Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

So, he was not listening — but it did not matter. Dracoś own mind was made up. He closed his eyes. If he could see, he couldn´t do what he had to do. He judged the distance to his father, and took a step forward, and another. He heard Lucius begin to speak. Then Draco lashed out with his foot, a hard swift kick. The toe of his boot connected with the vial; he opened his eyes and saw it fly into the air and shatter against the low parapet wall. Green fluid and glass splashed over the flagstones.

He saw Harry raise his head, his eyes uncomprehending at first: then he went white, and the quill fell out of his hand. The parchment followed, fluttering like a white feather, landing at Harryś feet. Draco saw that Harry had written no more on it than Dear Hermione; he was surprised, it had seemed as if so much time had passed…He glanced up at his friend, but Harryś expression had changed and then Draco couldn´t look at him anymore; he looked at his father instead, and saw something he had rarely seen before: Lucius looking shocked beyond reason. He had raised his hand as if he could hold Draco back; now he dropped it to his side, and looked at his son with a disbelieving bitterness…and something else underneath that, something that looked almost to Draco like a furious respect, although he knew that was impossible.

"You realize what you´ve done," Lucius said to his son, his voice a fierce whisper. "Thatś all there was — there is no more."

"I know," Draco said. "I realize what I´ve done."

Lucius´ mouth thinned into a razored line. "You´re a fool," he said, turned on his heel, and stalked though the door, slamming it hard behind him.

The exhaustion was so bad now that it was like pain, without quite being pain. Ron could not calculate how long he had gone now without sleep or food: probably no more than a day, but the hours and hours and hours of chess had taken such a toll on his concentration that it seemed like much more.

He had always enjoyed playing chess; now it was beginning to sicken him.

Every time a game ended, he hoped against hope it would be the last one.

Every time, the Dark Lord waved his hand and the board was magically renewed, and the deadly voice said, "Again."

He could no longer tell pawns from knights from bishops. The pieces were heavy as rocks in his numb fingers. He willed his mind to concentration, willed himself to formulate some kind of strategy. Nothing came to mind.

He had won several games and lost several games. It had not seemed to matter either way. Each time Voldemort had raised his hand; each time the voice came again with the single word: "Again." Ron had begun to think that this was not chess at all but merely some refined form of torture.

Slowly, Ron picked up his knight, and looked down. His exhausted mind struggled to make sense of the chess board, to decipher its patterns. It seemed to waver in front of him, rippling as if a cloud of heat were passing over it. His right hand spasmed, and the knight fell out of his limp fingers, striking the travertine board with a harsh, echoing click.

It was as if the click were the sound of a switch being flipped inside Ronś mind. Without warning the world ripped down the center like a fruit being peeled in half. His ears roared, and agonizing pain shot through his knees and elbows. A moment later he realized this was because he had tumbled out of his chair, hit the floor and crumpled. He rolled over and stared up at a world of shifting shadows.

"Whatś happening?" he whispered. "It hurts. It hurts."

"What do you see?" said the knifelike voice of the Dark Lord. "Boy, tell me what you see."

The shapes moved and coalesced. Now they were racing by him like scenery viewed from a train window. Images fluttered rapidly by, visible but inaudible, more real than dreams. It had never been like this before.

Nothing had ever been like this before.

"I see," he said, and shut his eyes, but it made no difference. The future rushed towards him and swallowed him up; he was inside it now, staring out. He was the still center of the turning world: he could see everything at once and the power of it was too much to contain. Words spilled out of his mouth; he could not stop them. "I see the Dark Mark over Hogwarts," he said in a single rasping breath. "I see the sky black with smoke — and the Mark again and again and again. I see all the wizarding houses in England and the sky over them is full of death. I see the dead. Some of them are children — "

"Very good," said Voldemort. "Tell me more. Do you see Harry Potter?"

"Harry — I see Harry. He has blood all over his hands. Heś crying. And now I see his bracelet. Itś in broken pieces. I see Harry leaving. Heś going over the water. He puts his hand to his throat but itś gone — that chain he wears. The Charm."

"The Epicyclical Charm," Voldemort said. "The one Lucius so carelessly made for his son. And Luciusśon — do you see him?"

"No — no. I don´t see him. I can´t see him…"

A whispered laugh. Rhysenn? "Perhaps, Master, that one has no future."

"Look again," the Dark Lord said to Ron. "Look harder."

But Ron barely heard him. He was adrift in a world of images that no longer made any sense: he saw the sky lit by dazzling fire, saw a crumpled body inside a pentagram, saw flames leap from the windows of the Ministry, saw two people embrace and kiss inside a cage made of gold, and knew that what they were doing was terribly wrong somehow. He saw Hermione, who turned and looked at him with awful sadness, and Seamus, surrounded by green light as if he stood underwater. He saw a glass heart snapped in half and then he saw the runic band that Harry wore shattered into fragments, and he cried out, although he never knew until later what name he had called. All he knew was the darkness as it overwhelmed him and drew him down into a merciful oblivion.

The door shut behind Lucius.

Draco turned around and looked at Harry.

He had steeled himself to face Harryś furious anger; he had expected rage and resentment, even disdain or contempt. He had expected to be shouted at. But Harry was not shouting. He did not even seem angry. He had gotten down on his knees, and was carefully gathering up all the bits of broken vial scattered over the stones. He held the shards he had picked up in his cupped left hand; his other hand shook as he ran it over the stones, looking for the half-invisible slivers of clear glass.

Dracoś mouth went dry. "Harry — what are you doing?"

Harry looked up slowly. The moonlight struck his glasses; Draco couldn´t see his eyes, just the set of his chin and the twist to his mouth. The blood on his hands where the glass had cut him was black in the moonlight.

"Maybe itś not all gone," Harry said. "Maybe there might be some left…."

Draco didn´t say anything about the sheer impossibility of this, just stood where he was, looking at Harry and thinking that having Harry be furious with him would have been better than this.

"I just thought it might help," Harry said, and looked down at his hands, where the blood mingled with the last bits of antidote and the silvers of glass. His hair fell down and hid his face. Draco wondered exactly what it was Harry was talking about. He remembered Harry in his dream, kneeling in the sand, telling Draco he had come too late to be of any help.

"Don´t," Draco said. "Harry…."

"If we could get the bits to a lab…run tests…"