Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"Thank you," she whispered. She reached out then, and touched his shoulder gently; he looked at her in surprise. "I need you," she began, "I need you to promise me something."

He didn't move, only his eyes narrowed slightly. Harry would have said, "Yes, anything," and Ron would have said, "If I say I'll do it, I'll do it. You don't need to make me promise." But Draco just looked at her out of long diamond-gray eyes, and said, "That depends on what it is."

"It's about Harry," she said. "He doesn't understand."

"Why you left him, you mean?"

She nodded.

"I'm not sure I understand either."

"Because," she said, and paused — but it seemed right to explain, in fact, she could not imagine anyone else who would understand. "They used me to get to him, Draco," she whispered. "They used me — and Ron — they know how to hurt him the worst, and I can't be part of that. I won't be."

"But you didn't tell him that."

"No." She shook her head. "He wouldn't understand."

"Try him," said Draco, firmly.

She sighed. "The other things I said to him — they were true as well.

Nothing else I say would change anything. He still wouldn't tell me what's been tormenting him, and I — " She sighed, and bowed her head down. "I don't suppose you know, do you?"

He shook his head. "No. I don't."

"And you wouldn't tell me if you did. Would you?"

He said nothing, only looked up and down the platform, and then back at her. The cold air ruffled his hair, turned it to blown silver tinsel. There was no reading his expression, or his gray eyes; he had nothing of Harry's transparency. But there was no one else. And she trusted him, because she had to. "I still think you should talk to Harry again," he said stubbornly.

"You shouldn't have to go. Not like this."

The train whistle sounded then: a long, high piercing shriek that made her jump. Draco took a step back away from the train.

"I haven't got time to talk about this any more," Hermione cried out, close to despair, "I need you to do this for me, I want you to promise, to swear it — swear it on your family honor, Draco Malfoy. Swear it on your own name."

He was properly alarmed now. "To do what?"

"Stay with him," she said. Draco looked taken aback. Hermione went on, not really knowing what she was saying, just letting the words come. "Stay with him always — and watch him — and make sure he's all right. Don't leave him, and don't let him go off on his own — and if he does, you have to follow him, because I can't now. I want to take care of him, but he won't let me. He won't let any of us near him. Until I know how to fix that, you'll have to do it. Owl me every day — tell me how he is, what he's doing, if he's all right."

"He's not," Draco said, a little distantly, "all right."

"Oh, you know what I mean!" Hermione cried out. "Keep him safe. Stay with him — promise me, please!"

There was a long silence. It stretched out between them like a length of silver cord unspooling. Hermione stared down at him, her hand still on his shoulder, although she hardly felt as if she were touching him — he seemed so far away, as if he had gone beyond the mountains, into some far cold place she couldn't imagine. His face was still, expressionless, the pale skin burned silver by moonlight, eyes opaque as mirror glass. When he finally spoke, his voice was as slow as it was steady. "Very well," he said. "I promise."

She tightened her grip on his shoulder. "Swear it."

"I swear it," he said, in a flat voice.

She might have imagined it, but she thought she felt something leap between them then, like an electrical spark. She slowly loosened her grip on his shoulder. "Oh, thank goodness," she whispered. "Thank goodness."

"I would have done it anyway," he said, looking down at his shoulder, where her hand rested. His voice was remote.

"I know," she said, "but now you have to."

The train whistle sounded again, shrill as a scream. The next few moments were a blur. She took her hand away from his shoulder, wondering at what she had just done, at what she had made him do. He raised his face to hers, his lips shaping words that were drowned out by the sound of the train's brakes releasing. Suddenly something snapped inside her. She could not bear to leave him here like this, alone and with such a burden placed on him. She leaned forward, and did something she had never done before: she kissed him on the forehead, and as she did he closed his eyes.

She drew back. "Draco…" she began.

His eyes opened, but there was no chance for him to reply, for with a jerk, the train began to move. Hermione grabbed at the window's edge to steady herself, and leaned as far out as she safely could, the cold stinging her eyelids, staring back towards the lighted platform and the solitary figure standing there — hands in his pockets, looking after her. He did not wave in farewell, and neither did she; she only stood watching as the platform and the station and Draco himself grew smaller and smaller in the distance and finally vanished altogether, swallowed up by the encroaching darkness.

At one in the morning, the Slytherin common room was deserted. Draco's boots left dark wet marks on the stone as he crossed through; he had not bothered to clean off his boots. He was enjoying making a mess.

Something in his chest was twisting savagely — he felt angry, not at anyone in particular, but at life in general. Everything seemed to be falling apart around him in huge shattering chunks, and for a change, the mass destruction was due to nothing he'd done.

"Bloody Weasley," he muttered as he reached his door — and paused.

"Right," he said to himself. "Better do it now," and he turned and went back along the hallway to the other side of the dungeon, where the girls' rooms were.

The door to the room Blaise shared with Pansy was closed — not surprisingly, since it was long past midnight. Draco raised his hand and rapped sharply on the door: one, two, three sharp knocks.

He heard the sound of swift feet, and the door opened. It was Blaise. Her red hair was down, tumbling around her shoulders, her face bare of makeup, but her glittery barrettes in place. She wore a long silky pale green dressing gown, printed with an embroidered blue dragon which curled across her shoulders and rested its head on her breast. Her eyes widened when she saw him. "Draco?"

"Hello, darling," he said, leaning against the door jamb. "All dressed up for Malcolm?"

She looked briefly surprised, then smug. "So you heard about that."

"Apparently, I heard about it late. Can I come in?"

She stood back from the door. "If you like."

Draco unpeeled himself from the door jamb and sauntered into the room.

It was a large room, separated in half by a huge Chinese screen printed all over with blue and green water lilies. This side was Blaise's: decorated with an understated simplistic elegance, everything she owned was nevertheless obviously expensive. He turned to look at her. She stood with her hands on her hips, her silk gown pulled tight across her chest. She was very obviously wearing nothing underneath.

"It's rude to point," Draco said, his tone kindly.

Blaise flushed and crossed her arms over her chest. "It's a bit rich you coming here and tweaking me about Malcolm," she snapped. "He told me he saw Hermione Granger coming out of your room this morning. Explain that, why don't you."

"I'd like to know what Malcolm was doing lurking around my room this morning," Draco said.

Blaise shook her head. "You're unbelievable."

"You should talk."

She threw up her hands. "I've never fooled around with Malcolm," she said. "I just started that rumor to see if you'd care. Which, patently, you don't."