Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

For the first time, Severus Snape began to consider the possibility that Harry Potter might not be just like his father.

As he considered, he very carefully began to brush the glass fragments into a small metal cauldron. The first identifiable substance on the glass turned out to be human blood, which did not surprise him: the second was tears. It would be a long time before he found out whose tears they were.

References:

The Knight, Death and the Devil: The Knight, Death and the Devil is a woodcut engraving by Albrecht Durer. It shows a Knight making his progress through the world, frightened by Death, tempted by the Devil.

The knight is meant to symbolize the faith within us all and ties in with Draco's statement in Hermione's dream that love is faith. Alternatively, I think of the Knight as being Harry, Death as Draco (because he is dying) and the Devil as Lucius, offering temptation to Our Hero.

The bit about Draco’s metallic beauty showing his cruelty was actually something Anthony Minghella said about why he cast Jude Law in The Talented Mister Ripley.

"The black winter sky fretted with icy fire": "This majestical roof fretted with golden fire" is from Hamlet; the soliloquy that begins "I have of late, though wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth."

"Quintilius Varus, give me back my legions": what Augustus Caesar said when he learned that his most important general had lost a tenth of Rome s army in an ignominious defeat. "Quintili Vare, legiones redde" is the Latin.

"I belong to Malfoy Manor": from Diana Wynne Jones’ Charmed Life, where the stolen books shout "I belong to Chrestomanci!"

Liber-Damnatis: HP Lovecraft invented this tome of evil.

"I was pondering the immortal words of Socrates when he said 'I drank what? — Socrates died after being forced to swallow poison by the Athenian government. The quote comes from the movie Real Genius.

"Nobody likes a non-budger" — obligatory Buffy quote.

— william carlos williams

Although it was winter, the light that came through the infirmary window was deceptively clear and transparent gold: summer light. Dumbledore sat and looked at the fair-haired boy in the bed by the window, and sighed inwardly.

"Master Malfoy," he said. "I hope you know I am trying to help you. You are making it very difficult for me."

The boy raised his eyes to Dumbledore's. Unusual eyes they were, the eyes that ran in the Malfoy family. His father had had the same eyes. Clear gray, untouched by hints of blue or green or hazel. "I told you," the boy said. "I don't need help."

Dumbledore sighed again, this time aloud. "Lucius," he said. "Show me your arms, please."

There was a short silence. Then, unwillingly, the boy stretched his arms out towards his Transfigurations professor. His chin was set, as if he were proud of his injuries, and perhaps he was. They were certainly dramatic: from wrist to elbow, on both arms, six parallel cuts were slashed into his skin. They were deep cuts, long and clean-edged, as if they had been made with a particularly sharp knife. Headmaster Dippet had nearly fallen out of his chair when he'd seen them. They looked bad, and Dippet was terrified of Lucius' family already.

"How did you get these, Lucius?" Dumbledore asked, knowing already what the response would be.

"I already explained this." Lucius' voice was toneless. "They're from a Slashing Hex. I got them in a duel. I don't have to tell you with whom. It's my business. My father told me — "

"I have no interest in what your father might have to say on this topic."

Dumbledore's voice was sharp as razor wire. "The interest of the school is in you and your well-being. These are the aftereffects of necromantic magic. The physical signs of the toll it takes."

"Are you accusing me of practicing dark magic at school?" Lucius' gray eyes blazed. "My father — "

"I am not accusing you."

"Then what?"

"Tom Riddle." Dumbledore's voice was edged with softness, but unyielding nevertheless. "He is a friend of yours, isn't he?"

Lucius paled markedly. "He is not."

"But you know him."

"Everyone knows him. He's Head Boy."

"I would venture to say you know him better than most."

Lucius' expression was unreadable. "If you have something to say about Tom Riddle, Professor, perhaps you should say it to him."

"And what makes you think I have not?" Dumbledore asked. "I am not a fool, and I know what Tom Riddle is. I have tried to talk to him. Merlin knows, I have tried. But there are some tasks that are impossible, and that is one of them. He is set in what he is, unchangeable. But Lucius, you are not. You are thirteen years old, and that is young to hear what I have to tell you, but it is the truth: the decisions you make now will affect the rest of your life."

Lucius sat still; Dumbledore could see the thin chest rising and falling quickly under the flannel pajama top. When he spoke at last, there was scorn in his voice. "You know nothing about Tom," he said. "And nothing about me. You think if you tell me he's not my friend, you can get me on your side. Well, you can't. You've never seen anyone like Tom before and it scares you, because you know that no matter what happens, he'll win in the end. He's more powerful than any other wizard at this school — "

"Tom is very clever," Dumbledore said. "But he is also very young. Has it occurred to you that he may be overestimating his power?"

"Has it occurred to you that you might be underestimating it?"

Dumbledore looked at him with weary surprise. He wished he could be more amazed at this small child with the deadly-looking injuries, his soft little boy's voice, not yet broken, saying these ugly and distasteful things.

But he was not amazed. He had known Malfoys before Lucius.

Preternatural unpleasantness simply ran in their blood.

Lucius went on. "Tom has the right ideas. He wants to change the world, and he will. And there will be a place for me in his world — he's promised me that."

"And you believe his promises?" Dumbledore's voice was grave. "He will abide by them only so long as he has use for you, Lucius. He feels nothing for you, or for anyone. There is no friendship in him. Only hate and resentment, the marks of which you bear for him. When crisis comes, he will sacrifice you along with all the rest."

Lucius' expression was flat. "That is my lookout, then," he said. "Not yours."

A rattling noise interrupted Dumbledore's next remark. It was the sound of the curtains around the bed being drawn back, the silver rings clinking together. Dumbledore turned around to see Madam Pomfrey standing behind him, a tall, dark-haired boy at her side. The Head Boy badge gleamed at his chest.

Tom Riddle.

"Pardon me for interrupting, Professor Dumbledore," said Tom, his voice as smooth as oil. "But Professor Coulter has requested Lucius' return to the Slytherin dormitories."

Dumbledore glanced at Madam Pomfrey. "Poppy?"

She looked unhappy, but nodded. "He's well enough to leave, if he keeps his bandages on. Those cuts will take weeks to heal, though. There's absolutely no spell that can hurry the process. Not with cuts like those."

Tom's voice was soothing. "We'll take care of Lucius while he's recovering," he said. "Don't trouble yourself."

"We?" Dumbledore echoed.

Tom smiled. So Lucifer must have smiled, Dumbledore thought, upon waking after the Fall to find himself the master of an unpopulated Hell.

Only Tom still looked like an angel, and Lucifer had not. "His friends, of course."