non-committal noise and shrugged, as if to say 'she deserves it.' He held out his hand to help Harry to his feet. As it turned out, he needed the help. When he was steady enough, Malfoy went to the wardrobe to fetch Harry's wand.

“Imperius is a bit like Cruciatus—you really have to mean it,” Malfoy began. “You have to want to get into the person's mind, control them. The more you can focus on the person when you're casting it, the better your link will be with their mind. Once you're in there are a lot of different ways you can go. It's pretty intuitive. I could be more specific, of course, but that would ruin the fun,” Malfoy added when he saw Harry's anger at the most vague description in the history of England. “Don't worry, it's not hard. You just use your mind. Even Greg and Vince can do it.” He gave Harry a little smile, tossed his wand on the bed, and walked to the other side of the room.

If Crabbe and Goyle could do it.... Harry spread his stance and leveled his wand at Malfoy. His hand only shook a little. He noticed a damp patch on the arm of Malfoy's crisp, white sleeve. He realized the spot was his own sweat, absorbed when Malfoy had touched his back. He didn't want to do this. He was about to say as much when Malfoy flipped his hair out of his eyes with a twitch of his head. His hair was getting long—the once tidy cut was now disorderly. It fell past his brows, shadowing his already dark eyes. Those eyes were now avoiding his own.

“Come on, Potter,” he drawled in a fair imitation of their old rivalry. “Any time now.”

At last, Harry managed to catch Malfoy's gaze. Somehow, he knew that would make the spell stronger. Everything else faded from his mind as he focused on those silvery eyes.

Imperio, he thought.

Malfoy's mouth opened a fraction of an inch but that was his only visible reaction. Harry knew the spell had worked. He could feel every nook and cranny of Malfoy's mind. He saw the man's pleasant thoughts as though on a television screen. Malfoy was reading with his mother in a rose garden—presumably at Malfoy Manor, doing his homework beside the lake at Hogwarts, examining the latest fashion for mens robes at Madame Malkin's Diagon Alley shop. These were Malfoy's most blissful, relaxing thoughts? Slowly, Harry influenced Malfoy's mind toward less pleasant things and the images began to shift. A very young Malfoy, perhaps all of four, weeping over a broken toy while an older boy laughed. A few years later, escorted off a country mansion Quidditch pitch with a brilliantly broken nose. A Malfoy of fifteen berated by his father—waiting for Lucius to send him from the room before dissolving into tears. Harry let these thoughts build and swirl, watching the man before him. His breathing became erratic, his eyes unfocused, his hands balled into fists at his sides. A bead of sweat escaped his mop of fair hair to trace a line down his pointed nose. The skin of his cheeks took on uneven red splotches, his eyes unseeing. Harry let the unpleasant memories escalate a moment longer, feeling the frustration and tension in Malfoy's mind. Then he returned him to the calm state: through their mental link, he sent the image of Malfoy's mother embracing him, his father praising him. He wasn't sure if these were actually Malfoy's memories or just thoughts he was placing in the man's head. Malfoy blinked a few times and began to breathe normally, the color slowly receding from his face.

Come here, Harry thought through the link. Why bother to speak? He felt the command register in Malfoy's mind. As the first thought of resistance crossed his mind, Harry dispelled it. There was no way to describe what he did—he simply willed it out of being. He gave Malfoy a mental push and he actually stumbled, tripping over his own feet as he drew forward. He closed half the distance of the room and stopped.

Closer. This time he allowed the thought of resistance to enter Malfoy's mind, just to see what he would do with it; sure enough, he leaped on it like a dying man on a desert mirage. As Malfoy scrambled for a foothold in his own mind Harry clamped down tighter, leaving him no purchase. Harry watched Malfoy's eyes water in panic. Harry pushed it further, allowing him only the shallowest of breaths until he complied. Malfoy was dizzy and light-headed before he took another step forward. Harry did not release the block on his breathing until he was a mere foot away. When he did, Malfoy gasped for air.

This was a lot easier than he'd thought. He'd planned to boss Malfoy around a bit then let him brush off the spell; but now Harry needed to see what this was all about. He needed to know what the spell could really do.

Harry decided to experiment. He searched Malfoy's mind for the memory of a snake. Thoughts whirled around like a kaleidoscope but Harry would allow Malfoy to think only of snakes. Eventually, he found a suitable memory of an ordinary garden snake Malfoy had been frightened of as a child. In his young, impressionable mind it had been a towering beast with poisonous fangs dripping blood and gore. In the recesses of his mind, it was that snake Malfoy associated with the Dark Mark on his arm. When Malfoy looked at his arm, it was that boyhood fear he saw, that limitless, unknown danger. Harry focused on that image as he spoke through their link.

Tell me what you fear.

The hiss of Parseltongue was unmistakeable. Malfoy's mind fluttered, held fast to the memory of the snake. Panic overrode him. He couldn't understand the command—he wanted to comply but couldn't. A ball of terror rose up through his chest. He rocked slowly, forward and back, his eyes sliding closed. Harry commanded again, Tell me what you fear. Malfoy understood.

Images rolled in. Blood on dark stone. The mutilated body of a woman. A curl of smoke. An empty room. His broken hands. The livid, frightening mark upon his arm.

“Pain,” Malfoy whispered. “Death. Being alone.”

Harry eased back his presence in Malfoy's mind, sending him the image of Hogwarts castle to see how he would react. Malfoy let out a stunted, guttural yip; a sound made in his chest and choked off at the throat. Malfoy remembered sneering across the Potions classroom at a tiny, meek-looking Harry with round spectacles too large for his face. He thought of chasing down a blur in Gryffindor robes on the Quidditch pitch—the blur always out of reach and speeding away. The sharp, burning presence of the Dark Mark. Very strong emotions pushed at the link to make themselves known: anger, hopelessness, jealousy. Malfoy railed against him to think of something, anything else. Harry held him fast. He threw one last image at him—the expression on Malfoy's pale, frightened face as he spoke with Dumbledore for the last time, as Harry had seen through his own eyes.

The Malfoy before him shook from head to toe, teeth clenched and face screwed up not against pain but against memories. Harry burrowed just a little bit deeper into Malfoy's splintered mind. There he found something truly unusual.

Tell me what you want.

The images were gone and it was only a warm little flicker of distant, remembered feeling. It was the press of lips against full lips, a hot rush of lust, and the brain-shattering apex of orgasm.

A dark shadow emerged to douse that warmth as quickly as it had been discovered. Suddenly Malfoy's mind was a cold and dark misery with no respite. Stunned, Harry struggled to back out. He found he was running blind.

He opened his own eyes when Malfoy gave a terrible scream and dropped to the floor. Harry realized he had no idea how to break the curse. Clueless and scared, he dropped to his knees beside Malfoy.

“Finite Incantatum,” he waved his wand but nothing happened. He still felt the link to that endlessly dark place. Fat tears coursed down Malfoy's face, his gray eyes screwed shut. Someone must have heard him scream. Harry was sure someone would be on their way upstairs even now. They were going to be in so much trouble—if he ever got Malfoy back to normal. If he hadn't destroyed the poor bloke's mind.

Grasping at straws, he went back to their mental link. He tried dragging Malfoy out by it. He could feel Malfoy in the swirling darkness but couldn't get him to listen. That stubborn, prideful son of a bitch!

“Fuck!” Harry said aloud. His own voice came as a rasp. His gaze snapped about the room but found nothing that would help him. He leaned close to Malfoy, reassuring himself of the man's most basic functions. His breathing was shallow but his heart still beat against his ribs. His teeth chattered as he sobbed and shook. Harry felt his face; he swung between fever and chills as regular as a pendulum. When Harry touched his skin, he let out a guttural moan and clamped a hand over the Dark Mark on his arm. Harry didn't need to tap into his mind to know that it was burning. The skin beneath the mark was puffy, angry and red. Malfoy wailed in pain.

No one had come bursting into the room yet. That certainly didn't mean they weren't on their way. Harry had to shut Malfoy up for his own sanity. He wedged his arm under Malfoy's shoulders and hauled him to a sitting position. Harry misjudged Malfoy's weight as well as his own strength in his weakened state—his muscles screamed with the exertion. Malfoy fell against him and they both toppled backwards, Harry's back slamming painfully against his school trunk. Rather than try to move Malfoy again, he repositioned his legs so that Malfoy sat between them, the man's head tucked beneath Harry's jaw. He quieted down but tears continued to roll down his cheeks as he shook, teeth chattering.

“I'll never listen to another of your stupid ideas as long as I live. You know that, right?” Harry muttered, adjusting his grip on Malfoy's torso. He wrapped his other arm around Malfoy before his strength gave out. If he thought it would be weird hugging Malfoy, it certainly wasn't. He felt like every other sobbing, suffering, cursed person Harry had ever held. He rubbed a hand on Malfoy's back but he only seemed to get worse, to hurt more. He whimpered.

“Shit,” Harry whispered, thoughts racing desperately. He might cast a spell—but what spell? He knew next to nothing about healing. And maybe more magic would make Malfoy worse. Harry did the only thing he could think of: he went back into Malfoy's fucked up head.

Malfoy's defenses were up now—for a person who was afraid of being alone, he sure didn't let people in easily. It was like walking through the labyrinth the last leg of the Triwizard Tournament; except, instead of chimeras and blast-ended skrewts, he was battling the vices and defense mechanisms of Malfoy's personality. Harry was forced to fight each one, using the strength of the curse to push them aside or run them down. Malfoy's mind was a mine field filled with malice, violence and burning anger. Little pieces of his consciousness rose up to snarl and bare fangs as Harry worked his way toward the dark center. It felt as though he had been working at it for hours when he reached the core.

As he'd suspected, Malfoy was trapped in the memories of being tortured.

Harry saw it all through Malfoy's eyes. It was a dog that had been set on him. And the dog didn't just bite once—it took that chunk out of Malfoy's side over and over again, the ghastly sight looped courtesy of Malfoy's disturbed mind. Bits of muscle and rib bone poked out from the ghastly wound. Smoke curled past his nose as Mulciber burned him with a cigarette. Blood trickled from his mouth as Mulciber punctuated the Cruciatus Curse with his boot to Malfoy's groin. His broken, useless fingers scrambled for an escape as Mulciber leisurely unbuttoned his trousers. The distant echo of music—Malfoy's mother playing the piano to drown out her son's screams.

Malfoy could act like a ponce. He could drink himself under the table, call everyone mudbloods and generally be as nasty as he liked. He could slap Harry over breakfast every morning until one of them died. Whatever kept him from killing himself. Malfoy was holding onto the curse because it was his only connection to another human being in that dark, horrible place. He didn't want to be alone.

“I'm right here,” Harry whispered. He held Malfoy tight against him, thinking the man might hear his voice or even his heartbeat. Anything to help him understand he wasn't alone. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here.”

“Here,” Malfoy whispered, his sobs coming under control. He gripped Harry's shirt with his free hand, the other still clamped over the Mark. He appeared to be recovering from what Harry could only describe as a magical panic attack; apparently, the simple act of wanting was a complex and intense thing for Malfoy. Then again, he'd probably thought he was going to die. He probably still felt that way, surrounded by people who had been his enemies the better part of his life. He probably thought wanting anything was futile. And yet there had been that intense spark when Harry had really pushed him—that overpowering lust, that desire for sex that was intrinsically linked to life.

Harry had never really connected sex with existence before. Sex was something he'd seen in a few of Dudley's dirty magazines and spent the last couple years casually tossing off to, thinking nothing much of it. Sex wasn't part of his life. It was just something he thought about in the shower. But to Malfoy, sex played a major role in his life: something he yearned for and felt strongly about, something that made him feel good about himself, made him feel real and alive. Perhaps being brilliant in the sack was the source of the man's seemingly endless confidence. That zeal between the sheets seemed to be the only intact portion of Malfoy's shattered consciousness.

The more Harry tried to end the Imperius Curse, the more Malfoy clung to it... and the more he was tortured. Harry was going to have to help Malfoy break out on his own; hopefully, this would piece the man's sanity back together in the process. Harry threw Malfoy the only bone—ironically—he could think of: sex.

“Tell me,” Harry said calmly, speaking to the top of Malfoy's head. The soft blonde tresses smelled familiar, like his own shampoo. Apparently Malfoy hadn't cared to purchase his own. “Best snog of your life.”

“Margaux Vigier,” Malfoy mumbled.

“Where? When?” Harry demanded.

“Paris, 1996.”

“Month,” Harry pressed, thinking details might spark a memory in Malfoy.

“July.”

That triggered a quick flash—the summer heat, soft linen robes and the tang of tonic with lemon; a beautiful brunette witch with ice blue eyes, rosy cheeks and an enchanting figure. Malfoy's mind relived her soft lips and nibbling white teeth, his hands lingering on her immaculate breasts restrained in lace. She'd worn a dress of green silk, a bra and knickers to match. The color, as well as the swell of her form from lips to hips, had stayed with him long after their summer fling faded.

Hmm, Harry thought. That wasn't nearly enough. Malfoy was still almost comatose, his breathing shallow and labored. The pain of the curse was closing in on him as it had done to Harry. He needed something scandalous, and quick!

“Tell me,” Harry demanded. “Your wildest fuck.”

Malfoy's brain lit up, then. The memories of torture were banished completely, replaced by hot sweaty bodies coupling in rapid succession. There were apparently several instances, and partners, to choose from! Harry could feel a little of Malfoy's consciousness perk up as his mind worked to find a suitable answer.

“Ionescu,” he said slowly, focusing. “And Toleanu. Romanians. Bloody Durmstrangers. Perverts, too.” Malfoy actually smiled through the curse.

“Stop smiling,” Harry barked half-heartedly. But Malfoy didn't stop.

Ionescu and Toleanu were two very pervy blokes: one had been tied, naked, to the mast of the Durmstrang ship while the second bent at the waist to perform oral sex on his very vocal and willing captive. Malfoy stuffed the second man from behind, ordering him to balance a half-empty bottle of vodka on his back while being claimed rather forcefully from both ends. They were all naked despite or perhaps in light of the fact that it was the dead of winter. In his memory, Malfoy toasted one of the giant squid's tentacles as it groped along the ship's deck, searching out the source of the commotion. Malfoy gave a gasp as he recalled losing himself with those two gorgeous, muscled Romanians. The boys had tried to shush his screaming as he came, hard. He just screamed anyway, long and loud, digging his nails into the squirming boy beneath him. He hadn't cared much who heard—he was alive!

The link to Malfoy's mind began to crackle and burn like a twig in the hearth. It was only a few seconds before its substance would burn up. The link of the curse gave with an almost audible snap. And then Malfoy was panting in Harry's arms, both hands clawing up Harry's tshirt as he gasped for breath. His gray eyes were glazed, wild and unseeing. He took Harry by the neck of his shirt and dragged him closer, their faces hovering scant inches apart. The edges of Harry's glasses began to fog. It was a moment before Malfoy's crazed eyes focused enough to recognize his very concerned non-friend.

“P—Potter,” he stammered. “How long?”

“Malfoy, are you alright?” Harry gripped the blonde by the shoulders, keeping his rear end firmly on the floor. He didn't want Malfoy crawling into his lap, for fuck's sake!

“How long?” Malfoy repeated in earnest, shaking Harry by his hopelessly stretched shirt collar. “How long was I under?”

“Er,” Harry checked the digital clock at his bedside. “A little over an hour.”

Malfoy released him with a disappointed sigh, sagging dejectedly into Harry's arms.

“Pathetic,” he grumbled.

“Malfoy, I think you had some kind of anxiety attack—” Harry began.

“Rubbish. I don't suffer from nerves,” Malfoy sniffed, his breath still coming in ragged pulls.

“Really? I seem to recall a certain episode in the Forbidden Forest, first year.”

“Sod off,” Malfoy snapped wearily. Harry didn't need to glance down to know that Malfoy was smiling. Even if he couldn't hear it in the Slytherin's voice, he could feel facial muscles move against his chest.

“I would but, you see... you're sort of on top of me,” Harry replied in a cheeky tone.

“Oh, I give up! For now,” Malfoy added. “You win, Chosen One. I suck. Now lie here with me. I'm knackered.” Malfoy closed his eyes and wrapped a casual arm around Harry's waist, as though they sat like this all the time. Harry was still so confused by all those images of Malfoy's very active sex life. Men, women, more than one person at a time—what was Malfoy thinking?! He must have been acting out to get someone's attention. Deep down inside, Harry wondered if this was the sort of trouble everyone else his age was getting into while he'd been dealing with dark factions and splinter-souled mass murderers. Either Malfoy was an extreme pervert or Harry was drastically behind the learning curve.

“Saint Potter?” Malfoy asked, breaking Harry from his musings. “What did you ask me about last, when I was under? I was remembering the silliest things.”

“Durmstrang,” Harry lied easily. He was glad Malfoy couldn't see him blushing. “I asked if you knew anyone from other magic schools. You mentioned a witch in Paris and a few blokes from Durmstrang.”

“Was that all?” Malfoy's tone was light; unbeknownst to him, the question was loaded.

“You, er, started talking about your sex life,” Harry conceded. It wasn't exactly a lie. “I think the embarrassment helped you kick the spell.”

“Embarrassment?” Malfoy wasn't blushing at all! Harry felt himself break into an uncomfortable sweat. Thank fucking God for deodorant.

“Your mind is rather... rich in detail,” Harry said lamely. “You and those guys from Durmstrang really hit it off fourth year, then?”

“Which guys?”

“Ionsque and Tollentu... Romanian blokes. Remember?” Harry asked very meekly, thinking that Malfoy would realize any second the intimate details his dirty mind had revealed. He fully expected a surge of pure rage to flow through Malfoy's veins. He expected to feel thin fingers curl around his throat.

“Oh, those guys. Well, what can I say?” Malfoy's torso shook in a nearly silent chuckle. “I like to get drunk.”

“Apparently so.”

Apparently, they weren't going to mention that Harry was now privy to some of Malfoy's darker sexual preferences. Maybe Malfoy wasn't comfortable talking about it. Harry certainly didn't want to make the man uncomfortable after all the progress they'd made toward an actual understanding vaguely resembling friendship. He was content to let Malfoy lay against him and drift into sleep. Malfoy could use a nap—their Apparition tests were scheduled for tomorrow afternoon and Malfoy didn't look as though he'd been getting his proper rest. Exerting himself in this unnecessary contest might have aggravated his admittedly fragile system. Harry couldn't help but think of the man as a teensy bit feminine. He'd never say it to Malfoy's face, but he was skinny like a girl, he obsessed over his hair and clothes like a girl, he had springy, supple skin like a girl, and he was deceptively, girlishly sweet beneath that practiced exterior. His sappy center that worshiped music and debauchery needed protection from people who might misunderstand or want to hurt him. Harry felt like he was the only one in the house—maybe in the magical world—who really understood a thing about Malfoy. And there was still so much to discover! The man kept everything so close to the chest. He adjusted the blonde now snoring quietly in his arms, tracing a hand up his knobbly spine. Eventually, he settled on stroking the white, baby-soft hairs at the back of his neck, little patches of sweat slowly drying along his scalp. Harry was content to rest his head against his trunk and support Malfoy any way he could.

Harry missed this type of closeness to another person, not needing to say or be anything. Maybe Malfoy missed it, needed it too. Things had been like this with Ginny at first and he'd felt so at peace. After a while she started pestering him, interrupting his contentment with questions about how he felt or what he was thinking and the moment would be ruined—but he'd always reveled in those first few minutes of unabashed cuddling, wishing they might stretch on forever. Maybe this meant Malfoy trusted him—hell, the blonde slept like a baby in his arms. Harry decided to take it as a compliment. Whatever Malfoy's orientation, all of his partners had been very, very attractive near as Harry could tell. If Malfoy cuddled him it meant he was at least somewhat desirable, at least on par with the others. Because Malfoy wouldn't snuggle up to him for being The Chosen One, Boy Who Lived and Savior of The Universe. Malfoy wouldn't snuggle up to someone because they were polite or kind or even a half-way decent individual. Harry gave himself a mental pat on the back—someone with taste and experience found him attractive. Or at least found him to be an acceptable pillow. This was a good sign. There was hope.

- - -

The door to Hermione's room was open, so Harry stuck his head in. She was sitting on the bed with a thick Ancient Runes textbook, her wand directing a note-taking quill set to parchment on the bedside table. She was engrossed and Harry hated to bother her, but it was too important to wait.

“Hermione?” Harry had to clear his throat twice before he could speak past the lump of guilt and fear in his throat.

“Oh, Harry! You startled me,” she pushed the book away and stilled the scribbling quill. “Are you alright? You look... worried. And sweaty,” she wrinkled her nose. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. No,” Harry replied, closing the door and moving to sit at the edge of the bed. “I, er, want to tell you something but... I can't give all the details. It has to do with Malfoy. And it's really important.”

“Is it something bad?” Concern etched her features.

“Well, it could be. Can you promise me it won't leave this room? At least for now.”

“Alright, Harry,” she shrugged. “You know I hate secrets... whatever you feel is necessary to keep Malfoy's confidence, now you seem to have it. I trust your judgment.”

“Thanks, 'Mione,” Harry gave her a tight-lipped, anxious smile before he began. “Um... I think there's something wrong with me. Malfoy asked me to cast a spell on him. I can't tell you what it was,” he said quickly, spotting the question take form behind her eyes. “It's only a little dangerous but it was a matter of pride for him. Malfoy put himself out there just asking me to do it so I couldn't turn him down. He cast it at me, too, if that makes you feel any better. That was part of the deal.” Harry took a few deep breaths to calm his jumbled nerves. “When he was under the spell, he had an anxiety attack. I was able to calm him down and all, but when I touched him.... Hermione, it set off the Dark Mark. I set it off: his skin turned all red and I could tell it was hurting him, burning like it does when Voldemort summons. Only Lord Voldemort should be able to... so how was I able to...?”

Hermione looked away, tucking her bushy hair behind her ear.

“Hermione, I think Voldemort fucked up or something. I think he meant to make a Horcrux when he killed my mum and dad and for some reason that piece of his soul went into me.”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, “do you really think that?”

“It's possible, right? Or maybe it wasn't an accident. Maybe he meant to make me a Horcrux. I dunno! What else would explain the way the Mark responded? It kinda fits, when you think about it. The whole Parselmouth thing, and—” Harry stopped himself. He'd almost mentioned the Sorting Hat trying to place him in Slytherin. He never liked thinking about that, what it meant. Maybe the hat had seen that bit of Voldemort in his eleven year old self. It was a frightening thought.

“Well, when did this happen with Malfoy? Recently?”

“Half hour ago,” Harry guessed.

“Did he say anything about the Mark?”

“It's Malfoy,” Harry rolled his eyes. Hermione made an annoyed noise in her throat. “I tried to ask if he was okay but he just blew me off. At least I convinced him to have a lie-down.”

“Harry,” Hermione chastised in a familiar tone. “You are a terrible liar. You did not 'convince him to have a lie-down.' But do you know what? I'm not going to pester you. No,” she held up a hand to prevent him speaking. “Ron says I pester. I'm going to let it slide.” Determined, she paused a good five seconds before pestering about something else instead. “You're quite sure you can't tell me what the spell was?”

Harry groaned her name. Did she ever give up? He carded a hand through his already crazy hair. Then he thought something that made his blood run cold.

“Hermione,” he said slowly. “If there's really a Horcrux,” he gulped, “in me... how do we get it out without killing me?”

“I'm sure....” Hermione started with her usual confidence; yet she was unable to finish the sentence. That wasn't good.

“You agree that it's possible to put a Horcrux in something or someone living?”

“I couldn't see a reason why not,” Hermione said slowly. “Though I know so little about the creation of Horcruxes, it's not even funny. I'd have to do some research.”

“Would you?”

“Of course, Harry,” she favored him with a warm, motherly smile before bringing a hand to her cheek in thought. “Malfoy... is he alright? How's he managing? I'm sure it scared the piss out of him, having the Dark Mark set off like that.”

“Yeah. I bet he never thought he'd feel that again,” Harry shifted on the bed. His neck and back were sore from sitting on the floor for so long. He'd waited until Malfoy was soundly asleep before lifting the blonde over his shoulder and depositing him on the bed. With any luck, he would sleep for a few hours. “I think he'll be alright. He really is asleep, too. Kipping in my bed, of all places,” Harry rolled his eyes and got a sympathetic look from Hermione. “I sat with him until he fell asleep. Did you know Malfoy talks in his sleep? Mutters, more like.”

“What did he say?”

“No idea. He was speaking French, I think.”

Hermione snorted. “He would, too.”

There was a knock at the door that made them both start. A second later, Ron's ginger head poked in. He was breathing hard from sprinting up the stairs.

“I thought I heard you, Harry,” he beamed. “McGonagall's in the fireplace. She asked for you or Malfoy. Boy am I glad I found you first!”

“Yeah, Malfoy's asleep. Best to let him get a few hours.” Harry met Ron at the door, noticing the pleasant, shifty smile he gave Hermione. “McGonagall, huh?”

“Yup,” Ron broke his eye contact with his girlfriend to lead Harry down the hall. “She said it was important. Wha' do yeh think it's about?”

“Probably Malfoy,” Harry said, holding the carved railing as he followed Ron down the stairs. His back was bloody sore. “It's been ages since he sent that Ministry paperwork. Maybe we've got an answer.”

Harry was precisely right. Professor McGonagall's disjointed head bobbing in the fireplace confirmed it nearly the minute he entered the small library room. There were two other fireplaces in the expansive house but this one was connected exclusively to Hogwarts—and connected to the fireplace in the Headmistress' office to be precise. Harry knelt on the hearth rug and listened as she explained in clipped tones.

“It's really quite pathetic, given the risks Mr. Malfoy undertook,” she sighed. “The stipend will be of some assistance, to be sure. Enough to live modestly but I thought the Ministry would take into account the boy's situation.”

“What do you mean, Professor?”

“Just that Lucius is a very shrewd and successful businessman. I'm in no doubt that he will have rewritten his will to exclude his son. Young Draco will be kept from the fortune he was raised from infancy to inherit. He'll have to make his own way.” McGonagall's mouth twisted into a wistful smile. “I daresay it might do him some good.”

“I see your point, Professor,” Harry readily confessed. “He's resourceful, though. I'm sure he'll get by. And he's welcome to stay here as long as he likes.”

“That's very generous of you, Mr. Potter.”

“He's not so bad, now he's opened up a bit.” McGonagall fixed him with a disbelieving look as he'd ever seen on her—and she'd seen quite a few royally botched transfigurations in her time at Hogwarts. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy getting along was not something she was prepared to accept unquestioningly. “He's still a nasty Slytherin git and self-centered to a fault and he curses too much for Hermione. But Mrs. Weasley cares for him like she does me. He needs a stable home. And I think we're the only ones barmy enough to take him.”

Professor McGonagall roared with laughter. “You've got the situation to a T!”

“Well,” Harry made a humble, dismissive gesture. “What about Malfoy's protection? You said the Ministry could provide an Auror or two if given proper notice. What else are they offering?”

“The legal side of it, Potter,” McGonagall offered quickly, a little sharp. “It will be much easier to move Mr. Malfoy in disguise without arousing suspicion if we have the proper paperwork.”

“You mean, they'll make up a name for him if he needs to travel? And what about Hogwarts—can he still attend in disguise?”

“His schooling has yet to be determined, Potter, and it is a topic to be discussed with Mr. Malfoy and not with you.”

“True,” Harry hung his head. “I'm trying not to meddle but it's bloody difficult. I feel responsible for him. He's living here and sometimes it's like I'm the only person he trusts. It's becoming second nature to stick up for the blighter, weird as that is.”

“I don't see any 'weirdness' in it at all, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall challenged. “When was the last time you hexed one another?”

Harry gulped before answering, shame faced. “Er, maybe an hour ago?” His voice didn't sound like his own. He sounded like a second year berated for pulling pranks in the hall. He went on to defend himself before McGonagall could really lay into him. “He asked me for a practice duel and I couldn't in good conscience tell him no. It was a matter of pride for him. You know, Malfoys and their damn pride.”

“And so you obliged him?” Harry could only nod in response. Her face stayed neutral. “Dare I ask who won?”

“Oh, I trounced him.” The words were out of Harry's mouth before he could help himself. “It was mostly luck, though. Malfoy's not... not entirely right in the head. 'Cause of what happened to him. When he was tortured, I mean. Er, he told me about it. Really awful stuff.”

“Did he?” McGonagall said slowly, more to herself. “I wouldn't have thought.”

“Like I said, Professor, he trusts me. A little. Maybe this sounds off, but... I think we might, you know, not hate each other any more.”

Professor McGonagall slowly shook her bowed head before speaking.

“Potter, I think your capacity for boundless affection has simply matured to include acceptance. And perhaps forgiveness as well. Professor Dumbledore often spoke of his amazement with your ability to adapt and expand. Now I see what he meant and find myself equally perplexed and amused.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said softly, looking firmly away. He'd ducked his head at the first sign of a compliment. Old habits die hard. A moment passed in silence, during which Professor McGonagall seemed to gather herself together.

“Is there no chance of speaking to Mr. Malfoy?” she asked.

“I doubt it. After our duel, well, he was buggered. I made him kip in my bed, actually—had to carry the poor sod. He really overdid it.”

“Mr. Malfoy is very lucky to have you seeing to his rehabilitation,” McGonagall said evenly. She suppressed all but the smallest hint of a sardonically raised eyebrow.

“Not really,” Harry mumbled. “Professor, isn't there anything else the Ministry can do for Malfoy? I mean—he has nothing. He's lost his family and all his friends. They could offer him a medal for bravery or something! Don't people who get tortured in war get special recognition? The muggles do it,” Harry realized he was whining and snapped his mouth shut. Why, why had he just stuck up for Malfoy? Again?!

“The Ministry has certainly done what it must by law,” McGonagall said, keeping her voice neutral despite her feelings on the matter. “I do agree with you that Mr. Malfoy is an extraordinary case and should be handled as such. I also believe there is still a great deal of prejudice and mistrust harbored against the Malfoy name. The Ministry is an organization made up of people; people, as you know, Mr. Potter, tend to make misjudgments from time to time. I'm doing all I can to assert the sincerity of Mr. Malfoy's actions. His testimony was instrumental but I cannot lie to you. His case is being trivialized.”

“We can't let them do that, Professor!” Harry rose up on his knees, leaning closer to the flames as though it would help the woman hear him. His eyes were probably a little wild but he was beyond caring. If Malfoy wasn't treated fairly, it might prevent others from turning themselves in. He wouldn't allow himself to admit he actually wanted sodding Draco Malfoy to be recognized as a war hero; rather, he wouldn't allow himself to admit it out loud. But inside, he knew it. Malfoy had been tortured, abused, within an inch of his life and sanity. He was owed for that.

“I understand your...” McGonagall faltered. “No, I don't understand your zeal, Potter. He's a spoiled brat stupid enough not to question what he was told until it was too late. He's lucky to be alive. Since you feel so passionately, perhaps you would like to take over as his liaison now you're of age. Merlin knows I'm not getting anywhere with the business.”

“Brill!” Harry chirped, sitting back on his heels. “Send me the paperwork.”

“Just like that, Potter?”

“Just like that, Professor,” Harry beamed. His eyes caught the green of the floo, intensifying the already eerily saturated color there. “Minister Scrimgeour always wanted a poster boy. Now I'm handing him one. I'll endorse Malfoy publicly if I have to. I won't let the Ministry shuck him off like this. He's a war hero. He deserves to be treated like one.”

“Sounds like you've made up your mind on the subject. Is there something you're not telling me, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall stared him down from the flames—well, stared him up.

Yes, Professor, Harry's brain replied. Malfoy was sexually abused and he needs help. He's been acting out for ages. There might be something quite wrong with him, mentally. We need to get him some help.

Harry didn't actually say any of this. He didn't say a word except, “No, Professor.”

“You're a terrible liar,” McGonagall said clearly. “You got that from your mother. I'm going to let it slide this time and trust that you know what you're doing. Understood, Potter?” She glared at him. He thought he might melt from the heat of it. “I can't treat you like a child much longer, much as I'm loathe to admit it. We've all got to start trusting you, taking you on your word. Please don't let us down.”

Professor McGonagall's tight-lipped face was about to disappear when Harry reached out to stop her. He almost stuck his hand in the flames—they wouldn't have burned, but it was an idiotic gesture none the less.

“Professor?” he called. “I dunno if Dumbledore ever told you, but... well, there's a prophecy about me and him.”

“A prophecy about you and Malfoy?” she asked, incredulous, as though any prophesy about Draco Malfoy must be a dodgy one, indeed.

“No. Me and Voldemort.”

“Really.”

Harry could have kissed her for keeping her face impassive. Somehow, he restrained himself. “It says that he would choose me and mark me as his enemy. It says I have to be the one to kill him. I'm the only one who can. Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives,” he quoted. “It also says that I would have a power Voldemort wouldn't know about. Professor Dumbledore... he said that power was my ability to love, because Voldemort, he's forgotten that emotion, hasn't he? I don't really understand that, though. You can't love somebody to death.”

“No, Potter,” she laughed to keep from shivering at the disturbing things the boy had just confirmed. “Perhaps he meant the strength one finds in loving another. You've heard that people sometimes do crazy things when they're in love?” she joked.

“But, Professor!” Ever the whining, petulant teenager. “I'm not in love with anyone! I don't even have a girlfriend anymore!”

“I don't think that's the type of love implied,” she said delicately, hoping Potter would take the hint. A deep flush crept up the boy's cheeks.

“No, I guess not,” he shrugged. “I'll figure it out, Professor. I've got Hermione and Ron here to help me. And Malfoy, I guess.”

“Yes. Do pass on the news regarding the Ministry,” she said quickly. She debated voicing her concern but decided to air on the side of openness. “Potter, don't expect Malfoy to be thrilled at the idea of you representing him. But if he agrees, I'll send the necessary parchments. Now off with you. I'm sure you have much better ways to fill your time.” The Professor's head winked out, leaving only a swirl of green flames.

Harry wasn't sure what she'd meant by that last statement. Did she have an idea about the Horcruxes, or had she just assumed he'd be plotting a way to get to Voldemort? It didn't matter. He'd been bound to this path since the day Voldemort killed his parents and left that ugly, twingy scar on his forehead. He'd be damned if he didn't see this thing through.

Just then his stomach gave an almighty rumble. He remembered something Malfoy had said the morning of his birthday: No one defeats the Dark Lord with a backache. The same likely applied to empty stomachs. He decided to go to the kitchen and bang up some nosh.

- - -

Harry detected the unique sound of Malfoy as he washed and dried his lunch dishes. Malfoy was doing “Can't Help Falling In Love With You” again, Krum style—strong and loud left hand chords, heavy on the pedals. Kreacher could probably hear in the attic. Crookshanks and the mice could probably hear in the basement. It had been well over an hour since Harry's awkward conversation with Professor McGonagall; now that the blonde was finally awake, Harry could give him the news about his pathetic Ministry protection. He left the kitchen and meandered the carpeted hallways, watching his feet and thinking it wouldn't kill him to buy new rugs for the place. Ones that weren't so old and dingy. Ones that weren't so ugly. Ones he actually liked, now it was his house to do with as he liked.

Ginny burst from the front room, a hand over her eyes; blind, she walked right into Harry. They ricocheted off one another, Harry rebounding against the wall and reaching both hands to Ginny before she fell down the half-flight of stairs behind her.

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled. Harry hastily helped her get her balance and then withdrew his hands. “I didn't see you there.”

“Eager to get away from Malfoy?” Harry inquired, quirking an eyebrow.

“Not at all,” she lied easily. “I'm just... not a music person. You know that,” she ended warmly. She reached out to touch his arm but Harry shied away. He wouldn't meet her eyes.

“Sure,” he muttered. “I'll just be....” Harry gestured toward the door to the front room where Malfoy was at the piano. Harry was glad he was playing—he loved to listen, but something was up. Now Malfoy was playing the song without a name. The sad one. Something had to be bothering him and Harry was determined to figure out what if he had to beat the answer out of him. Maybe he could figure out that charm Malfoy used to conjure wine; that method might take longer, but it would be cleaner. And possibly pleasant, getting tanked with Malfoy before supper. Malfoy had been pretty conversational the last time he'd been close to lashed. Perhaps a repeat was in order.

“... Harry?” Ginny's voice cut through his thoughts. She'd been speaking to him the entire time; realizing he'd ignored her, a full blush heated his face.

“I'm sorry, Gin. I'm really preoccupied,” he offered. “What was it you....?”

“A—about us,” again, she reached for him. Small, pale hands took roost upon his shoulders. “I was never really satisfied with what you said at Hogwarts. I can't help but think you need....” Harry stopped listening. Malfoy played a beautiful downward spiral of notes. Harry could picture his narrow fingers tripping along the black and white keys. The song was supposed to start dying here but Malfoy was reviving it, putting in his last little fluttering whim of notes. It was achingly beautiful the way he played it, like he couldn't bear the last swell of hope having to die. “... you're determined to go through with this, I can't stand idly by and let you go at it alone. Do you understand, Harry? I need to be with you.”

Ginny shook him by the shoulders. Malfoy let go, sounding the first of three dying trills upon the soprano keys. It sounded as though the man's heart was breaking along with the melody.

“Ginny, I can't.” He pried loose her grip on his shoulders, settling her hands at her side. “Your safety, Voldemort, your education, and my own feelings,” he listed. He noted the lack of fervor in his own voice. If she wasn't convinced the first dozen times he'd argued it with her, then she'd never understand. “Look, I have to go talk to Malfoy before he kills himself.” He reached past Ginny to grip the door handle, his hands remarkably steady.

“What?” Ginny gasped.

Malfoy's slightly unhinged, Harry said in his mind as he brushed past Ginny and entered the sitting room. Playing this song is like holding a gun to his head. Russian Roulette. I need to get in there before he finds the chamber with the bullet.

“Golden Boy,” Malfoy greeted him from the piano's seat with another hearty glass of red wine. It had just a bit of foam at the top, as though it were carbonated. Harry thought he could smell cherries or some other dark-skinned fruit, sweet and sharp. Malfoy had been drinking for a while—he and his generous glass bore all the signs of refilling. He returned his attention to the keys, playing a few pleasant chords. “Any requests?”

“Anything Ginny hates,” Harry said, melancholy. He dropped onto the sofa with a mulish sigh. “Just... keep her out of here for a while?”

“Blues. Jazz?” Malfoy mused. His notes went decidedly, delightfully dark. “Got it.”

Malfoy abused the ears of his fellow house guests for the better part of an hour, the wine disappearing and a self-satisfied grin wrinkling his long nose. Harry loved every minute of it. Malfoy was going to be fine. Harry laid out on the sofa and let the discord wash over him. It so matched his life.

~ * ~

Harry had enlisted the help of Fred and George. He thought it would be nice having them around. He also knew they would be well suited to this sort of thing. What he hadn't counted on was them being Fred and George.

“Why?” Harry growled. It was a plea. It was a threat. It was a decision to talk instead of punching something or someone. Or two someones, specifically.

“Your letter,” Fred said, astonished. “You said 'Petra.'”

“I said no such thing!” Harry stammered. “I said the Ministry sent fake identity papers and his name was going to be Peter. Where the fuck did you get off?”

“Peter, Petra,” George weighed the names in his hands, working hard to keep the sodding grin off his face. “Never could read your writing, Harry.”

“Bloody awful penmanship,” Fred agreed. “But we love you anyway.”

“Hence all the favors,” George supplied.

“Oh, 'hence,' yet?” Harry blustered. He could feel himself going red in the face and he didn't care. They'd done that to Malfoy. He could kill them. He wanted to kill them. Malfoy would never speak to him again.

“My hair,” Malfoy's voice echoed for perhaps the tenth time, forlorn, bouncing around the tiled bathroom outside of which Harry, Fred and George fought. “Hufflepuff's cob-webbed taint.” A part of Harry was laughing at Malfoy's typically “colorful” language. The rest of him was still seething in a pit of rage. Rage won.

“Reverse it,” Harry snarled. Fred and George actually took a step back as one.

“Sorry, mate,” George said, putting his hands up as though he were fucking innocent.

“Timed spell,” Fred supplied. “Can't reverse it for at least an hour. Maybe two. It's still in the developmental stages, ya see.”

“I can't fucking go like this!” Malfoy screamed from the bathroom.

“Developmental stage?” Harry hissed. “Are you sure it's... safe?”

“Sure!” Fred piped up. George still had his hands up like a spacking idiot. “Tried it on ourselves loads of times. Wears off on its own after, say, eight hours. Or you can spell it off after an hour or two if you're real careful.”

“Real. Careful,” Harry repeated in a tone that made his displeasure absolutely clear. “Malfoy? I'm coming in there.”

“Bloody hell, Potter! I'm—” Harry spelled the bathroom door open and strode inside. “Gryffindors. Insufferable, I tell you.”

It was obviously Malfoy—at least to Harry. The eyes were Malfoy's. And the voice. But the rest looked an awful lot like... Margaux Vigier, that french bint in the green dress Malfoy had been tonguing all summer before third year. Complete with soft brown hair and a very ample bosom that didn't care much for the strain they put on Malfoy's button down shirt. The rest was very much a girl, too. Malfoy had removed his trousers and pants; they sat neatly folded on the counter. He'd wrapped a towel about his now teeny waist but it did little to disguise a pair of swaying hips, lean legs, and dainty little feet. Why, why was Harry looking at the feet when there were those nipples poking through Malfoy's shirt and—

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. Cor blimey, it was really Malfoy in there. For some reason, that helped Harry calm down immeasurably.

“I'm sorry,” Harry said, not knowing how else to begin. “I honestly thought they would be helpful. I forgot they're Fred and George.”

“Door is open, mate,” Fred cackled. “We can hear you.”

“Piss off,” Harry said, slamming the door with his foot. He kicked a little too hard and the thing cracked. His foot left a splintering dent. Malfoy bit his fat pink lip.

“I'll manage,” he said offhanded, shrugging one shoulder. He used his other hand to keep the towel secure. Harry couldn't help but let his gaze wander south. He didn't have the guts to indicate... his stare must have said it all, though. Malfoy caught his gaze and simply nodded. Oh, God. His bits were gone.

“I'm so sorry, mate.” He'd never called Malfoy that before. It felt pretty honest, despite being... he didn't know what. “This is my fault.”

“No,” Malfoy sighed. “I'm the bell-end who drank their filthy potion, no questions asked. I'll go like this—not much choice,” he laughed. It was so strange to hear Malfoy, know it was Malfoy, look into his eyes, and yet have everything else be that french girl's. “Think you can manage charming the parchments?”

“Sure,” Harry gave a curt nod. He was about to turn toward the door when he saw Malfoy open his mouth, shut it, and open it again. “What, Malfoy? Do you need something?”

“Erm,” he squirmed. Malfoy actually squirmed and looked bloody nervous. This day just wouldn't stop kicking him in the balls, would it? “An opinion?”

“'Course,” Harry shrugged, working a hand into his pocket while leaning against the counter. Nothing could have prepared him for what came next.

“Tell me,” Malfoy said, his silvery eyes picking up the bright light above the bathroom mirror. “Tell me these things aren't fucking fantastic!” And, looking down at himself—herself—what exactly did he—never mind! One of Malfoy's hands closed on a breast and squeezed. Pleased with this, he gave it a good jiggle, fingers digging in and really shaking the thing about. It bounced. It wiggled. It smacked into the other one and set it to wriggling, too.

“Brill, Malfoy,” Harry intoned, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking away quickly. “Epic. Really. I'm going to go now. I'll get you some girls clothes and fix the identity papers.”

“Sure,” Malfoy said distractedly, now using both hands. He didn't seem to notice that all the upstairs attention was causing his towel to slip. Harry realized he was sneering Snape-style and his back was rigid. He needed out. His hand found the door knob and he was instantly on the other side. It was like he'd Apparated.

“Fred, George, fix his voice,” Harry said thinly.

“Make him sound like a girl?” George asked.

“You sure?” Fred put in.

“Yes. It's too freaky hearing Malfoy's voice with those knockers attached.”

“What about Malfoy and knockers?” Ron asked, earning himself a smack to the shoulder as he and Hermione came up the stair case.

“Ron, I need you to go downstairs and tell Tonks we'll need another ten or fifteen minutes. And apologize for me, would you?”

“Sure, mate,” Ron smiled agreeably and thundered back down the steps.

“Hermione, I need to ask a huge favor.”

“Sure, Harry,” she said, peering questioningly at Fred and George as they silently entered the bathroom and closed the door, wands drawn. Harry worried that any second they'd see sparks shoot out form under the door, but seconds passed and everything remained peaceful.

“I need you to knick some of Ginny's clothes. Shirt, trousers, underthings. Things she won't miss right away,” Harry added, his face bright red and his pulse drumming out a jig in his ears. “And a pair of shoes.”

“Harry,” she said very bracingly. “You're rather trim, I'll admit, but... I don't think they'll fit you.”

His mouth hung open for a moment before he could respond.

“Er, they're not for me. They're for... for Malfoy,” he managed. “There was a bit of a mis-communication with Fred and George. I wrote them the Ministry sent papers and Malfoy would be assuming the name Peter Holfstraße. Due to my abominable penmanship, the twins read 'Peter' as 'Petra' and packed accordingly.”

“You mean....” And she gasped. Full on, hand over her mouth, brown eyes gone wide as dinner plates, bad horror movie gasp.

“Experimental potion for the shop,” Harry said, not able to actually speak the truth of it aloud. “They've self-tested and they claim it's safe. It lasts up to eight hours and can't be magic-ed off for the first two, so we're in a bit of a bind. Malfoy's in a towel. We need to get him some clothes.”

“Alright,” Hermione nodded. Comprehension brought her a sense of calm and she began to plan. “Ginny's still at the Burrow but she left some things in the dresser—things she never wears, you know....” She trailed off here, much to Harry's chagrin.

“Just bring what you can, okay?” Harry fidgeted. “Malfoy's kinda shrunk down, so he's smaller than Ginny. Except—Except.” Oh, fuck, he couldn't say it. He let his gaze slip from Hermione's face down to her chest. He'd never taken any notice before. As it turned out, Malfoy's were bigger.

“What, Harry?” Hermione tried to catch his gaze which only made him blush harder for having looked at her chest. She was his best mate's girl. Harry felt like scum, comparing people's breasts. He'd never been more disgusted with himself.

Harry heard scuffling from the bathroom. It sounded like the three bodies were shifting about in close quarters. Someone stepped up to the door because Harry saw the shadow of legs and feet.

“Granger,” Malfoy said with remarkable poise. “I'll be needing a bra.”

“I'd assumed,” she trilled, as though this sort of thing happened all the time. Harry's vision swam with confusion, his brain screeched for breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

“A rather large one,” Malfoy added, a hint of madness lacing his voice. “Your friends here became rather overzealous with my memory of a certain ex-girlfriend and I now find myself in possession of a pair of stonking great titties.”

- - -

Hermione handled everything brilliantly, as always. Harry was really glad she'd taken over, bringing a little arm full of clothes, a pair of heeled shoes and a make up bag. The twins admitted her to the bathroom and Harry was left in the hall, staring at the door and trying his best not to fetch a pair of Extendable Ears and listen in. Instead, he went to the little sitting room, sat at the utilitarian desk, and researched the charm for erasing official Ministry ink until he was blue in the face. Tonks came to his rescue and the identification papers were corrected at last.

“Malfoy—excuse me, Petra is ready now,” she chuckled. “Was this the twins' idea? Because no one will recognize him now. They'll be too busy staring at his legs.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered in fair imitation of Ron, rolling up the parchment and securing it with a bit of leather before going to the hallway.

Harry understood what Hermione had meant by “clothing Ginny never wears.” These had obviously been articles she'd assumed necessary once she'd reestablished her relationship with The Boy Who Lived. A silk camisole Hermione had tempered with one of her own mousy white sweaters. The sleeves were three quarter and—much to Harry's relief—they'd been able to cover Malfoy's Mark with make up or magic. Harry didn't care witch... which. The rest was another story. It must have been Hermione who'd put blush on him; mascara, too, and cloying, sticky gloss on his lips. His lips, her lips. If Harry ignored the eyes, it was like that french girl Margaux was standing in his hallway wearing a pale pink, pleated mini skirt and pump shoes. Surely those weren't the same shoes he'd seen Hermione carrying. They'd looked innocuous. Now they were... sexual. Harry did not like this at all. Fred and George were looking at Malfoy's rounded butt. Ron was sneaking glances at Malfoy's bristols popping out of what was once a matronly sweater. With breasts straining at the buttons, it was upsettingly erotic. Harry could feel in his bones that the entire thing was going to be a disaster. Trying to distract the eye from the essence of Malfoy only highlighted his weaknesses: his intense sexuality, his delicate frailness, his decidedly wild and rebellious nature. Malfoy may act like a nancy sometimes but deep down he was a man and dressing him up like something he wasn't was not okay.

Harry had no choice but to go with it. He refused to meet Malfoy's gaze as he handed over the paperwork. Try as he might, he couldn't think of the person in front of him as “Petra.” They'd left his eyes exactly the same. Malfoy's stupid sodding eyes. Hermione had rimmed them with something purplish brown, making the silver stand out that much more, picking up flecks of the lining, the white sweater, the pink skirt, and the apprehension in Harry's own eyes.

“Ladies first,” Tonks pronounced in a sing-song voice as she flung open the front door. Harry may have audibly growled.

- - -

"Oh, I love taking the piss out of cocky boys like you," Malfoy simpered, roughly dragging a fingernail down Harry's shirt. The striking brunette turned and started walking to the exam area.

The voice Fred, George and Hermione had engineered was the oddest thing of all—a mixture of Ginny's soft, comforting tones and the commanding authority of none other than Professor Severus Snape, as if snatched right out of his memory and played back in his ears. The effect was sultry and utterly disturbing. It was only fitting they'd begun lobbing insults at each other the second they'd stepped foot out of number twelve Grimmauld Place.

"Yeah? Just don't forget tha' scrap of fabric you call a skirt when you Apparate," he called to the ample, swaying backside in said skirt. He had no idea why those words had come out of his mouth. Malfoy-in-magical-drag seemed to bring out the very worst in him.

"I'll be careful, love," Malfoy said warmly, smoothing a dainty, feminine hand over the front of that damn pink skirt—right where his todger should have been. "I borrowed it off your girlfriend. You be careful not to splinch that ass of yours. The talent's rather lacking so I may need something to look at."

Malfoy's unfamiliar face sneered while his eyes simpered. Harry could hone in on that gaze from miles away. They stood perhaps three yards apart, speaking loud enough that every official nearby could probably hear quite clearly. This would be the talk of the Ministry for weeks, months maybe: Harry Potter's hot new fling. His hot new fling with the long legs and narrow waist, flaring hips and pouty lips and....

Harry was beyond caring. He thought he could feel the steam coming out his ears as he advanced on Malfoy-in-a-skirt. He wasn't even aware of the wand in his hand.

- - -

Hermione had met Ginny in the hall following her return from the Burrow with her mother. Hermione had wasted no time taking the red headed girl by the arm, seating her on the nearest bit of furniture, and explaining in the most calm and civilized of terms what had transpired earlier that afternoon, predominantly in the second floor loo.

“So, Malfoy's at his Apparition exam in my lacy knickers?” Ginny was always one to cut to the chase.

“And my bra. Yes,” Hermione sighed. This was a right mess.

“This is epic. We'll need pictures when they get back.”

“Ginny, I don't think you understand,” Hermione pulled her uncooperative hair over one shoulder. “I think Harry is extremely upset.”

“Sure,” Ginny nodded her agreement. “You said he reamed Fred and George, right?”

“Well, yes. But I think there's more to it. You know he's oddly protective of Malfoy.”

“It's sick but yes, I've noticed. He acts like Malfoy's suicidal,” Ginny rolled her eyes. “It sets off his white knight complex like you wouldn't believe. 'No time for snogging, Gin! Have to save the weakling ferret traitor!' Really, it makes me want to hurl.”

“Ginny, do you think Harry could be right?” Hermione adjusted her hair again. “That Malfoy might be suicidal. Do you think Harry knows something we don't?”

“Of course,” Ginny scoffed. “Malfoy probably told him some tear soaked fabrication of how he was flogged within an inch of his life and Harry bought it because he's soft at heart. Malfoy would take advantage like that and you know it,” Ginny fixed Hermione with a look that made her want to believe the fiery red head over her best friend of six years. “Harry tends him like a wounded puppy and Malfoy needs the attention because he's a self-centered git. I just hope Harry snaps out of it soon. If I didn't know better,” and she winked deviously, “I'd say he was having a sexual identity crisis. As it is, he'll remember he's straight, start ignoring Malfoy and get back to his plans about You-Know-Who.”

“Oh, I wish that were true,” Hermione closed her eyes, remembering the strange look on Harry's face when he'd seen Malfoy all tarted up. She'd had to admit Malfoy made a very pretty girl. He was much softer as a brunette. He'd laughed and batted at her hands as she begged him to allow just a little more make up. As it went, she'd only gotten a bit on before Malfoy hid behind the shower curtain to change clothes. Primping before the mirror, he'd seemed unsure. And then that terrifying look in Harry's eyes. It was the way he'd looked the summer after fifth year, after the Triwizard Tournament in which Cedric Diggory died. Harry looked as though someone had gone and died in front of him again. He'd looked so angry.

Maybe it was the clothes. Maybe he didn't like that Ginny had clothes like that. Maybe he didn't like seeing Malfoy parade around in something Ginny had obviously meant for him to enjoy under different circumstances. Things must be very hard for Harry, being electively single. His ex-girlfriend popping in and out of his house surely didn't help things.

Hermione was just about to say something when she heard the front door bang open. There were a few more bangs and slams, along with two separate pairs of feet stomping up the rickety stair. The wall of the sitting room actually shook a bit, being one of the stair's main supports. Clouds of dust picked up and swirled as the commotion died down. When she and Ginny heard another much more civil arrival, they left their nook in the tiny room and made instinctively for the kitchen.

Their instincts had been spot on, because Tonks and Hestia Jones were making themselves comfortable at the kitchen table while Mrs. Weasley put the kettle on.

“So, they both failed,” Hestia came right out with it after removing the disguising spell on her face.

“Brilliantly,” Tonks added. She'd corrected all of her face except her nose, which she kept shifting into a myriad of shapes, sizes and colors for her own amusement, presumably. “Started hexing each other before the examiner even arrived.”

Ginny snorted in laughter. Mrs. Weasley shot her a look from the stove.

“I never knew those kinds of spells existed when I was their age,” Hestia put in, stowing her wand in her robes.

“We live in interesting times,” Hermione said. It was all that need be said in Harry's defense. She wouldn't defend Malfoy. She couldn't and besides, she had no reason to.

“It was awful, just the same,” Hestia sighed. Mrs. Weasley held up a finger, signaling just a minute before tea would be ready.

“It's a shame you weren't there to see it,” Tonks said to Hermione and Ginny, especially.

“I can only imagine,” Ginny giggled, inevitably imagining Malfoy trying to hex Harry while wearing her pink mini and pumps. Malfoy the Brunette had been such a great mental picture to begin with. This might be too much, even if all she got to see was the aftermath.

“Poor Harry,” Mrs. Weasley tutted. “I suppose he'll have to schedule another exam?” She consulted a clock on the wall. “Perhaps an early supper, then, assuming they won't be joining us?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Hestia smiled. “Thank you, Molly. It was quite an adventure, guarding those two.”

“Did you make the soup with the lentils, mum?” Ginny asked, getting up and walking over to the stove to help with the tea tray.

“Did somebody say lentil soup?” Ron entered the kitchen and all hope of a decent intellectual conversation was lost. Hermione smiled anyway.

- - -

"Sure, it was fun in the shower but the novelty's quite worn off," Malfoy spat. "I understand this is raucously funny for the both of you, but can we lose the tits, please?

Fred and George continued to cackle.

Harry spied on this scene in the hall bathroom, peeking in to catch Malfoy looking... oddly adorable in his tight, low-slung denims, one of Harry's old white tshirts, and a Dark Mark-ed arm slung protectively around those substantial knockers. He'd managed to set the rest of himself up—short, white blonde hair, lean body, aristocratic features. Maybe it was the angularity of his frame that made those magical mammaries appear fuller by contrast. Perhaps it was the way he clutched at them, or the thinness of the shirt. Maybe it was because Malfoy was a bloke again. Well, mostly. Whatever it was, it made Malfoy look helpless. And cute. Harry couldn't help the grin crossing his face as Malfoy's temper flared higher. The blonde struggled not to lash out at the twins.

"Really," Malfoy sniffed. "We're all adults here. You really can't expect me to walk around like this—not when you've put the rest to rights."

"I'm sure Hermione would loan you another bra," Fred chirped. He and George dissolved into another fit of man-giggles. Malfoy was quickly going puce.

"Fred, George," Harry said as evenly as he could, popping his head past the door frame. "That's quite enough. Take the tits off—before your mum sees 'em."

The thought made Fred and George pale instantly. They turned to Malfoy, who lowered his arm so they could work at reducing his body back to its proper proportions. Those breasts were truly something: they looked so convincingly real! Harry was forced to admit the twins had really outdone themselves this time.

Harry was too preoccupied to notice the hurried footsteps which followed him down the stairs a moment later. He was in the front room by the time Malfoy caught up with him. Malfoy swung him around by the shoulder and planted him a solid facer. Harry's neck whipped with the force of it. He stumbled back, falling hard against the legs of the grand piano.

"What the fuck?" he screamed, comforting the side of his face with a hand, his mouth stuck open in pain and shock. He tasted blood. He was focused wholly and solely on Malfoy. He didn't notice Ron and Hermione intertwined on the sofa and he didn't notice them spring apart at the interruption.

"Piss off!" Malfoy yelled back, articulating each syllable with barely contained rage. His chest had been set to rights but he remained barefoot, pale hair still tousled and still damp from the shower. "I can solve my own problems, you spacky mixed-blood! I don't need your help!"

"Well it certainly looked like you did," Harry shot back. It was probably not the smartest idea to bait Malfoy like this, but he hadn't a shred of patience left.

“Potter, I'm sure there's a perfectly good set of bristols out there, chomping at the bit for a rescue. These,” he gripped his crotch and shook, “are taken.”

This caused Hermione to emit a high-pitched squeak from her place on the sofa. Ron had his wand drawn, thinking Harry and Malfoy were starting a punch-up after tea. Harry realized he had his own wand to hand; he tightened his grip, palms sweating. Things had gone awfully pear-shaped awful quick.

“Get your rocks off rescuing people, don't you, Scar Head?” Malfoy seethed. He drew his wand gracefully and pointed it at Harry; silvery eyes glaring down the length of his long, scarred arm at The Boy Who Lived. “Why is that? Because your precious parents saved you? Or maybe nobody loved you when you were young and now you need the hero-worship to validate your pathetic existence.”

Red, snarly feelings coursed through him in waves. He could hardly think straight.

“Alright, Malfoy,” Harry growled, swiping at the blood dripping from his chin with the back of his hand . “Duel. Right now. No seconds. Let's settle this once and for all.”

“I thought you'd never ask,” Malfoy sneered, enunciating with a slow, thick pleasure. His hooded eyes were utterly unreadable but his voice held bottled fury, like Harry's own.

“Absolutely not!” Hermione cried, making a bee-line for Harry. Ron drew her back before she could reach either angry wizard; a good thing, too—Harry would have blown her back had she come any closer.

Harry glowered at Malfoy. In an instant, they were toe to toe, wands at one another's throats, noses separated by an inch.

“Go ahead,” Malfoy whispered so only Harry could hear. “I know you can cast it non-verbally. Do it in front of your little friends. Show then what a—”

Imperio.

Harry watched the malice drain from Malfoy's eyes. His face was perfectly immobile but his eyes said it all. Harry made no effort to exert control. He let Malfoy stew in the fact that Harry had beaten him to it, that Harry had the man under his thumb. Harry could feel the familiar buzz of Malfoy's mind. Harry closed his eyes and focused: the surface was pleasant enough—chocolate cake, rich coffee and Wiltshire in the spring—but Harry could feel the shock, outrage and shame at a slow boil beneath.

Instead of issuing an order, Harry offered Malfoy the thought of escape. Malfoy handled it with uncertainty, kicking the idea around before casting it off. So Harry offered another idea, one that was sure to whet Malfoy's appetite: sex. Not anything specific or with anyone particular—just the intense feelings and nature of being which Malfoy himself had broadcast before in his lucid state. Harry watched the man's mind swirl with it, tasting it, focusing it to sharpness and clarity. Harry could feel Malfoy about to break free from the curse. He exerted just enough pressure to make Malfoy work for it, enough to make him think he'd truly fought and won. Harry felt the magic of their link begin to buckle, its weak point exposed. It crackled and hissed as Malfoy beat against it. Through the last splintering bits, he felt Malfoy's eyes close.

And then Malfoy's lips met his in a rush. It felt like... sex magic. It had that heady, tripping, thought-searing lust that always accompanied Malfoy's thoughts about sex, but there was somehow much more to it. The clean, intoxicating taste of Malfoy. The heavy press of his swollen, parted lips. The cloying desire for more.

Malfoy broke the kiss before Harry could react. The way their lips clung together for an instant after was positively maddening; bewildering, rage-smothering, lust-inducing and decidedly sweet all at once. His warm breath seemed to linger against Harry's flushed skin. Malfoy turned on his heel and swept from the room, leaving Harry blinking and entirely stunned.
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Conscience