AUTHOR: sordid humor

GENRE: Action Adventure, Dark Comedy, Noir & Suspense ≥ Romance

RATING: M for violence, language, sexuality and copious adult themes

SPOILERS: post HBP, non-DH-compliant

WARNINGS: This story will contain a male/male (slash) relationship, adult language, violence, and adult situations. Reader discretion is always advised.

Warnings will always be chapter-specific. This chapter contains violence, gore, torture & snark.


I do not own them in a box,

I do not own them with a fox,

I do not own them while I'm bowling,

They all belong to JK Rowling.


Welcome to my side project, born of a whim and certain to go down the same. Far from a work of genius but that's the general idea.

Thanks for taking the time and enjoy!

Please note that all postings on ffnet are edited to meet a "Mature Audience" rating. The Adult Content version of Conscience can be accessed on LiveJournal by joining the community "dh_conscience" moderated by myself, sordid_humors. You must be a member of LiveJournal to join, and age eighteen or over.

community . livejournal dh _ conscience

The Adult Content version is also available on Archive of Our Own (AO3). Again, you must be eighteen or older to access adult content on this site.

archiveofourown series / 14548



I don't mind torture.

Torture is a highly efficacious model for attaining desirable information.

I have no moral qualms in regards to torture.

These three sentences—strung together and repeated very quickly at a certain strategic level of consciousness—had served Draco Malfoy extremely well over the last fortnight. Talented Occlumens that he was, his mantra was often great enough to overpower the screams echoing through the basement of Malfoy Manor. However, on the rare occasions that both his magical and mental prowess escaped him, he would take to vandalizing his father's liquor cabinet.

It is after one such night of intoxicated bliss that we find young Mr. Malfoy standing blearily before an ornate sink, vigorously brushing his teeth. Still smelling strongly of liquor, he has the look about him of a once-polished gentleman who has awoken late in the afternoon once more, quite hung over and no longer demonstrating any concern for it. In simpler words; his soul had given up, his mind had accepted defeat, and his pride had yet to realize the general consensus.

But, lo! As (toothpaste dribbles from the corner of young Mr. Malfoy's mouth and proceeds towards his chin,) there is a knock upon the door!

"Draco," his mother's silvery voice called. The knocking persisted. "Dragon, darling, I know you're awake. I can hear the water running." The knocking died away. For a single moment, he dared to hope that she had wisely elected to leave him alone. "Will you open the door? He wants to speak with you." No such luck.

Draco sauntered over to his bedroom door and wrenched it open without emotion. Not wanting his mother to suspect that years of (in)breeding had gone to waste, he pointedly fixed her with his best Malfoy sneer.

"Thank you," she said, lowering her dainty hand and clasping it with the other. She looked at him beseechingly, searching his empty eyes for any sign of forgiveness. But Draco would never grant her that—not after the unearthing of operation Abandon All Faith In My Son And Enlist His Most Trusted Ally To Plunder His Due Glory From Him At The Last Possible Moment, Causing Him Immeasurable Pain and Despair...

"Draco?" Narcissa Malfoy's head was angled in worry as she gazed at her son.

"Mfft?" Draco grunted around his toothbrush. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. This was hardly worth his time.

"Didn't you hear me?" Narcissa wrung her hands. "He wishes to see you immediately. You should hurry and get dressed." Normally she would have sent a house elf; however, Draco had barred the creatures from his wing, wishing to be alone. With her duty performed and head bowed, Narcissa began to walk away. Draco thought the moment deserved closure.

"Hmmmfft," he grunted again, turning away as well. His mother whirled on him.

"Draco Malfoy! Your father would never tolerate such insolence in this house! Since you've been home, you've hardly said a word to me, let alone..." Her voice trailed away, her expression conveying worry of a less-than-maternal sort.

Draco guffawed, nearly choked on his toothbrush, and strategically removed it for added pithy diction. Straightening to his full unshod height, he addressed her in lofty tones.

"Yes. How has the fortnight treated you, mother?"

"Fortnight?" Narcissa's blonde brows knitted, confused. She regarded her son more cautiously, now believing her offspring quite unhinged. "Dragon, you've been home six days—" Draco let out a peal of derisive laughter, drowning out the remainder of her argument. He brushed a lock of hair from his eyes, signaling the termination of his outburst and the return of his cool, trained facade.

His mother removed a piece of dirt from her fingernail. "Finished, Draco? He's waiting."

"Let him," Draco spat subversively before slamming the door in his mother's quickly contorting face. There was very little that Draco actually understood about his mother but the one thing he knew with acute certainty was when she was about to cry. Women. He locked the door magically and went hastily to his wardrobe at the far side of the room, less than eager to hear his mother blubbering as he prepared for his very personal consultation with the Dark Lord.

Outside his locked door, eyes damp, Narcissa fumed. "Sleeping until three in the bloody afternoon, neglecting his duties to the Death Eaters, refusing to see the Dark Lord when commanded—he's going to get us both killed!"

She adjusted her robes to better expose her cleavage as she scurried down the hall. Lord Voldemort was in her sitting room, demanding to see Draco. They were doomed.

Now, Draco Malfoy was a keenly intelligent young man. Very little could escape his notice. Therefore it was logical that he put two and two together and came to the conclusion that the respectable number of Death Eaters encamped at Malfoy Manor were, in fact, torturing a great many people to death in his cellar. This was not surprising to Young Mr. Malfoy; after all, if he had no moral qualms in regards to torture, why should he expect others to possess them? Mr. Malfoy was a very savvy and seasoned individual.

I don't mind torture.

Torture is a highly efficacious model for attaining desirable information.

There's blood on my shoe.

I have no moral qualms in regards to torture.

I don't mind torture at all.

There's blood on my shoe.

Draco couldn't get over the blood. It was everywhere: it was on the walls, it was on the ceiling, it was on his very expensive Italian leather wingtips. Not to mention where all the blood had come from—the screaming, begging, pleading muggle woman groveling on the floor before him made very little visual impact in relation to the sheer amount of what should have been her insides now adorning her outsides.

"Crucio," the Death Eater beside him droned. The man—Draco recalled that his name was Mulciber—hummed faintly, an indistinct tune, smoking a cigarette with one hand and torturing the muggle senseless with the other. He was one of several Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban between the Dementors abandoning it and the Hit Wizards taking over. More Death Eaters were arriving at Malfoy Manor every day; they were running out of bedrooms for them all. Draco assumed that the Manor could not be the only Death Eater stronghold, judging by the number of owls coming in and out of the house and the regularity of groveling social calls from former supporters and new recruits. Draco knew what came after those letters and social calls: this.

For his unfortunate lapse in action during the assassination of Albus Dumbledore's, the Dark Lord had ordered Draco to a week of study under Mulciber. From his mother's lavish sitting room, Draco had been escorted to the cellar and treated to the present scene for the better part of an hour. Draco didn't think the woman could last much longer. And just as he thought this, Mulciber turned to him and cracked a wicked smile.

"Kill 'er," Mulciber chuckled, one side of his face turned up, the other side impassive. "Dark Lord's orders."

Draco blanched. He'd always done well casting the Imperius Curse—after all the practice he'd had with the house elves over the years, how could he not?—but the Killing Curse was different. With Avada Kedavra, a wizard really had to mean it. Draco knew what the Dark Lord was doing. He was being tested. If you can't kill Dumbledore, can you kill at all?

Well, this was it. He raised his wand, centered his concentration, and spoke the incantation.

After repeating this sequence several times over with no visible results, Mulciber took the opportunity to beat Draco forcefully and maliciously about the head before killing the muggle himself.

"Um," Draco was pinching a bloody nose, "I'm sure I'll get the hang of it one way or another." Mulciber smiled and shook his blood-matted, shaggy hair out of his eyes.

"Sure," he replied sardonically. "Let me give you a few pointers." Mulciber lit another cigarette and pointed his wand at Draco.

(to be continued...)