Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

The bell chimed as the door shut behind Hermione, and the tall witch turned. "Hello, dear," she said. Her voice was cool and remote, belying her warm words. "I'm Madam Magsby, and this is my shop. If you'll wait, I can be with you in a moment."

Hermione didn't reply; she was too surprised. For the girl in the rose dress had turned around, and was staring at her with a look of utter horror on her face.

It was Pansy Parkinson.

Draco stood and surveyed himself in the mirror that hung on the inside of his wardrobe door. He looked good — well, this was a given. He always looked good. He would probably have possessed the same amount of natural arrogance had he been born plain or even unfortunate-looking; the fact that his arrogance, looks-wise, was justified, was something he rarely even thought about. The Malfoys were a good-looking family and always had been. Girls had started staring at Draco (and some boys, too) around the time he was fifteen; before that, as his mother kindly put it, he hadn't quite grown into himself yet. He'd always been small and slight, like Harry, and had started to grow at the same time Harry had. He suspected he'd willed himself into it — he couldn't have borne being shorter than Harry Potter.

He made a minute adjustment to his tie, tilted his head, and gave himself a last critical once-over. He wasn't sure what one was supposed to wear to a stag night that wasn't really a stag night. Sirius had been very clear on that point. There would be no naked witches lunging out of pastries, he'd said — just a quiet night at the Cold Christmas Inn with friends and some of the locals from Malfoy Park, who Sirius was hoping to become more friendly with. The Park denizens had always had a touchy relationship with the Malfoys of the Manor, and Sirius was hoping things could be patched up. Draco knew Sirius was doing this for his own benefit, and was grateful. The idea of Sirius at the Cold Christmas Inn also made Draco smile — the Inn had been a staple lounging-place of his father's for years.

"Quit fiddling with your tie," said a voice behind him. "You always fiddle about with it and it always winds up looking just the same."

He spun around. Harry stood just inside the doorway, an inquiring look on his face. He wore Kenneth Troll dark blue trousers and a dove-gray pullover under a long wool winter cloak; Draco recognized the clothes as ones he had suggested Harry ought to buy. Harry had no fashion sense of his own, Draco mused, but at least he could take instruction.

"Merlin's bloody ghost," Draco muttered. "Don't you ever knock?"

Harry looked indignant. "I did knock. You were too busy admiring your own reflection to notice."

"Knock twice, then. Don't just come waltzing in. What would you have done if I'd been sitting here stark naked covering myself in tapioca pudding?"

An alarmed look passed over Harry's face. "I don't know, is it the sort of thing you're likely to do?"

"I might," Draco said haughtily. "It's my room, I can do what I like in it."

"Well," Harry said diplomatically, "to be honest, I'd have to say I'd think you were very strange."

Draco glared at him.

"Besides," Harry added. "You hate tapioca."

"I think you're missing the point."

"Oh, you had a point? I'm sorry, it must have gotten buried under all the pudding."

"Ahem." The sound of a polite cough interrupted their discourse. "I'm not even going to ask what this is about." It was Narcissa, peering in around the open door and looking amused. "Draco, darling — five-minute warning.

Sirius is waiting for you two downstairs."

She left with a smile. Harry looked anxiously at Draco. "We'd better do it now," he said, "What? Oh — the Cheering Charm. Yeah, all right. Come over here." Draco sighed and reached for his winter cloak, shrugging it on while Harry came slowly across the room towards him. "You sure about this?"

Harry paused in front of him. "Yeah, I'm sure. It's just a Charm, anyway."

"All right." Draco finished fastening the gryphon-shaped brooch that held his cloak together in the front, pushed his sleeves up, and regarded Harry for a thoughtful moment. "Close your eyes," he said.

Harry looked worried.

"Potter," Draco said in a warning voice.

Harry sighed and shut his eyes. Draco reached out and hesitantly put his forefingers to Harry's temples; Harry didn't react at all, just bent his head so his dark hair fell forward over Draco's hands. It was still damp from being washed, and the strands were cold on Draco's skin. Just below Harry's temples, there were streaks of soot; Draco wondered what on earth that was about.

"Stay still," Draco ordered him, and thought as hard as he could of cheerful things — the more cheerful the thoughts of the spellcaster, the more effective the spell, in this particular case. He thought determinedly of Quidditch victories, Christmas presents, amusing jokes…the look on Seamus' face when, somewhere in Ireland, he unwrapped his Christmas gifts and found that an anonymous benefactor had sent him a brand new shovel set…

A small smile came and tugged at the corner of Draco's mouth. He bent his own head and concentrated as hard as he could on sharpening his will into a point as sharp as the point of a knife, as strong as unbendable adamantine. Tension like a strung bow tautened along his nerves, gathering — he shut his eyes -

"Felicitus," he said.

He felt the magic leave his fingertips like an exhaled breath. Harry stiffened; Draco dropped his hands and stepped back.

Harry's eyes had opened wide. "Wow," he said.

Draco gave him a narrow look. "Why wow?"

Harry grinned. It was a happy grin, full of life and light and joy, the sort of grin no one would possibly fake. "Amazing," he said.

"Amazing…?" Draco echoed.

"I feel like a thousand pound weight's been lifted off me," Harry said, staring down at himself, then back up at Draco. "I feel — normal. Thanks, Malfoy." He looked at Draco, wide-eyed. "I mean it. Thanks."

"Sure," Draco said. A sense of vague disquiet had settled on him. "Glad it worked."

"Worked…" Harry seemed to be speechless, and possibly on the verge of dispensing hugs, flowers, bunnies, and God only knew what else. Draco backpedaled hastily, picked his gloves up off the table, and gestured at Harry.

"We ought to go," he said. "Isn't your adoptive father downstairs waiting for us?"

"Right, right." Harry nodded and headed for the door. He paused there, hand on the knob, and swung around to look at Draco. "You've done a good thing, Malfoy," he said simply.

Draco paused and stared at him, arrested in the act of putting on his gloves. Harry's eyes were full of light; he hadn't seen him like this in months. He was not sure if Harry was looking at him or through him -

What is he seeing? Not me, someone better than that.

"I hope so," Draco said, and followed Harry out of the room with an unshakable sense of profound misgiving.

****

"Hi," Hermione said, after a very awkward moment had passed. "Hi, Pansy."

Pansy did not reply. Hermione looked at her in astonishment. All the blood had drained out of the other girl's face and the bright, pretty color of her dress stood out in stark contract to her papery skin. Her dark brown eyes were wide with horror, as if Hermione were some hideous ghost.

"I take it you two know each other," said the witch with the iron-gray bun, looking amused.

"We're in the same year," Hermione said, still staring at Pansy.

"At Hogwarts?" the witch inquired.

"Y-yes," Hermione said, since Pansy appeared to have been stunned into silence. A strange idea was beginning to take shape in Hermione's head.

But no. That was ludicrous. "Seventh year."

"I take it you are also attending the Malfoy-Black wedding on Saturday?"