Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"I said it would double his remaining lifespan. From one month to two. I have not saved his life, merely prolonged it and to me that is not — "

"You have given us enough time to discover a final antidote," said Dumbledore firmly. "And you will discover it. You have identified every ingredient — "

"Every ingredient but one," Snape said. The hollows under his eyes were darkly shadowed. "And what if I never find that one? That it should elude me even this long alarms me, Professor. Two months is not such a long time as all that. Eight weeks. Not a long time to live, when you are seventeen years old. Not a long time at all."

"I know that, Severus," Dumbledore said, with a weariness that was like pain. He paused a moment, watching the shadows as they moved across the bed, passing like the light touch of hands over Draco's sleeping upturned face. "I know that."

The arrow on the end of the chain led Seamus down the stairs, through the common room, and, to his surprise, up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. He quickened his step, wondering if Ginny had been looking for him here — there was no one else but Harry still in the boys' dorms over the holidays, and Harry was usually in the infirmary with Draco.

However, the arrow led him past his own door and down the hall to the small staircase at the end that led to the old Head Boy's room. Seamus blinked in surprise, but the arrow stayed steady, pointing towards the door. With a shrug, he mounted the few steps and pushed the door open.

The first thing he became aware of when he entered the room was that it was empty. Ginny might have been here recently, but she was gone now.

This was not entirely surprising; the tracking charm had a certain delay on it, and if she had just left or was still nearby, it might take a short while to adjust to the fact.

The second thing he noticed was the smell in the room. It was like the metallic tang in the air just before an electrical storm. It was the smell of lightning. It sent a nervous tingle through Seamus' veins.

The third thing he noticed was the faint silvery sheen cast over the air in the center of the room. It rippled for a moment and was gone, like a face half-seen in a the contours of a cloud that disappears when the viewer moves.

Suddenly nervous, Seamus shivered. He meant to take a step back and walk out of the room. But as he moved to retreat, a flicker of moonlight came through the window and he caught sight of the scattered and torn bits of paper lying on the floor. He blinked, his curiosity sparked.

Wondering if this had anything to do with Ginny's visit here, he went forward, kneeling down to examine the wreckage — it looked as if someone had gone at an old book with a pair of garden shears. Pages ripped in half, binding ruptured, lining lacerated as if it had been torn at with sharp nails.

Kneeling as close to the remains of the book as he was, he found that the coppery metallic tang was stronger than it had been. He tasted copper in his mouth and his skin stung as if he were being bitten by ants. There was a faint dizziness in his ears.

He would never be able to explain what led him to do what he did next. It would not matter. It would be a long time before Seamus Finnegan was in a position to explain anything to anyone again.

He reached into the breast pocket of his cloak and drew out his wand. He raised it slowly and pointed it at the book, trying to recollect the spell that returned things to their original state.

"Resurgat," he said.

For a moment, absolutely nothing happened.

Then, slowly, like leaves lifted by an autumn wind, the pages of the book began to rise and swirl about him. Stiffening in alarm, he stood up. The pages rose with him, swirling more quickly now. They whispered softly as they brushed against each other, the whisper-crackle of old paper. It was like being surrounded by fluttering birds. And the sound of it was like rain. Or perhaps that was the ink that ran from the pages and dripped upon the floor like blood running from a cut wrist. And it was red like blood. And the metallic scent in the air was stronger than ever. And Seamus began to realize that he had made a very serious mistake.

He tried to take a step backward, but the whirl of paper had formed a solid wall against his back. The silver shimmer that had vanished before when he looked at it had returned, barely visible beyond the white blur of fluttering pages. But it was neither formless now, nor half-seen, nor did it vanish when he took another step back. It had the shape and form of a human being — a man, tall and slender. And where there should have been eyes were twin blue flames.

Seamus' wand struck the stone floor with a clatter as his grip on it loosened. A scream was building up in his chest, but before it could leave his throat the shape seemed to melt and flow towards him through the air like water. Something struck him with the force of a tidal wave, and blackness erased his vision.

It was taking Harry longer than he had thought it would take him to pack, and his nerves were beginning to jangle with the tension of worrying that someone would come in and find him hurling everything he owned into his old knapsack. Explanations, in that case, might be difficult.

He paused, breathless, and surveyed the wreck of his trunk. What exactly ought one to pack for a vengeance quest from which one was not entirely expecting to return? He'd thrown in his clothes. His sword, properly minimized via a Shrinking Charm. The mysterious coin which he had taken from Lucius' desk was carefully secured in a side pocket. Tomorrow he would present it to the goblins at Gringott's and ask about its origins.

His wand. Sirius' penknife. His Invisibility Cloak. He had no food; he would have to buy some at the station. On top of everything he put the book Draco had given him that afternoon. The Malfoy Family Code of Conduct. He doubted it would be that great a read, but for some reason he couldn't bear to leave it behind.

He zipped the bag tightly and stood up. His hands were shaking slightly.

He crossed the room to the mirror that hung on the opposite wall, and looked hard at his own reflection.

White face, green eyes, black hair. There was color in his cheeks — fever-bright splotches of red. His mouth was a bloodless white line. And across his forehead, the scar stood out as jaggedly as if it had been drawn there with ink.

He raised his right hand and touched the scar lightly. Then he took a deep breath. "Oblitescus," he whispered, and winced as a bright flash of pain sparked behind his skull. Then it was gone. When he took his hand away, so was the scar.

He stared at himself in the mirror for another long moment. He knew that concealing the scar was necessary — it made him far too recognizable — but without it, he seemed some other person completely. Some other Harry.

If I lost you, there wouldn't be any more me. I'd be someone else.

Harry exhaled a deep breath. It did not matter, perhaps. The scar was with him always whether it was visible or not, seared across his own internal landscape. The mark of his life's single defining moment. More than what he could do or who he loved or who he was loved by, it made him who he was. The boy who didn't die. The boy who'd been spared for a reason.

Let me find the antidote and I will go after Voldemort myself. I'll destroy him. I was born to destroy him and I've been too cowardly up until now to do it.

And suddenly Harry was remembering. Remembering Christmas Day when he had been thirteen years old, Hermione looking at him with enormous eyes, Harry doesn't want to kill anyone, do you, Harry?

And his own voice, answering back, Malfoy knows. Remember what he said to me…? 'If it was me, I'd hunt him down myself. I'd want revenge.'