Draco could hardly believe it was the same Hermione Granger that he had teased for six long years that had interrupted what was to be his first make-out session of the year. She wasn't fun to tease at all any more, all serious and angsty. I'd probably get depressed just asking for the Potions homework, he thought.

And who the hell gave her that scar? That was no ordinary mark, if he wasn't mistaken. He guessed it was the Intersapienta curse. He'd never actually seen it, but he'd gotten some pretty detailed explanations when he'd taken that extra credit Charms class the previous year. Thinking back, it was odd that Hermione hadn't been there. She probably knew all the spells anyway, Draco mused, and so Professor Flitwick let her skip it. Honestly, the girl had almost every credit available.

Speaking of that Potions homework... Draco rose from his bed, where he'd been staring at the painted ceiling, deep in thought. He opened the door marked "Slytherin Common Room" and descended the stone stairway. He found himself behind a suit of armor. Damn. He'd forgotten he was no longer a resident of the dormitory. Instead he was privileged to have the luxurious Head Boy's chambers, seeing as he was indeed the Head Boy.

He untangled himself from the pile of armor on the floor, trying to preserve his dignity. Fortunately nobody had seen him fall clumsily and loudly with the armor to the floor. Draco stepped over the helmet. House elves would clean it up later.

"Goyle," he said, "What was our Potions homework Professor Snape assigned over the summer?" Draco leaned against the cool stone wall of the dungeon, waiting for a response from the larger boy.

"I believe we were required to compose a three foot essay on the uses of aconite, also known as wolfsbane or monkshood in birth control potions, as well as other methods of magical birth control," responded Gregory "Gargoyle" Goyle without looking up from his incredibly advanced Arithmancy textbook. "Do you mind? I really must be concentrating on these problems now. I've only got four left."

"Sure, yeah," Draco said quickly, "But I've just got one more question. Do you remember last year in Extra Charms when we learned about the Intersapienta curse?"

Goyle dragged his gaze reluctantly away from his textbook. "Yes, of course," he said, irritably. "The Intersapienta curse is black magic. The intelligence of the victim of this spell slowly drains away until said victim is too stupid to live. Whoever cast the spell accumulates the knowledge of the victim in a Pensieve. This includes memories, information, instincts... the works. Why do you need to know?"

"Oh, no reason," lied Draco. It sounded like just the thing someone would try to do to Hermione. "Do you know how fast the process occurs?"

Goyle shrugged. "Depending on the intellect of the person, it changes. If you've got a really smart victim, it can take as long as five years. If the victim is really stupid… well, you should be able to guess."

Draco smiled wanly. "Thanks," he said.

"No problem," said Goyle, and went back to working. Draco stayed for a moment, mesmerized by the quill fairly flying across the parchment, before disappearing behind the tumbledown suit of armor again. He reached his room and kicked off his shoes, flopping back onto his bed. His thoughts drifted to Hermione again. He almost felt bad for mocking her so cruelly on the train. She deserved it, he reminded himself angrily. You can't suddenly start being nice to her. That bitch had it coming. She should learn to be nicer to him.

A voice interrupted his anger. "She was nice to you. You started it." Draco sat up, looking around wildly. Where was that voice coming from? And how was it reading his mind?

It chuckled. Had he been less upset, Draco would have been able to recognize the voice as his own. "I'm your Conscience," it said gleefully. "This is my favorite part of the whole year with you, you know," it added. "When you don't know what I am and you think you've gone nuttier than squirrel shit." Draco wrinkled his nose.

"Before you think anything else, let me introduce you," the voice said quickly. "Your name is Draco Malfoy, you're 17 years old and Head Boy, you're from Slytherin House and your father was a –"

"Bastard!" Draco shouted. "My father was a bastard!"

"That's what I was going to say," replied the voice silkily. "I can read your mind, you know. I'm practically part of it."

"Who are you?" Draco asked stubbornly. He refused to believe that it could possibly be his conscience. "And where have you been hiding all my life?" he muttered.

The voice laughed again. "I told you, I'm your Conscience. That's with a capital C. I'm built into these very walls, and I have been helping Head Boys choose right from wrong since 1879. Basically, I read your mind, and read the part of the script you'd rather keep silent."

"Do you ever shut up?" grumbled Draco. He wasn't about to let some talking walls bother him.

"Only if you're already making the right choices," said the voice cheerfully. "By the way, you really will go crazy if you keep referring to me as "that bloody voice," so you can call me Anson."

"Anson?" asked Draco, intrigued in spite of himself. "Why Anson?"

"Just my favorite Head Boy. Now there was a boy that needed guidance. How he got the job of Head Boy, I'll never know. The headmaster probably felt the boy could use my constant assistance better than anyone else in that year." Draco was offended. Did Dumbledore choose him as Head Boy for that?

"No," said Anson patiently. "You were chosen because you were the best for the job. You've seen the other boys in your year, haven't you?" Draco stifled a laugh at that. He felt himself beginning to like Anson against his will. He supposed that was the whole point. He wondered if there was a Conscience in the Head Girls quarters.

"Sure there is," said Anson generously. "Nobody's perfect."

Draco decided he didn't like the idea of anyone reading his thoughts. He ignored Anson and tried to fall asleep, gazing at the ceiling of his room once more. His bed was in the center of the five-walled room, surrounded by his unpacked trunks. He wondered where the rest of the fabulous furniture every Head Boy had always raved about was. Surely they weren't expecting him to live out of his trunk all year.

Painted on the floor was a star, reaching from corner to corner of the room. He recognized it as one of the oldest symbols of witchcraft and wizardry. There were no real walls to this room, now that he came to look at them. Each wall consisted of five doors, all labelled. He saw signs for each of the four House common rooms, in their respective House colors. There was one door labelled "Great Hall," one labelled "kitchens," one for the office of every faculty member. Draco smiled. He could get anywhere from this room. His gaze fell upon the door labelled Loft.

He hopped out of bed, interested. He'd never heard of a loft in Hogwarts. He pulled his wand out of his pocket with one hand, rumpling his hair with the other. Flinging the door open, he was disappointed to discover a simple closet with a silver sphere mounted on the back wall. Draco had been expecting perhaps a balcony outdoors, or a staircase.

He leaned forward to inspect it. Hesitantly, he laid his hands on the cool silver ball, and the door of the closet swung shut behind him. Shit! That was always a bad sign. Maybe now the floor will drop out from under me, he thought wildly, and I'll discover a room full of skeletons of all the other Head Boys, and... and...

"Shut up," said Anson disgustedly. "You big baby. Go on, open the door."

Trembling, Draco opened the door to discover a different room. Gone were his trunks and bed. Instead, a rather large and beautiful mahogany wardrobe was back to back with a matching desk. A comfy armchair waited for Draco to curl up with a book next to a giant fireplace, in which a small but warm fire burned merrily. That was the only wall not covered with doors here. Draco stumbled out of the tiny closer, blinking in the sun shining through the gorgeous skylights installed in the ceiling. He looked around at the labels on these doors, observing Head Boy Bathroom among them.

That reminded him. He was dying for a shower. He ran back into the closet, pulling the door shut after him. He reopened it. No luck. He was still looking at the wardrobe and desk.

He remembered touching the silver ball and whirled around, practically ripping the thing off the wall. Draco heard the door slam behind him and delighted, spun and pushed the door open again. He was back in his bedroom. He grabbed his two trunks and attempted to heave them into the closet, nearly giving himself a hernia in the process, but managing to get them into the closet. He touched the hat and -whoosh- back to his desk.

He heaved at the handle of one of his trunks, failing to move it. "You can use magic, you know," said Anson, sounding amused. He nearly gave Draco a heart attack.

"You – you're here too?" Draco gasped, picking himself up from where he'd fallen backwards.

"Yes, of course. I told you, didn't I, I'm built into the walls. That means all the walls in Hogwarts. I follow you wherever you go." Anson was obviously enjoying this too much. "There's no escape."

Draco shrugged, pulling out his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!" he said, conducting his trunks one after the other over to his desk. "Alohomora-" and they sprang open. "Accio toiletries," and the dark green bag containing everything he'd need in the bathroom flew out of the trunk and straight into Draco's arms.

"I hope you haven't got eyes," said Draco nastily. "I wouldn't want you to watch me shower and dress." Surprisingly, there was no response.

Draco opened the door labelled Head Boy Bathroom, and discovered a silver shower head mounted on the wall. He touched it, and the door slammed shut. "Oh," he said out loud before turning around. "Another one of these." He exited the closet and gasped. The bathroom before him was absolutely magnificent. A white porcelain sink was set into a green marble counter, backed by a fabulously huge mirror. A white toilet was nestled in the corner, opposite to a large white porcelain bathtub slash shower. The walls and floor were tiled in matching green marble.

Draco crossed the room almost tiptoeing, and dumped the contents of his bag on the counter. He caught his reflection in the mirror and stopped to check himself out. Perfect hair... check. Flawless face... check. Conscience on his shoulder... check. Giant biceps... wait. Conscience?

Sure enough, an angelic miniature Draco was perched on his shoulder in the mirror. Draco stared. Mini Draco smirked and said "You can't escape. I told you."

"Anson?" Draco said, surprised.

"Who else?" said the tiny boy. He was about six inches tall, and bore every resemblance to Draco from the messy blonde hair and storm grey eyes to well toned muscles and dragon tattoo on his arm. Instead of Hogwarts school robes, though, Anson wore a pair of Muggle jeans and a black t-shirt with a giant silver C emblazoned on the front. "The C's for Conscience," he explained. Turning around, he indicated the back, which read "Head Boy" across his shoulder blades and the number 126 lower down, like a Muggle sports jersey.

Other than the outfit and obviously their sizes, the only difference between the two was the halo Anson sported. It glowed yellow, bringing out the blonde in Anson's hair. As Draco stared into the mirror, he watched Anson hop off his shoulder and land on the counter. He looked down, expecting to see a real miniature version of himself strolling between his shampoo and his deodorant, but there was nobody there.

"I only exist visually in mirrors," said Anson. "And only you and the Head Girl can see me. You can see her Conscience, too. And hear her."

"Oh good," said Draco weakly. I have gone mad, he thought. So he ripped off all his clothes and grabbed his showering stuff. Drawing the shower curtain shut behind him, he turned the water on. Maybe the damn thing would go away if he ignored it for long enough.

"Nope," said Anson cheerfully. Draco screamed.