Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Not a student. Some Gryffindor's sister, sent to spy — "

"I'm not a spy."

"Then what are you doing here? No one at this school has the power to break my wards — perhaps that fool Dumbledore — "

Ginny flinched away from the cold fury in his voice. With the speed of a striking snake, he flung out a hand and caught at her arm, jerking her to her feet. His touch lanced through her with a terrible sort of ecstatic pain that was like the pleasure of biting on a broken tooth. He yanked her towards him by the wrist, his other arm snaking around her waist.

He held her pressed against him, as close as a lover might, but his hands on her body were like ten sticks of ice. A sick faintness closed over her as he whispered against her neck, "How much did you see? How long have you been inside these wards, watching? How much of your mind needs erasing, little brat, little spying Gryffindor brat — "

Pain shot through her arm as his grip tightened on her wrist until she was sure she could feel the bones inside grinding together. A little wail of agony escaped her throat.

A look of smug satisfaction flashed across his face. He bent his head to whisper in her ear, his mouth near her throat as if he meant to drink from it. "Did that hurt?" he murmured; his breath was cold against her skin.

"Crucio of course has a certain…traditional elegance, but sometimes the simplest methods are the best ones. Don't you find?" he added conversationally, then, tightening his grip, slammed her hand hard into the side of the table.

Pain like a spearpoint of agony shot through her and she heard as well as felt a bone in her hand splinter.

"Tell me," he hissed at her, and she knew he meant tell me how you got past my wards but what she heard was his old voice, the soft, caressing voice of her child's dreams, tell me Ginny tell me what you're thinking hoping dreaming nobody understands you but me nobody will ever love you like I do you'll never belong to anyone else never I promise you never

-- and the pain of that old betrayal was worse than the pain in her hand, and it gave her strength. Without even stopping to think what she was doing, she leaned back and spat in his face.

She could have done nothing that would have astonished him more. He jerked away, his grip on her loosening momentarily. "You — " he began, but she had torn herself free of his grasp, had spun away — he reached for her — and she swung her fist at him, hard, a high arcing swing that caught him square in the solar plexus and doubled him up. She heard him shout something at her but she didn't care — she was running, running as fast as she could towards the library door. Something parted around her like invisible wet curtains drawing back and she knew she'd broken through the wards and was outside them. She heard Tom shout behind her and then she was at the library door and had thrown it open and she hurled herself through it and — Directly into someone standing on the other side. She shrieked aloud and cringed back, terrified it was another of Tom's Slytherin minions — then her mouth fell open as a familiar voice spoke to her out of the dimness.

"Please," said Dumbledore. "There is no need for banshee imitations. You are quite safe."

She gaped up at him. It was most certainly Dumbledore, though the hair she knew as snow-white was auburn now, and there were fewer wrinkles around the pale blue eyes. Despite his light words, there was a look of grave and stern concern on his face. He laid a hand on Ginny's shoulder and spoke again, looking past her:

"Master Riddle," he said. "There are regulations against running in the library, you know."

Tom drew in a little gasping breath, audible even at this distance. Ginny turned slowly and looked back at him. Even now it was like looking at the sun: he burned her eyes. He stood where he was, suddenly less terrifying than he had been a moment ago. He seemed an ordinary boy now, school tie askew, sweaty and disheveled. He had been correct about his wards, she saw without much surprise: behind him, the library looked empty and undisturbed. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, his voice even. "But this girl — she's not a student — "

"Yes, I know that," Dumbledore said. "And now, Master Riddle, if you please. Give young Miss Weasley back her necklace and we will trouble you no longer."

"Grimoire," Draco said.

Nothing happened. The door to the Slytherin common room remained tightly closed.

Draco seethed inwardly. Was it his fault he hadn't been paying attention lately when the new password was assigned? He had things on his mind.

Saving the world type things. And Pansy made them change the password every two weeks these days, usually to something deeply inane. Cursing Pansy, Draco restrained himself from kicking the dungeon door.

"Pureblood," he muttered through his teeth. That was a popular one, and usually got hauled out of retirement every few months or so. No dice this time, of course. "Um. Muggle-bait. No. Okay. Wormwood. Basilisk.

Slytherin Pride. Um. I suppose 'Die Mudblood die!' is too long. Oh, fuck.

Pansy, you useless bint."

"Doppleganger," said a voice behind him.

The door swung open.

Draco turned around and looked behind him. It was Snape, looking even greasier and more haggard than usual.

"Never let it be said that the stolid Miss Parkinson does not have a sense of humor of a sort," said Snape. "What brings you down from the infirmary, Draco?"

Draco shrugged. "Hey, Professor. I wanted to get a few things from my room. I'm tired of living out of my suitcases."

Snape nodded. "Run along, then."

Draco bit back the response that Malfoys did not run, and went on his way with dignity. A few minutes alone in his room was sufficient. When he emerged, freshly changed into a worn and comfortable t-shirt, Snape was standing in the Slytherin common room, looking spectrally thoughtful.

"Before you return to the infirmary, Draco, there was something I wanted to speak to you about."

"That's all right." Draco shrugged. "I wanted to ask you something, too."

"Ah?" Snape cocked an eyebrow. "And what was that?"

"I want to know about the poison," Draco said. "I want to know about the symptoms, and how long I have left. I know what my father told me, but I'd rather hear it from you."

A look of surprise passed across Snape's face. He put a hand out, and rested it atop the back of the nearest couch. "I respect your wish to know," he said. "But I am not sure how it would be useful — "

"It would be useful," Draco said quietly. "Surely you know me well enough to understand that I'd rather know. And I know you won't lie."

Snape sighed. "Very well," he said. "But I will tell you one thing first. If, when I'm done explaining this to you, you want me to cast a Memory charm on you so you can forget it, I will. Is that understood?"

A wave of light-headedness passed over Draco. "Yes," he said. "I understand."

Snape's eyes darkened. Then he leaned back against the wall and began to speak. Telling Draco, in a flat and even voice, what would happen to him if no antidote was found. What the symptoms would be. How long it would take. What he could expect. Draco half heard him. The other half of him was remembering his father. Being taken hunting with his father when he was eight years old. Hunting the way Lucius did it: aiming the curses to maim the animals but not kill them, or to kill slowly. And then the hours of waiting, watching, observing the death. Lucius had wanted to get his son accustomed to death, for one loves what one is accustomed to, or so went his reasoning. Once Lucius had dismounted beside a dying hippogryff, thrashing its last breaths out in a bank of scarlet snow. He had steeped his gloves in the blood and, rising, put them to either side of Draco's face, leaving crimson handprints where they touched. And what do you say to me now, Draco?