Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Ginny's hands where they gripped the edge of the table were white. "So Draco's supposed to do what? Sacrifice himself for Harry? Die in his place?

He idolizes Harry. It's not fair."

"Harry's everything good he's ever wanted to be," Hermione said quietly.

"He loves him like you love the better part of yourself."

"Harry has flaws," Ginny said. "We all have flaws."

"I know. But if Draco doesn't see them, what's the harm in that?"

"Because it makes him hate himself!" Ginny almost shouted. "And love, I thought, is supposed to make you stronger, not weaker. It's supposed to be something to live for, not die for. But you don't care. You don't care about him any more than any of you care about me. But you'll see. You'll see what it's like when they shut you out just like you and Harry and my brother used to shut me out for all those years and years. All those things Tom did to me and you never cared or noticed because you never looked

— you just saw what you wanted to see — just like Harry looks at Draco and sees what he wants to see — I could have died right in front of you just like Draco's doing now and you wouldn't have cared — "

"Ginny!" Hermione exclaimed, getting to her feet so quickly that she almost knocked over her chair. "That's not true."

"The hell it isn't," Ginny shot back, and now her eyes were bright with angry tears. She scrabbled for her book-bag, shoved the Liber-Damnatis into it, and stood up, throwing her bag over her shoulder. "And I don't want that stupid barrette — I wouldn't want anything that belonged to Blaise — she's nothing but a — a prostitute! You all make me sick!"

Hermione flinched back as Ginny flung the jeweled ornament at her feet: it landed there with a faint clink. She knelt to pick it up and stayed there for a moment, on her knees, feeling as if she never wanted to get up again.

"Origio," she said finally, looking down at the barrette in her hand.

"Origio — that's the spell you wanted."

Ginny said nothing. By the time Hermione had straightened up, she was gone.

It had taken Percy almost two days, but finally he had managed to get his makeshift new office into a workable state. There were his quills and his inkpot; there were his stacks of parchment in the Out box, and the much smaller stack in the In box. Here was his desk, with its neatly labeled files; here was his FiloParch, with its meticulously detailed record of appointments. The only thing his office lacked was, well, more than two walls.

"Ahem." Overhead, someone cleared their throat. "Pray tell, what is the meaning of this? Why is your desk in the middle of the hallway?"

Percy glanced up to see Lucius Malfoy standing over him. He had his arms crossed over his chest and an expression on his pale, pointed face that would have curdled milk.

"It's not just my desk," Percy pointed out helpfully. "It's also my filing cabinets and Roll-o-Scrolls. Oh, and all my quills. Dashed inconvenient it was moving it all, too."

Lucius blinked. "And who are you?"

"Percy Weasley, sir, Assistant to the Director of — "

"A Weasley." Lucius spat the word out as if it tasted foul. "I should have known. Why, Mr. Weasley, are you not in your office? Are you aware that Ministry Regulations forbid the placement of furniture in hallways reserved for official use?"

"Well, I have to work somewhere, don't I?" Percy said in an injured tone.

"And your office?"

"It's a broom closet now," Percy complained. "I tried to work in there, but mops keep falling on my head."

"Perhaps they are trying to tell you something," Lucius suggested, a glittering look in his eye. "It was my impression that all personnel affected by the recent office…mixup had been instructed to return home until it was straightened out."

Percy was as appalled as if Lucius had suggested that he set fire to an orphanage. "Go home? When I have a report on flying carpets due to the Moroccan Minister at ten o'clock on Friday? I'll be lucky if I get to go home on Christmas Day!"

Lucius' expression was inscrutable. "Go home, Mr. Weasley."

"I most certainly will not," said Percy stubbornly.

"Go home," Lucius repeated, a dangerous tone to his voice, "before another office mixup occurs and you find that your desk has been Transfigured into a turtle, or perhaps some kind of repulsive insect."

Percy turned a dark pink, which clashed with his freckles. "My desk? Not my desk! This desk used to belong to Mr. Crouch! It's real mahogany! You can't possibly — "

With a weary look, Lucius waved his wand. "Tortugas!" he snapped.

Even those Ministry officials toiling in the bowels of The Department For Regulation of Sugar Quills And Other Writing Implements heard Percy's cry of anguish as it echoed off the walls. "Not my desk!"

With the tip of a polished Oxford loafer, Lucius, a look of smug satisfaction on his face, prodded the largish brown turtle which had appeared, dazed-looking, at his feet.

"Excellent," he said.

Ron had suffered a number of rude awakenings in his life. When he was seven years old George and Fred had practiced an Accio spell on him while he was sleeping and he had awakened the next morning in the lettuce patch. Just the year before he'd gotten quite drunk during the Halloween Feast and had woken up in the third floor girls' bathroom. But nothing had quite prepared him for waking up on the bare stone floor of a deserted castle, surrounded by broken chess pieces and being tickled through the bars of a gold cage by a stark naked girl wearing only her long black hair and a thoughtful expression.

"Auuuugh," said Ron, and bolted upright so swiftly that his head spun.

"Get your hands off me."

The girl in the cage giggled and sat back on her heels. Her hair was long and opaquely black. It almost covered her, but not quite. "Good morning," she said cheerfully. "Sleep well?"

"Ugh." Looking away from her, Ron felt his head. There was a painful bruise just above his left eyebrow, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. He was still in the clothes he'd worn to the Manor party. His hand ached where the snake-shaped burn scar was, which sometimes happened when he was tired.

"You know who I am." The girl spoke again, leaning as close to his ear as she could get. "Don't you."

"Rhysenn," said Ron. "Yes, I know who you are."

"The Dark Lord's gone, if that's what's worrying you," she said. "He won't be back until nightfall."

"Actually, that's not what's worrying me," Ron said. "It's you."

"Me?"

"The naked thing. It's kind of distracting."

"Well, pardon me, I'm sure." She sounded indignant. A moment later, she asked him, "Is this better?"

He turned and looked at her. She had her long hair looped back over her shoulders and was wearing some kind of brief black corseted dress. It seemed an improvement if not by much.

"Thanks," said Ron, and stood up. He looked around. The room was as he remembered from the day — hours — minutes before, although the first time he had seen the room he had not noticed the beauty of it. The chairs that glowed like thrones on the polished stone floor, the torches held up on pillars wound with carved vines, the enormous fireplace carved with angels. Upon closer examination Ron would later discover that the carved angels were hiding their eyes behind their wings. Within a huge grate a fire burned fiercely green and orange. "Nice place you have here," he said.

"Quite a change from the Burrow," said a voice at the door. "Isn't it."

It was a thin cold voice, not immediately recognizable, although familiar.

A shudder ran up Ron's spine as he turned.

It was Wormtail, lurking in the shadows by the door. His pale sweaty face gleamed in the torchlight, and below the cuff of his robes, the glint of his silver hand was visible.