Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

the witch began, but this time Pansy interrupted her.

"You're going to the wedding? I thought you — " Pansy began, then snapped her lips shut. Color had come back into her face in a flood; she was as pink as one of the roses on her dress. "I mean, after — "

"Of course I'm going," Hermione said evenly, struggling to conceal her annoyance. It wasn't entirely amazing that Pansy would know about her breakup with Harry — surely the whole school knew that. Still, it was rude of Pansy to bring it up. Then again, when had Pansy not been rude? "I wouldn't dream of missing Sirius' wedding."

"Well," Pansy said, her voice unnaturally shrill, "Just a word of advice: it looks a bit pathetic showing up at the family home of a bloke who's just binned you. I wouldn't do it if I were you."

It took Hermione about four seconds to go absolutely rigid as she digested Pansy's truly appalling remark. When she spoke again, her voice had a rasping note, as if she were struggling to keep it even. "I don't like you, Pansy, and I never have," she said. "But it seems to me that lately you've been even more vicious than usual. What, exactly, is your problem with me?"

Pansy's features thickened, her eyes hardening and almost sliding together. "What do you care," she hissed, and the seamstress who'd been fixing her gown stepped back, her eyebrows raised. "You, with your perfect little life and your perfect boyfriend, and Ron and Draco drooling over you as if you were something special, which you aren't. You treat them like they were less than you are, and they're pureblood wizards.

How dare you? Mudblood!" she yelled at Hermione, in a paroxysm of abandoned rage. "Mudblood!"

"Pansy, has it ever occurred to you that none of those boys like you because you're a complete bitch?" Hermione snapped, fed up at last. "I don't treat them like they're less than me, but I don't drool and fawn over them just because they're boys, and purebloods — you even fawn over Ron, and he hates you — "

Pansy screamed aloud, and seemed for a moment as if she'd throw herself at Hermione, but Madam Magsby caught at her and held her back. "Now, now, dear," she said. "You'll damage the material."

"You're pitiful!" Pansy cried at Hermione, her eyes wet. "Dangling Potter and Draco along after you like you have all the time in the world to make up your mind, you think we all don't look at them and laugh? You've made a laughingstock out of them, and they're pureblooded wizards, whatever else they might be. Everyone thinks you're so special and clever

— well, I see right through you. Just because you're popular and you're Head Girl doesn't mean — "

"You want to settle this with a duel? Is that what you want?" Hermione interrupted, her voice careening upward. "I'll duel with you, Pansy — I'll duel with you, and when I'm done with you there won't be enough left of you to stuff a Pumpkin Pasty!"

"Oooh," said Madam Magsby. "I do love a Pumpkin Pasty."

Pansy burst into tears. As Hermione looked on in astonishment, she tore herself away from the seamstress, raced across the room, and flung herself into one of the dressing compartments. The door banged shut behind her, and the sound of loud crying was audible therein.

"Honestly!" said Hermione, to no one in particular.

"Well, well," said Madam Magsby, a small smile crossing her face. "Very impressive, my dear. Would you like to try a dress on now?"

"I…" Hermione wanted nothing less. She wanted to go back to the Leaky Cauldron, get a pillow, and cry. But she was determined not to let a snob like Pansy drive her out of the nicest shop on Petticoat Lane. "I suppose I could."

"Well, stand over here by the window, then, and do take off that cardigan.

It's frightful."

Hermione did as she was bid, and was soon swathed in layers of a peach-gold chiffon material printed with tiny birds. She felt tense all over, waiting for Pansy to emerge from the dressing room, and Madam Magsby kept sticking her in the neck with pins. Hermione held her hair away from the collar of her dress and sighed a martyred sigh.

The bell at the front door of the shop sounded. Hermione craned her neck around and was rewarded with another pin in the neck. A tall, stylish-looking witch had entered the shop. She had a tight, attractive face and lacquered-looking blond hair. Her eyes scanned the room quickly, and landed on Hermione. "Darling, have you — " she began, then broke off.

"You're not my daughter," she said, as if Hermione had somehow affronted her personally.

The door to the dressing room banged open. "Mummy!" exclaimed Pansy, and ran towards the tall witch. "You're late."

Mrs. Parkinson looked down at her daughter with amusement. "You cannot possibly be getting all those dresses, Pansy."

"Oh," Pansy gasped, and glanced down at the pile of clothing she'd removed from the changing room. "No, I–I -"

"Do decide quickly, darling, Daddy's waiting at Nutkin's Beauty Supply; he's just delivered a shipment and you know how he hates to wait."

"I'll — I'll take this one," Pansy declared, and seized a dress from the pile, obviously at random: it was a hideous pale green with frilly cuffs and collar. She tossed the rest of them over the back of a padded chair.

"Does it fit?" her mother asked, "it looks a bit — "

"It fits fine, Mummy," Pansy said, so obviously eager to leave that even her mother noticed.

"Very well," Mrs. Parkinson sighed. She glanced up at Madam Magsby, "Put it on our account," she declared, took the dress from her daughter, and swept regally from the shop like a boat departing from a harbor under full sail.

She is the strangest girl, Hermione thought to herself, as the door banged shut behind Pansy. Now, what was that all really about?

****

The sun was going down outside the windows of the Cold Christmas Inn in a torrent of gold and blood: a Gryffindor sunset. Sirius watched it through the diamond-paned windows from his place at the bar next to Lupin, and felt that all was well with the world.

"Try some elm wine," Lupin said, and pushed a glass towards him. It was filled with a pale-gray liquid that shimmered like mother-of-pearl and smelled vaguely of socks. "Romanian wizards swear by it."

"I bet they do," said Sirius with deep suspicion. "I bet they say, 'What the bloody hell is this stuff'?"

"True," said Lupin. "Only they say it in Romanian." He grinned, and his gray eyes lit up. "Come on, you have to try it. The Mayor bought a whole bottle of it in your honor."

Sirius groaned to himself. This particular gathering was something of a political move, along with a social one. He'd invited both the Mayor of the town of Malfoy Park and the bailiff as well, since the township had rarely gotten along well with the Manor — Lucius had kept them crushed under an iron boot heel. He was hoping they'd have a better relationship with the Manor's current occupants, and inviting them to the party seemed like a step in the right direction. He waved down the bar at the Mayor now — both he and the Bailiff were tall, spare, gray-faced men — and reached out for the glass of Elm wine.

He drank it. "Bleh," he said under his breath, and set it down.

Lupin chuckled. "Better you than me."

"I thought the Romanian wizards swear by this stuff?"

"They do," Lupin said agreeably. "But then, they also eat bats."

"You're dead to me," said Sirius. "I hope you know that."

Lupin chuckled again, and puffed on his cigar. Blue smoke swirled up from the tip. "You could go sit with Snape," he said. "He looks bored."

"He's not bored. He's playing darts."

"He sucks at darts. He's always sucked at darts. And he uses 'Expelliarmus' to cheat."

"Surely he doesn't do that any more."

"Hush," said Lupin.

Sirius hushed. A moment later a faint "Expelliarmus!" could be heard from the far end of the bar, and he glanced up to see a badly-aimed dart go zooming back into Snape's hand.