Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Hermione shook her head. "Typical bloody Slytherin," she muttered, with more bravado than she felt. Blaiseś evident panic had communicated itself to her despite herself. Drawing her wand out of her pocket, she stepped cautiously out into the hall and began making her way towards the stairs as quietly as she could.

It was quite dark; the hallway torches were unlit. It was very quiet. As she neared the staircase, she thought she heard the sound of the kitchen door closing — no one dangerous should be able to get past the wards, but wards could be subverted of course. There were ways and ways. Gripping her wand tightly, she began to make her way down the stairs.

The Dark Lord reclined in the tall chair behind the chess table and regarded the air in front of him. It was full of dust motes; they hovered in the faint light of the narrow windows. The red-headed boy lay at his feet.

He had not moved in nearly a half an hour now; it seemed likely that he would not again be useful this evening. What had been like a light inside him had spilled out like blood, and he lay, unconscious and still, on the hard stones with his face buried on his arms. One hand was extended, palm up; the intricate serpent scarring across the palm was clearly visible.

"Marked with my sign before I ever saw him," the Dark Lord said aloud, and the girl inside her gold cage looked up as if he had spoken to her.

"Marked now twice, he is doubly mine."

"Will he die, Lord?" she asked.

"Not yet. I have not even begun to get use out of him. The gift of Foretelling is like divine clockwork. I have wound him up; now, as a clock tells time, he will tell me of the future."

"And why do you want to know the future, Lord?"

The Dark Lord raised his inhuman eyes to hers and laughed. "You are a curious little demon," he said. "What can it matter to you? Your kind goes on and on without end; whatever the future brings, you will survive it."

"As would you — you also cannot die."

"Life is not to be lived for lifeś sake alone," said the Dark Lord cryptically. "There is also power, and the seeking of it. And vengeance.

You should know all about vengeance, little demon. Six hundred years bound in servitude to one family…you must want for your freedom very badly."

"Are you trying to incite my servants against me, my Lord?" came a light voice from the doorway.

The girl turned first; the Dark Lord second. He did not get up from his chair. "Lucius," he said. "I hope, for your sake, that you bring me good news."

"The best news, Lord," said the pale man, drawing off his gloves and laying them on the table by the door. "All has gone exactly according to plan. We have Harry Potter in our temporary custody; Arthur Weasley is out of power, and the transition at the Ministry is going smoothly." He paused, and glanced at the red-headed boy on the floor. "I see we have had a casualty," he added, sounding amused.

The Dark Lord chuckled. "He is not dead. He utilized too much of his power, untrained; it drained him. He will recover. Speaking of casualties…" He glanced up at Lucius. "What of my servants, my loyal Death Eaters? Have they all been alerted to my return?"

At that, Lucius looked slightly uncomfortable. "I have not alerted them all, my Lord. I thought we would wait until the transition of power was complete — "

"I thought you said it had gone smoothly."

"I said it was going smoothly." Lucius sounded harried. In the gold cage, Rhysenn stirred and moaned as if in pain. "It has only been a day, Lord."

There was a silence. The Dark Lord rose slowly to his feet, and turned to look at Lucius Malfoy; Lucius was neither his most trusted nor his most beloved servant, but he was what he was: indispensable.

"Quintilius Varus," the Dark Lord said finally, softly. "Give me back my legions."

Lucius flushed red. "Our great defeats are now in the past, my Lord," he said. "We have only victory to come to now, and we will have legions to fight for it."

"I wished to return at the head of an army, Lucius. Not to have to ferret that army out and press them into service."

"My Lord, they are loyal to you! They simply wait for instruction. There are a few minor…dissidents we need ridding of first, before our way is clear."

The Dark Lordś narrow hands clenched and unclenched at his sides: they were ashen, the nails a heavy black. Once he had had long slender fingers, articulately boned: beautiful hands fashioned equally for poetry or for prayer. Of course, they had been put to neither use. "I dream of such things, my Lucius. When I am victorious, I shall have a chess board made from the snapped wands of my enemies. I shall carve the white pieces from the bones of Severus Snape, who betrayed me, and the red pieces shall be made of clear glass and filled with Harry Potterś blood. I shall treasure it always."

In the gilded cage, Rhysenn laughed softly. Lucius had turned very white.

"You shall have all those things, Master," he said in a constricted voice.

"All those things, and more."

"And yet you tell me I must wait."

"Yes." Luciusś face was like stone. "You must wait."

Hermione was halfway down the stairs when she saw them.

Ginny stepped out of the kitchen first and Hermione assumed without thinking that of course she had come home alone. Ginny looked disheveled and exhausted, there was dirt on her soaked and draggled yellow cloak and her damp hair was a wild tangle. None of this surprised Hermione; what did surprise her was the expression on Ginnyś face when she raised it — beyond her look of numb shock, she had very obviously been crying.

"Ginny?" Hermione said, pausing on the stairs. "Ginny, are you all right?"

Ginny looked up. "Oh! Hermione." Her voice was heavy with exhaustion.

"Yes. I´m all right."

"Then what…"

Hermione broke off as the kitchen door opened again, and Harry came through, followed by Draco. Harry was carrying two broomsticks in his right hand; Draco was fumbling with the clasp that fastened his soaked and draggled cloak. Both were walking in the slow manner of those who are weary to the bone. She opened her mouth to call out to them, but only a gasp of surprise escaped her lips.

They were safe, they were home…And yet. She wanted to be overjoyed, but the joy didn´t come. There was something terribly wrong: she could see it, it was in the way Draco walked, the set of Harryś shoulders. Harry was the one who noticed her first; she thought later that perhaps he had heard her sharp intake of breath. He raised his head and looked up; Draco followed his gaze, and they both stared blankly at her, as if they could not quite believe that she was there.

She would always remember that moment later. It was not a long moment, and yet it seemed to go on and on. She stood and stared at them and wondered that although he should by all right be out of her mind with relief, instead a small cold fear was growing in her heart.

They were filthier than Ginny was, both of them. Harryś robes were torn and shredded, his gloves stained black, his face pinched with exhaustion and something else. Dracoś cloak was ripped, thick with twigs; there was a ragged bandage around his arm and his face was cut and bloodied.

But it was not that which made her pause. It was the looks on their faces.

She remembered Harryś expression from their fourth year, after the Third Task — that half-drugged, dazed and stunned look of overwhelming shock. She had not seen him look like that since then. And now he did.

And Draco. She would not have thought someone so young could look so old. It was not on his face, this look of age, but behind it, at the backs of his glacial eyes. It was knowledge and acceptance and other things that were worse than that. She remembered his telling her that he was fine, that he would see a mediwizard soon, and knew he had been lying, and that this was what he had been lying to cover up. It all made sense suddenly: Harryś expression, Dracoś weary resignation, and she remembered her dream and the silvery blood all over the sand at her feet and she sat down suddenly on the stairs, realization and sudden despair weakening her knees.