Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"Don't," Draco said, and straightened up. He began to cross the room towards Harry, who was still looking down at his hands with that same look he had worn in the graveyard: that look like blindness, as if were seeing through this world to another and terrible place beyond.

"I wanted to hurt you," Harry said. "I had to keep my mind locked down so I wouldn't hurt you."

It occurred to Draco to remark that Harry had managed to hurt him just fine anyway, but that seemed a childish and petty thing to say. Most of his anger was gone, now that he had seen Harry; he felt only terribly exhausted and horribly sad. "You apologized," he said, "does that mean that you believe me now?"

Harry nodded, ever so slightly. I believe you now, he said, and Draco almost jumped at the unexpected contact. Some part of me believed you then, but I didn't want to admit it.

Why not? Doesn't it make things easier? She still…loves you.

Except that she hates me. Harry unclasped his hands from around his knees and swung to face Draco, dangling his legs over the side of the window sill. And not without good reason. I was horrible to her. I wouldn't forgive me, either.

She'll forgive you, Draco replied. She'll understand.

How can she understand when I don't understand? I don't understand what happened, and I don't understand why I never noticed anything, and I don't understand why Ron would…Harry raised his eyes to Draco's; in the half-light, they were black. Do you?

Understand what happened? No, although I have my guesses, Draco replied. Do I understand why Weasley did what he did? Yeah. I think I do.

I also think I'm not the best person to explain it to you.

Harry's mouth tensed. Why not?

Because I hate him for what he did, Draco said flatly. And a big part of me wants you to hate him too, but my reasons for that are selfish reasons, and I know that.

There was a short silence and then Harry, apparently having decided that pressing Draco on this point would be a bad idea, nodded again, and scooted sideways on the window sill. Draco accepted the unspoken invitation and went to sit beside Harry. They sat for a while without speaking, in neither a companionable nor an awkward silence — Draco felt it was somehow a watchful silence, as if he were waiting for Harry to reach some sort of conclusion. He sat where he was as the sky outside the window lightened and lightened, the clouds parting to reveal strips of silvery gray sky.

The light began to spill into the room, turning the mirror on the far wall into a gleaming sequin, starring Harry's pitch-black hair with jewelry light. The light showed, as well, the lines by the side of his mouth, the mother-of-pearl half circles under his eyes. He held out his hand, and for a moment Draco just looked at it, unsure what Harry wanted. It was his right hand, and along the flat palm the thin zigzag scar shone like silver wire. He turned his own hand over to see the counterpart scar there, and flinched in shock when Harry took the hand he had extended, and held it tightly.

Draco looked at Harry in surprise. He had always watched Harry and Ron with wonder and some envy of their easy physical camaraderie — the pats on the back, the hugs when they won a Quidditch match, how Ron would hold Harry up if he was laughing too hard to stand, or casually shove him while they were walking, and catch him when he fell. He and Harry had none of that: they touched each other only in extreme circumstances, and then it was a light brush on the shoulder, a tap on the wrist. Even when he'd thought Harry was dying, he had not touched him.

The pressure on his hand increased, and he flinched, because now it hurt.

Harry was less holding his hand then crushing it, his grip so tight that Draco could feel the bones of his fingers grind together. He winced but didn't move. Harry's grip grew tighter and tighter until Draco thought he could no longer keep from exclaiming at the pain, and then Harry let go.

Draco took his hand back, and looked at it with trepidation. He half expected to encounter a shapeless blob of crushed flesh, but his hand looked the same. He wiggled his fingers. They worked. "Ouch," he remarked conversationally. "So you've decided to blame my hand, then?"

Harry blinked for a moment, as if waking up out of some kind of dream.

"Sorry. Did that hurt?"

"Does Professor Sinistra want into Charlie's pants?"

Harry blinked again. "I don't know, does she?"

"You don't pay attention to anything at this school, do you, Potter?"

"I don't follow every tedious bit of gossip, if that's what you mean."

"There's nothing tedious about gossip."

"Oh blah blah, Dean's dating Eloise, Parvati's marrying a Death Eater's son, Blaise is fooling around with Malcolm behind your back…"

Draco almost fell off the windowsill. "Blaise is fooling around with Malcolm behind my back?"

Harry looked worried. "I figured you knew. Everyone knows."

Draco was speechless.

"Oh, dear," said Harry, looking, if possible, even more wretched.

Draco recovered himself, and snorted. "Don't worry about it. I don't care."

"I know you don't," Harry said. "I wish…"

"You wish what?"

"That I could be a bit more like you," Harry said. "I mean, not in most respects of course. But it'd be nice not to care."

"Not caring's overrated," Draco said. The idea of a Harry who didn't care was foreign and somewhat bothersome to him. "Anyway, on that topic, have you decided what to do about Hermione?"

"I guess I'd better talk to her," Harry said. "Only I don't know what to say."

"Far be it from me to tell anyone to apologize," Draco said. "because, myself, I'd rather be chewed apart by rabid weasels. Then again, I've never been a git like you were last night."

"That is such a lie," Harry began indignantly, then paused. "Right, you're just winding me up. Okay, so I was a git."

"Yes, you were. You were a git of epic proportions. You were such a git, they should name a town after you. Dorksville springs instantly to mind.

Or, perhaps, Little Wankerton. I suspect that one's not taken."

"Argh," said Harry. "Let me alone. Crushed, fragile ego, remember?"

"I decided a tough love approach might work wonders here," Draco replied. "Because frankly all the intensive moping and 'death, death, oh welcome death' stuff is starting to get on my nerves."

"Then what's your advice?"

"Well," Draco said thoughtfully. "If I were you, which thankfully, I'm not, I would recommend that you recognize the fact that Hermione's about six times smarter than you, or me either for that matter, and therefore you should be honest with her. Because if you aren't, she'll see right through you anyway."

"Be honest? That's your advice?"

"Well, take a whack at it. If that doesn't work, groveling makes a solid backup plan. Then again, why are you asking me? I'm not the one with the girlfriend."

"You have a girlfriend," Harry said.

"Not any more," said Draco, and hopped down off the window sill. "Look, try again with Hermione today, and if she still slams the door on you, I'll talk to her."

"Thanks," Harry said, a little stiffly. Draco could tell that he loathed the thought that Draco could talk to Hermione and he couldn't. On the other hand, he was biting it back, which Draco appreciated.

"I have to get some sleep," Draco said. It was true. Exhaustion seemed to be drizzling through his bone marrow like cold water. Harry was starting to look very blurry indeed and he could hear his own pulse beating in his ears. "Will you be all right?"

"I'll be all right," Harry said. He caught Draco's expression, and almost smiled. "I'll be fine. You look knackered, Malfoy. Go to bed."

Draco was halfway to the door when Harry spoke again, and Draco turned around instantly, wondering if Harry was calling him back. He wasn't: he was standing now, obviously getting ready to leave as well, but he had paused, one hand on the window sill. "Malfoy?"