Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"Who knows?" Draco's voice was careless. "That boy is apparently just full of surprises."

Hermione hesitated. "Draco…"

He folded his arms across his chest, interlacing the gloved fingers.

"Hermione?" he replied, mimicking her serious tone.

"What are you going to do when you find him?"

"What are we going to do with him? Bring him back here, I guess. Did you think we should go somewhere else?"

"No. I didn't mean that. I mean…what are you going to do?" She took a deep breath. "I can tell what you're doing. And I know why you're doing it. And if that's what you have to do, then fine. But it won't hold when you see Harry and you know it won't — "

Bang! Draco had kicked over the ottoman. It hit the floor with a crash that made Hermione jump. "Are you asking me if I'm going to hurt him?" he said, and there was suddenly a terrible light in his eyes and his voice cut like the edge of a whip. "Are you asking me that?"

Hermione tensed but held her ground. "That's not what I meant — "

"Then what did you mean?" His eyes narrowed and Hermione shivered.

For a moment she remembered all those past years, the semi-feral cruelty of which this delicately pretty boy was capable when pushed.

"Harry's not the only one I worry about," she said. "You know that, right?"

"Actually, I didn't." He lowered his eyelids. His lashes were a shade darker than his hair, a tarnished color. "And for your information, I want to find him for the same reasons you do. Well, perhaps not precisely the same reasons," and his lip curled slightly, less a smile than wry shrug. "To make sure he's all right, to bring him back safe, you know the story. So he won't die. Because I promised I'd look after him, didn't I? And I will."

"And once he's back safe? Then what?"

"Then I never want to see him again," he said, and fixed his gaze on the fire.

The breath caught in her throat. "You don't mean that."

"Don't tell me what I mean."

"I don´t understand why you're doing this," she said, despairingly. "It's me — I love Harry — I miss Harry — I want to talk about it — "

"Back at the Manor," Draco interrupted, still staring at the fire, his voice very flat, "back at the Manor, when I was growing up, my father used to have this chair he'd bring out every time he had a dinner party and he'd put it next to him and I'd have to sit in it. Those parties used to go on for hours and hours. You wouldn't know what something like that would be like, but they're like ceremonies. Very formal affairs. Everyone plays a part. Everyone. My father was like that. He planned everything. That chair was a special trick of his. It was enchanted. It had what looked like a row of raised decorations across the back. But they weren't just decorations.

They were filed to points like knives. They ran along the arms of the chair, too. And I'd have to sit very straight all through dinner and speak normally and behave normally, and if I moved to make myself more comfortable, or shifted away from the knives, then they'd get longer, and sharper, and it would be worse. And I couldn't get up or get away from them. I had to pretend that I was having a good time. And I got good at it, too. It took years. But everyone always told my father what wonderful manners I had."

He stopped speaking. Hermione stared at him. "You're telling me riddles."

"Not a riddle," he clarified. "A parable. They're two entirely different things."

"A parable."

"A short tale from which a moral conclusion may be drawn. Better living through allegory. Surely you know what a parable is."

"I know what a parable is," Hermione said. "But I don't have quite the gothic turn of mind that you have. I'm practical. You know that. If thinking about Harry is like knives sticking into you then I don't see why you would even agree to come with me and look for him in the first place

— "

"I haven't got a choice," said Draco. "You ought to know that. It's your doing, anyway."

Hermione blinked at him. 'My doing?"

"'Stay with him'," Draco said. "Don't you remember? 'Stay with him always

— and watch him — and make sure heś all right. Don´t leave him, and don´t let him go off on his own — and if he does, you have to follow him.

Promise me, Draco. Promise me.'"

His voice had a savage twist to it.

Hermione blinked at him. "I didn't think this would happen," she said.

"When I made you promise that. I thought I might not be there to protect him, and that you would. You don't have to…"

"But I do have to," he said. "I'm a Malfoy. And I gave you my word. I don't get out of that."

"I could release you from your promise."

"No," he said. "You can't. And you wouldn't, if you could. You said you needed me. You said I shouldn't leave you. Do you want me to leave you?"

He was still staring at the fire. Hermione wound her fingers nervously together. "No," she said. And then, "Can I ask you just one more thing?"

He didn't look at her. "I might not answer."

"What did you do to your hands?"

His shoulders tensed.

A log fell in the fire, sending up a shower of volcanic sparks.

"Draco…"

"I still think we should start with Gringotts," he said, cutting her off. "It's worth owling them. At least we can alert them to look for Harry. The Leaky Cauldron, too. He's Harry. He forgets…sometimes…how famous he is. He'd cover his scar, I think…maybe take his glasses off. But I don't think he realizes how recognizable his face is. Even his eyes. Not a lot of people have eyes that color. I don't think it would occur to him to change them…"

Hermione slid off the chair. She was kneeling on the floor now, not at his feet, but opposite him, looking up at his face. He was still staring into the fire and his hands were a black tangle in his lap.

"Draco," she said, again. Her voice caught — she wanted to say gentle things, but knew her words would break like hummingbird wings against the glass walls of the resistance he had thrown up to keep everyone out and himself in. "Did you…"

Before he could speak the portrait door swung open and Madam Pomfrey stepped into the room. She looked slightly flustered and there was a packet of bandages still in her hand, as if she'd forgotten she was holding it.

"Ginny is awake," she said. "She's asking for you both. She says she has to speak to you immediately."

The goblin behind the bank teller window squinted its eyes at him suspiciously. "And you're quite sure you're Sirius Black?"

"Yes," said Harry, firmly. "I hold the rights to Vault Six Hundred and Eighty Seven along with my godson, Harry Potter. Here's my key, right here, and my paperwork — you can see it's all in order."

The goblin raised on arched eyebrow, but indeed, everything was in order

— Harry had the large gold key to the vault, and the paperwork he'd taken from Sirius' desk at the Manor. Harry was, briefly, thankful that the wizarding world did not rely on things like photographic identification, and even more thankful that goblins both had poor eyesight, and took little interest in the affairs of wizards. "Indeed, and may I say, Mister Black," said the goblin, lifting the key in its long, clever fingers, "that you're looking fantastic for your age, really fantastic. One would hardly recognize you from your Wanted posters."

"Well," said Harry weakly. "I moisturize daily. It does wonders for the complexion."

The goblin shrugged, losing interest. "Very well. I'll have someone take you down to your vault. Unless there's something else I can do for you?"

"Wait," said Harry hastily. "There is one thing — " Turning his pocket inside out, he produced the gold coin he'd taken from Lucius' belongings, and pushed it across the counter towards the goblin, who squinted at it in much the same manner it had squinted at Harry. "Could you tell me anything about this coin?"