Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"You´re a bastard," she spat, without thinking. "Just like your father."

Draco stiffened. A brief flicker of emotion darkened his eyes: it could have been hurt or rage, or simple surprise. Then it was gone. "Actually," he said, and his voice was bitter, "I´m a bastard in a way thatś entirely my own."

Ginny had nothing to say to that. She turned around and went up the stairs, and Draco did not follow her.

It was near dawn, and the room had begun to fill with light. "The sun's coming up," she said, rolling over in the darkness until her bare shoulder touched his. "We should be getting back."

"No." His voice was distant, sleepy. "Letś stay here. Let them find us. Who cares?"

"Oh, Ron." She propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at him.

He lay with the sheets tangled around him, red hair pasted against his forehead with sweat. This room was one of the few at Hogwarts that wasn't drafty in the winter. In the pale gray dawn light that streamed through the high window, the mark on Ronś forehead where Rowena Ravenclaw had kissed him stood out pale and silver. "You know we can´t do that."

"I know." He pulled her down so that she lay crosswise on top of him, and kissed her mouth.

"Nobody can know about this," she said urgently. "About us."

"Yeah. I know that too." His lips found her throat. "I don´t like the lying, though."

"Itś just for now," she said, her voice a little hoarse. Her resolve had begun to weaken and she found herself leaning into his kisses. When he stopped she made a disappointed noise and looked down at him beseechingly.

His blue eyes laughed up at hers. "I thought we had to get back?" he said.

"Well," she whispered, "maybe not quite yet," and she let him pull her down into his arms.

Author notes: NB: Elizabeth Thomas is named in honor of our beloved Ebony. Malcolm Baddock, Milicent Bulstrode, Blaise Zabini, and Graham Pritchard are all Slytherins in canon, and Dex Flint is obviously Marcus´ younger brother. The unpleasant Tess Hammond is a creature of my own imagination.

References:

"I don´t know," said Harry, his voice dripping acid. "I´m afraid I accidentally got in line for 'shred of moral decencyínstead." Buffy.

Fortunately I cleverly used my spine to break our fall." Blackadder.

The night is young and we have umbrellas in our drinks." The Tick.

´Where to start? 'Get me a present.´ 'Take me to Hogsmeade.´ 'Buy me that bracelet.´ 'Make love to me right here on the floor.´ 'No, not like that, like this.´ 'Stop wasting time and get your trousers off´.´"

"Which do you want me to do first?" Blackadder.

"You think too much, such men are dangerous." Julius Caesar, Shakespeare.

Draco sat in the embrasure of the window in his small bedroom, watching the sun rise over the Forbidden Forest. The sky was a pale wash of mother-of-pearl, scorched with fire just over the treetops; the crystalline winter air was without any clouds. Dawn light poured in through the arch-shaped window, the shade of blood and roses, touching his pale face with a color it would otherwise not have had.

It was light enough now to read without a torch or candle lit. In his hand was the parchment that Rhysenn had delivered to him the night before. It was a sheet of clean white parchment bearing a single word in stark black unfamiliar writing.

Venio.

Slowly he let the letter fall from his hands, and as it fell it burst into flames, so only ashes landed on the bare stone floor, and settled into the gaps between the stones. In a few moments, the letter might never have existed at all.

Hermione jerked awake with a start. Her lids felt heavy and her eyes were dry with exhaustion. She turned over, careful not to wake Harry, who was asleep beside her on top of the coverlet. He had fallen asleep with his red cloak wrapped around him and she had given up trying to get him to loosen his death grip on it: she figured it was warm enough in the room, he wouldn't freeze.

She turned so that she was lying on her side, and looked at him. He was sleeping, a heavy drugged sort of sleep. One arm was flung wide, the hand resting on her pillow and half-open, the fingers curled in. It made her think of a baby sleeping: a trusting, undefended sort of gesture. His other arm was curled in against his stomach, his fist shut tight over the lightning scar that bisected his right palm. His black hair rayed out over her pillow; the shut lids of his eyes were bluish with tiredness and his jaw and chin were also bluish, where he had not shaved.

A lancing pain went through Hermione as she looked at him: fear mixed with protectiveness mixed with love. Through the clear pane of his unconscious face, she could see through to the child he had been, the little boy with the too-big clothes and the uncooperative hair, tough and stubborn and trusting and brave. She remembered the first time she had ever put her arms around him. Harry, you're a great wizard, you know.

He had shaken his head. I'm not as good as you.

Me? Books! And cleverness! There are more important things — friendship and bravery — and, oh Harry — be careful — She remembered seeing him after that, in the infirmary. She had been quite sure he was dead, and when she had seen him alive again a sort of terror had possessed her and kept her from embracing him — a terror perhaps that having not lost him in that instance, she was once more vulnerable to losing him again. She carefully moved closer towards where he lay on the bed, so that her hand rested on his side and rose and fell with his breathing as he breathed. He seemed to tense under her touch, and very slowly his eyelids fluttered and rose, and he opened his eyes.

Without the glasses, they were clear windows of green glass, fringed with black lashes.

She held her breath, waiting. Would he be angry — would he remember their fight — would he remember last night, after she had brought him upstairs to her room? Although all he had done was fall asleep immediately, pushing away her hands as she tried to help him off with his boots, his wet jacket.

But his green eyes were still foggy with sleep, and he smiled at her tiredly but without surprise, as if he had expected to see her there when he woke up. He turned so that he could hold his arms out, and she went into them and let him clasp her tightly, feeling the residual dampness of his cloak under her hands, his soft breath stirring the hairs at the nape of her neck.

They lay like that for several minutes without speaking before she felt his grip on her slacken, and he released her, moving his right hand up to touch her face.

Very softly, she said, "How are you feeling?"

He cleared his throat, and winced. "I'm in bed with my shoes on and I feel as if someone took a lemon wedge, taped it to a two-ton weight, and dropped it on my head. Other than that, I'm fine." He smiled at her. "And you're here, which cancels out the bad stuff." The smile turned into a puzzled look. "Did we…. do anything last night?"

Hermione smiled at him sweetly. "What, you don't remember our first time?"

Harry sat up like a shot, and then clutched his head. "Owwwww," he moaned, and looked at her imploringly. "We didn't! Tell me we didn't."

Hermione crossed her arms and looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Why, would that be a bad thing?"

"If I didn't remember it, it would be a very bad thing," he replied.

Hermione flipped her curls back and shrugged. "You were far too out of it to do anything other than collapse on the bed after being sick all over some books in the common room — I think you owe Neville an apology."