Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"Seamus." She was so tired. "I'm sorry."

He looked away from her. The torchlight painted his hair in shades of ash and bronze, draw liquid-gold lines along the edges of his jaw and collarbone. "I won't speak ill of someone who's dying," he said, his accent very pronounced for a moment. "But why him? Why Malfoy?"

Ginny took a moment before replying. "I think," she said, "that he reminds me of someone else that I loved once."

It was the most honest thing she had ever said to him.

He nodded slightly, and drew the back of his hand across his eyes. "I'll leave tomorrow," he said, turned, and walked away.

Ginny watched him go. Then she resumed walking down the corridor and into the library. It was utterly deserted, as she had thought that it would be. Her bookbag was where she had left it, underneath a chair. She dragged it out, opened it, and took out the small black shabby diary that had caused her so much desolation.

She placed it on the table and from her robes, drew out her wand. She felt

— cold wasn't the word, exactly. She knew she should feel anger towards Draco, guilt about Seamus. Instead she felt merely determined. So Draco had shown her that she had been right; she wasn't wanted and didn't belong. They thought she was a useless fool. Hermione had as much as said so earlier. Very well then. She would show them. And when they came to her weeping with gratitude, she would throw it back in their faces.

She touched the tip of the wand to the diary.

"Origio," she whispered.

A bright string of numbers and words appeared for a moment across the surface of the diary. A day, a month, a date. A time.

They faded.

Ginny took a deep breath, and reached for the hourglass at her throat.

"No Malfoy shall wear orange, except on Fridays, or during teatime.' 'A Malfoy should never let family stand in the way of opportunity.' 'Any Malfoy who puts a book down on its face and breaks the spine will be punished with horrible death' — do Malfoys actually follow all of these rules?" Harry asked curiously. He was sprawled on his stomach in front of the fireplace, his nose buried in the Malfoy Family Code of Conduct.

Draco was watching him over the back of the sofa, unable to shake a feeling of bemusement that Harry was actually reading the thing.

He shrugged. "Of course we do."

"All Malfoys should eat a live toad each morning for breakfast as it aids in digestion. That one, too?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Well, all right, not every single one. Although look at it this way: eat a live toad first thing every morning and nothing worse can happen to you for the rest of the day. Philosophically, it's a sound principle." He looked thoughtful. "Also, toads are sort of tasty."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Would it be impolite at this point in the conversation to just run away from you?"

"Poor Neville," interrupted Hermione suddenly, looking up from her armchair next to the fire. "He was so upset about Trevor."

Draco blinked at her. "Please deconstruct that segue for me."

"Trevor was his toad," said Harry succinctly. "It died."

"Oh is that who he kept complaining was missing?" Draco asked, with the air of the suddenly enlightened. "I thought it was someone he knew."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "If Trevor had been a person don't you think the Students' Council would have agreed to help Neville look for him?"

Draco shrugged. "I figured he was just someone unpopular," he said.

"As always, your empathy is astounding." Hermione stood up. "And now, I am going to the library. I assume you two plan to stay here, drink the rest of the punch, insult each other as a way of pretending you're not really friends, and then pass out on the floor?"

"Actually I was going to pole-dance around the Christmas tree," said Draco, pointing at it, "But your plan sounds like more fun."

"Yeah," said Harry, still reading. "I like punch."

Hermione looked as if she were suppressing a smile. "I'll let you know if I find anything," she said, and left, her books and parchments clutched to her chest.

Harry raised his head from the book to watch her go, his eyes intently evergreen behind his glasses.

"You gave her that ring," Draco said, as soon as the portrait door had closed behind her. "I thought you said looking at it made you ill."

"I changed my mind." Harry sat up, stretched, and moved to the rug in front of the fire. He picked up the silver poker. "I got it for her because I loved her and I thought she'd like it. I still do love her and I still do think she likes it."

"But you put it on a chain." Draco stuck one finger into his punch, then sucked the punch off his knuckle. "Maintaining some distance there, Potter?"

"Maybe." Harry prodded at the fire with the poker. It was hard to tell whether the heat of the fire or slight embarrassment had turned his cheeks scarlet, but scarlet they were. "It's just… I hardly felt I could…after what happened at the Manor…"

"You mean the demon sex?" said Draco loudly, obviously taking great and sadistic pleasure in watching Harry start and nearly fall into the fireplace.

"Shut up, Malfoy. Someone might hear you."

Draco chortled and put his punch glass down. Then he stood up — and nearly overbalanced. 'Bloody Weasley sweater," he muttered, yanking the offending garment off over his head and hurling it onto the couch. The resultant static electricity turned his hair into a crown of silver spikes. He went over to the fireplace and sat down next to Harry, taking something out of his pocket as he did so. "Here, Potter," he said. "The second part of your Christmas present."

Harry looked at the object suspiciously. It greatly resembled a coil of dark gold wire. "What's that?"

"Just give me your hand," Draco said. Somewhere behind his eyes, a smirk was struggling to escape.

Harry sighed, dropped the poker, and extended a hand towards Draco.

Draco took the proffered wrist and turned it over so that the scar on Harry's palm faced him. In the firelight it looked like a thin streak of silver. Against Draco's very white fingers, Harry's own skin looked nearly brown. "Hold still," Draco said, and began to wind the gold coil quickly and efficiently around his friend's wrist.

Harry stifled a yawn. "I think I drank too much punch," he said sleepily, then took his hand back as Draco finished tying the gold wire. He looked curiously at it — it was, up close, very slender and strong. "Does it do something?"

Draco sat back. "Just wait a second."

Harry waited, and looked at the band around his wrist, and enjoyed the warmth of the fire at his back. The air smelled like evergreen and cinnamon and faintly of limes, which was probably Draco's cologne. It came in expensive bottles from some wizarding shop in Venice and Draco claimed a bottle of it cost more than a new Firebolt. Harry had no idea why anyone would pay such vast amounts for the privilege of smelling like a citrus fruit but knew better than to mention this to Draco.

The band quivered then. Harry jumped — it tickled against his skin. He watched curiously as it spun lazily like a pinwheel around his wrist, describing three quick rotations. Then it stopped and was still. He looked curiously up at Draco.

Draco smiled at him, a smile made lazy by punch and the late hour. The light of the high-burning fire painted the right side of his face in red and gold. Gryffindor colors. "Congratulations, Potter," he said. "You're still a virgin."

Harry goggled at him. "What?"

"A virgin," Draco said, obviously enjoying himself immensely. He reached out and pulled the gold wire off Harry's wrist. When he tossed it into the fire, it let out a single high singing note that made Harry jump. "That was unicorn hair, you utter pillock. Tie it around your wrist and knot it; if it doesn't fall off, then I suppose the most we can lay at your doorstep is a couple of naughty dreams and that episode with Cho Chang in the girls' bathroom fifth year. Oh, yes, I heard about that. Buck up, Potter. You're a virgin. Enjoy it."