Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"He's arrogant," said Avery, a hard note in his voice.

"We are all of us arrogant, Avery," Tom replied. There was a slight edge to his voice. "If nothing else, Lucius would be useful for his access to the perfect unplottable headquarters."

"That enchanted castle in Romania that he's always going on about, that no one can get into or out of?" Avery sounded dubious. "I think he made that up."

"I know that he did not." Tom's voice was still clear and soft, but with an undercurrent of annoyance. "In any event, I think we have all said what needs to be said this evening. If no one else has anything to add, I say we adjourn this meeting. Priscilla, if you don't mind, I'd like you to stay behind."

To Ginny's relief, no one had anything else to add. With murmured good nights, they all filed out, all but Tom and the girl Priscilla, who sat with her chin on her hand and looked at Tom while the others departed. He did not look at her, but seemed engaged in studying a speck on his shirt cuff.

"Miss Clearwater," he said at last, and she jumped. "You're a girl, aren't you?"

"Yes, Tom," said Priscilla, in something of a breathy voice, looking a bit as if she'd just been told they'd be holding Christmas twice this year. Behind the row of books, Ginny rolled her eyes.

"Then you must have something like a hand mirror," he said, and there was the tinge of a drawl to his voice; it made him sound like Draco. "I need one for a spell."

"Oh, I — " She looked flustered. "I haven't got one with me, but I could go and get one."

"Yes," said Tom. "Why don't you do that."

She left, casting a glance back at Tom as she went. He did not appear to notice. Instead, he stood up, and waved a lazy hand at the tables: they rearranged themselves instantly, like obedient pets. Ginny could see him now more fully, the angular white face like a pale fingerprint between the black hair and black collar of his cloak. She watched, fascinated, as he Summoned various objects to himself, so swiftly that it seemed as if they were appearing out of thin air. A silver bowl, a brass-bladed letter opener, an hourglass, a stoppered vial. Watching him do magic was like watching an artist paint. His movements were beautiful in their economy and swift effect. She wondered if Harry and Draco could have done magic like this, had they ever bothered to learn to master their Magid powers.

She watched as he caught the stoppered vial out of the air and set it down carefully on the table. And then, he raised his hand a last time, and out of the air he caught a small black book.

The cover was no longer tattered. The letters across it stood out clear and gilded. Ginny felt her stomach drop out, and for a moment the solid ground beneath her feet seemed to turn to mist. She held on tightly to the shelf in front of her.

He set the book down on the table, and looked at it ruminatively. Then he drew the silver bowl towards himself, and lifted the letter opener in his left hand. He placed the blade against his palm, and slowly closed his hand around it. The expression on his face did not change, but Ginny winced for him as clear red fluid seeped between his clenched fingers and dripped into the bowl. The drops fell slowly, one by one, and Ginny imagined that the silver bowl rung like a bell as they struck it.

When enough blood had spilled, Tom drew his hand back, took a strip of linen from his pocket, and bound the cut methodically. Then he lifted the black diary from the table. He dipped the fingers of his uninjured hand into the bowl, and flicked a spatter of blood across the diary's cover.

When he spoke it was in a sibilant whisper.

As thou art bound

Let us be bound.

Thee to me — The diary threw upward a single flash of light; for a moment it illuminated his face and Ginny's stomach contracted in recognition. That heart-shaped face framed by its black hair, the narrow mouth and angular eyes were so familiar. So loved and so hated.

"Oh, Tom!"

Both Tom and Ginny jumped; Tom spun around, dropping the diary.

Priscilla Clearwater had come quietly into the library; she stood just inside the wards, pale and hesitant. "Your hand…"

Tom set the bloody letter opener down on the table in front of him, and frowned at her fiercely. "Did you bring me the mirror?"

"I..I didn't, no. As soon as I got downstairs, Professor Coulter said he had to see you right away. He sent me off to get you."

Tom's face hardened. "This had better be important, Miss Clearwater."

"He says it is," she said, and held the library door open for him.

Tom sighed. Then, wrapping his injured hand in a fold of his cloak, he followed her.

The door shut behind them. Ginny stood still for a moment, her knees gone to water. The bitterness of the memories seeing him had evoked in her was frightening, but what was more frightening was that not all the memories were bitter. In the beginning, he had been only words on a page to her. Then a voice in the night, speaking to her while she dreamed. And then a face, to match the voice. She had not been surprised that he had turned out to be beautiful. She had never thought he could be anything else. She remembered Elizabeth looking up from a romance novel and smiling dreamily, "Boys in books are just better." And Ginny had laughed.

But that was before he had taught her the truth: that love was betrayal and beauty an illusory lie. Despite herself, she heard Seamus' voice in her head: You want someone who'll treat you badly, who doesn't really love you, who wants to hurt and humiliate you. Who lies to you. Who treats you like you're a stupid little girl. Where did you learn that was what you wanted?

From you, Tom, she thought remotely. But I'm not eleven years old any more.

She stepped out from behind the bookshelf, and walked over to the table with a quick stride. She did not look back.

"But," Harry said blankly, "but Ron, I mean, he's hardly a Diviner at all, he's never Divined anything…"

"You don't know that," said Draco. He tried to keep his voice as even and emotionless as possible. It was difficult. The blank look in Harry's eyes frightened him, and the knowledge that neither of them would want to hear anything he might have to say about Ron tapped at the back of his mind. He felt suddenly shut out, even though Harry was still standing right beside him. "He might have…"

"And lied to me about it?" Harry's voice sparked with bitterness. "I suppose that's certainly possible."

"Or just not known what it was or not wanted to talk about it," Draco said.

"Not everything is about you, Potter."

For a moment Harry's eyes sparked as well, their unlikely green color as suddenly bright as smashed window glass. Then he nodded. "I know.

You're right. It's just…"

"Just it still seems like if he wanted a Diviner, he could have found someone other than Weasley, yes," said Draco. "I won't claim that hurting you wouldn't have been an attractive side benefit for him. He does hate you."

"But you don't think he's…bait, then?" Hermione asked from her place on the stairs.

"If he was just bait for Harry," said Draco, raising his eyes to look at her, "then why go through so much effort to make Harry hate him?"

Hermione's lips parted as she looked at him, her eyes darkening. "Because it doesn't matter," she whispered. "Harry is Harry…he'd go after Ron regardless."

"Ahem," said Harry. "I'm still here. And I don't hate Ron."

Hermione's head whipped to the side and she stared at him. "You don't?"

He shook his head. "No. I hate what he did, but…I think you were right. I think it might not have been his fault."

Draco felt something inside himself twist slightly — he knew without needing a fuller explanation, what Harry meant. He knew Harry could not quite understand how Ron might have allowed himself to be compelled in such a way, knew that Harry felt that there must, somehow, in Ron, have been some underlying desire to betray his friend that had simply been played on by outside forces. Knew that Harry could not really understand what had happened but would forgive Ron anyway — and it was so like Harry, wasn't it, to be able to forgive without needing to understand.