Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Ron did not look at her. He looked instead at the chessboard, with its repeating squares of light and dark. When he spoke, his voice was even.

"Harry will come and get me if he has to walk through fire to get here. I know he will."

"You have faith in him, then," Rhysenn asked, her tone a question.

"Love is faith," said Ron.

For a moment, she looked almost startled. "Where have you heard that?"

she demanded.

Ron hesitated a moment. Then he replied with the truth, because after all, she had had a point. There was no reason to lie. "In a vision," he said. "It was something I saw in my head."

"You mean just last night?" Rhysenn asked curiously. A moment before she had seemed both ancient and evil; now she seemed a curious, ordinary girl. Ron trusted this incarnation of her even less than the last one.

"No," he said slowly. "Last night wasn't the first time I've ever seen anything. I know I'm a Diviner. I've known it for a long time. I knew sometimes I could see things other people couldn't, or I would make guesses that came true later. I think that's why I've always beaten Harry at chess. I could see what he'd do before he did it. But, God — I couldn't control it. I could never, ever control it and all I ever saw were terrible things. And I felt a fool for not knowing what was real and what wasn't."

"And did you ever," her voice was black velvet, "tell anyone?"

"I almost told Hermione," Ron said, his voice distant. "Once. I wanted to tell her. I thought we were going to die and so it would be safe and she'd have to forgive me."

"Forgive you for what?"

"Not telling her what I'd seen." Ron's voice was remote. In his hand he turned the chess piece over and over. "Everything I ever saw was bad, before I learned to block it all. I always thought maybe I was just dreaming. Hallucinating. But I know she would have wanted me to tell her what I saw….to tell Harry." Ron's voice had sunk to a whisper.

She looked at him curiously. "And what did you see?"

Ron spoke swiftly. "I saw Malfoy. He was lying on a bed, and Harry was sitting on the bed and he had his face in his hands, and Ginny was there, and Malfoy was dead. That's what it looked like, anyway."

"Are you sure he was dead?"

"Yes," said Ron, in the same rapid, unhappy voice. "I know when people are dead when I… see them like that, in the future. I can feel it — like something missing from them."

Rhysenn's eyes rounded into startled silver circles, but before she could speak the doors at the end of the room opened, and the Dark Lord came in.

Normally Draco was only a fan of long walks if they were taken by people who annoyed him. After the conversation with Sirius, though, Harry had headed to the Potions dungeon to find Hermione. Draco, not particularly wanting to be there while Hermione and Harry talked about Ron, had remembered an errand he'd been putting off for several days and excused himself.

He was glad, now, that he had. It was pleasant outside, only a few white clouds chasing each other across a late-afternoon sky of filigree blue. The narrow path leading from the castle down to the greenhouses and bestiary was lined with evergreens and the faint and pleasant scent of sap drifted on the cold air.

Somewhere along the way Draco had picked up a bare tree branch. He dragged it along the top of the snow as he walked, carving delicate lines and zig-zags into the surface. The air felt sharp and fresh and bracing against his skin, and the high clouds overhead reflected themselves in the lake's clear, iced-over surface like a fleet of scudding little ships.

He wondered if he would live to see the ice melt, and pushed the thought back. Death was unimaginable. He was seventeen years old, and his heart still beat, and the blood still ran in his veins. He lived, loved and thought.

He could not imagine himself down in that gray place of shadows where the unmourned dead waited for deliverance that did not come. Surely his own death would not go unavenged, if it came to that. Harry would see to it.

Crack. The sound of a snapping branch brought him out of his reverie.

Draco spun around, lifting a hand to shield his gaze from the sunlight reflecting off the snow. The icy path he had walked on stretched whitely back towards the castle, and standing in the center of the path was Seamus Finnigan.

He had his hands in the pockets of his navy wool cloak and wore a faintly abashed expression. The wind picked up loose strands of his blond hair and blew them across his face; he raised a hand to brush it out of his eyes.

Draco found himself looking at Seamus' hands curiously. They were thin, artistic hands with callused fingers. Quidditch player hands, like Harry's.

Like his own.

"Finnigan," he said. "I hope you have a really good reason for following me."

Seamus took what looked like a deep breath. "I wanted to talk," he said.

"An admirable goal," Draco commiserated. "Now all you need is someone to talk to. Don't let me hinder your quest." He turned away.

"No-" Seamus sounded a bit desperate. "I wanted to talk to you."

Draco cursed inwardly. He wanted to walk away and leave Seamus standing there, looking like a fool. But curiosity was stronger than antagonism — he was more cat than snake in that way. He turned around slowly and crossed his arms. "Fine," he said. "And what missive from the Department of Oblivious Morons might you be passing along today?"

Seamus' chin set, but his voice was even. "I want to know why you don't like me," he said. "I want you to tell me."

"I usually request a fee for speaking engagements of that length."

"You know," Seamus went on, as if Draco hadn't spoken, "I keep thinking about it, and it doesn't make sense. I mean, I know I didn't like you when we were younger. But then again, nobody liked you when you were younger, Malfoy. Harry, for instance. He hated you a lot more than I did."

"Don't," said Draco, in a voice like poisoned honey, "compare yourself to Harry."

"So I can only assume this has something to do with Ginny," Seamus said steadily. "Which, you know, doesn't make any sense to me. Because if you wanted to be with her, you could. I'm not stupid. I know I'm second-choice. I should be the one who hates you."

There was a moment of silence. The cold air seemed to be pressing down on them, as if they were trapped under a glass jar. Draco shuddered slightly and unfolded his arms. "So maybe you might want to tell me," he said, "why you put a Tracking Charm on that bracelet you gave her?"

Clear red color flooded up into Seamus' cheeks. For a moment, he seemed to startled to speak. "A what? A — how did you — ?"

"My mother had a bracelet like that," Draco said in a savage tone. "My father used it to keep track of her. The arrow charm is a locator spell. I know that. Because I'm rich, Finnigan, and my parents could afford trinkets like that. The Weasleys, on the other hand, have more lawn gnomes than Galleons. Which, I suppose, is their problem. But it would make it damn unlikely that Ginny would have seen a bracelet like that one before. And you must have known that."

Seamus' cheeks were still scarlet. "It's just standard with those bracelets," he said. "I mean — I never thought about it. I knew it had a Tracking Charm, but I figured she could set it however she liked once she figured out how it worked, and like I said, all the bracelets have them. They're usually wedding gifts, after all. It's for keeping the people you love safe."

"You should have told her," said Draco.

"I never thought I would ever use it." Seamus was fidgeting now.