Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"Rotten," said Draco, quite honestly, "you're both doing rotten; not eating, not sleeping, thwarted young love, very tragic. Here, borrow my quill, you can go write a poem in your journal all about it."

Harry looked indignant. "I do not write poetry," he said, around the thumb.

"Well, perhaps now is a good time to start."

"I can't rhyme," Harry said. "I've tried."

"It's not that hard," Draco opined cheerily.

"Oh, yeah?" said Harry unwisely. "You try it."

Draco grinned evilly and knelt upright on the bed, one hand placed over his heart. "Woe! The pain that is my life," he declaimed.

Woe! The pain that is my life

The constant strain, the endless strife!

Hermione won't be my wife

Cause I'm a silly tart.

So now I'm pining for my ex, I'm whining 'bout the lack of sex, The wand of fate has cast a hex

Upon my noble heart.

My dearest friend has shagged my girl — "

"He did NOT SHAG HER," yelled Harry, turning approximately the color of an eggplant. "I hate you, Malfoy, and I hate your stupid poem!"

Draco looked vaguely offended. "I was simply taking artistic licence. Come to think of it, your life makes an excellent epic poem — in a pathetic kind of way. I wonder what rhymes with 'cupboard'? Or 'lonely nights of wanking off in the Gryffindor dormitory'-ow! OW!" he yelled as Harry launched himself onto the bed and vigorously attacked him with a green embroidered pillow. A furious but silent fight ensued, which ended when Harry managed to jam an elbow into Draco's solar plexus while simultaneously sitting on his legs.

"Take it back," he said.

Draco made a face at him. They were nose-to-nose, and Harry was looking even more wild-eyed and wild-haired than usual. "I'm sorry I said you were a tart," he said.

Harry ignored this. "You know what I mean! Why are you bringing up -

you know — Ron and all that? Aren't you supposed to be being sensitive and brotherly and — "

"Yeah, well, I tried that but it didn't seem to be working. So I thought maybe I ought to just keep mentioning it as rudely as possible until you get desensitized."

"Oh that's a great idea. A real world-beater."

Draco struggled to prop himself up on his elbows, putting himself at eye level with Harry, who was still kneeling on his legs. "Look, Potter," he said evenly. "This wedding is tomorrow. And you know who's going to be here.

Weasley, for one. Half Slytherin House — their parents are all friends with my mother. I know Blaise and Pansy will be here. You're not going to be living in a world of people who don't know or are too polite to say anything, not any more. And the way you are these days, the first nasty comment anyone makes will cut the legs out from under you. Better you start getting used to it now, and hearing it from someone who doesn't really want to hurt you."

The anger vanished from Harry's expression like a candle blown out. "You know, Malfoy," he said grudgingly. "You're probably the only person in the world who could be a huge jerk to me, then turn around and convince me that they're actually doing me a favor."

"Yes," Draco agreed, deadpan. "I am a unique and beautiful snowflake."

"Argh," said Harry, and rolled off him. He flopped onto his back and lay next to Draco, staring up at the ceiling. Draco manfully quashed the urge to tell Harry not to put his feet on the bedspread. "I guess…" Harry said slowly, his gaze unfocused, "I guess I have been a bit mopey lately…"

Draco almost fell off the bed. "A bit mopey? A bit mopey?"

"I — " Harry began, but Draco was having none of it.

"You call that a bit mopey? I suppose you'd say that the inhabitants of Pompeii were a bit surprised when the top blew off their local hill and buried them all in ash? Or that the crew of the Titanic was a bit annoyed about hitting that iceberg? Or that — "

"I get it," Harry interrupted, wriggling slightly with annoyance. "So I've been mopey."

"I'll tell you, Potter," Draco confided, "there've been times lately when I've been tempted to go hang about with Moaning Myrtle just to have someone upbeat to talk to."

"Well, why bother hanging around me at all then — " Harry began irritably, then caught himself. He bit his lip. "Look, I'm sorry," he said more quietly.

"I know it hasn't been pleasant for you. I don't want to seem like I'm not grateful — "

"Grateful," echoed Draco, his voice faintly tinged with disgust. "Whatever.

Look — "

"You think I don't notice what you do for me," Harry said flatly. "Well, I do notice. It might not seem like it, but I do notice."

Draco felt suddenly self-conscious. "I know," he said. "Look, I wasn't complaining — well, I was, actually, but now you've made me feel stupid about it. I hate that."

Harry almost smiled. "I need a favor," he said. "And it's a weird one."

Draco blinked. "Already this conversation has had more alarming twists than Snape doing the rhumba." He shrugged. "I'm all ears."

Harry looked sideways at him, his expression open and confiding. It was that look that was very hard to say no to, because it made you want to trust him, and to believe that whatever idea he had was the right one. "I need you," Harry said, "to take my memories away."

"You don't have a choice about this, Ronald Weasley," his father said, in a tone that clearly indicated that he would brook no argument. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes," replied Ron, and his tone was as implacable as his father's. "But I'm still not going."

"Yes, you are. You're going."

"No," said Ron. "No, I'm not."

Ginny looked with mute appeal at her mother, who returned her gaze with one that was equally despondent. The two Weasley women sat together at the kitchen table; through the open door to the living room they could see both Ron and Mr. Weasley. Mr. Weasley was pacing furiously up and down on the hearth rug; Ron sat quietly on the sofa, his clasped hands dangling between his knees. His head was bowed, his tangled hair falling to hide his expression.

"Don't fret, love," said Mrs. Weasley and patted her daughter's hand across the table. "Your Dad will make him see reason."

Ginny just looked at her silently. For the first time in her life she felt briefly sorry for her mother, who really had no idea what was going on with her youngest son. Not as sorry as she felt for Ron, of course. She didn't blame him for not wanting to attend the wedding. Not at all.

"…At least offer me a decent explanation!" Arthur was thundering, having moved on from All the Arrangements Have Already Been Made and But The Whole Family Is Going to the more general, but still effective, There Is No Reason For This Kind of Behavior.

"I told you," Ron said in a monotone. "I had a fight with Harry. He won't want to see me. It'll make the whole wedding awkward. It's not fair on Sirius."

Mrs. Weasley sighed. "Poor baby," Ginny heard her murmur under her breath. She had no idea if her mother was referring to Ron or to Harry. Of course Mrs. Weasley adored her youngest boy, but she was also positively ridiculous about Harry, worrying over him as if he were another one of her children. Ginny thought to herself with an inward smile that it might perhaps be a good thing that she and Harry had never dated — her mother would have taken his side in any arguments, and she would have wound up hitting her mother over the head with a plank, or wanting to. For Mrs.

Weasley, the idea of Ron and Harry not speaking was as distressing as Fred and George or Bill and Charlie not speaking — a horrid warp in the familial weft.

"And I told you," Mr. Weasley replied furiously, "that I received an owl from Sirius just this morning. He told me how much they're looking forward to seeing us at the Manor and how much, in particular, Harry is looking forward to seeing you."