Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Draco drew his left arm back. He was never sure later what he meant to do — hit Seamus, or hurl a spell at him. It didn't matter. As his arm went back a firm hand grabbed his wrist and held it, hard.

He turned around, already knowing whose hand held his wrist. Harry. He was pale but composed, his green eyes dark and serious.

I can't let you do this, Malfoy.

Draco looked as if Harry had hit him. What?

Harry tightened his grip on Draco's wrist until he could feel the pulse pounding there, swift and even. He knew it must be hurting him but the other boy showed no sign of pain, no sign that he even really knew what was going on around him. Vaguely, out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Seamus turning away, looking rattled but relieved, and going to kneel with the rest of the team next to Ginny. Behind the tight knot of Gryffindors Harry could see Madam Pomfrey approaching quickly, a magical stretcher at her side. At the edge of the pitch stood Charlie and George, being held back by several professors, including Snape.

Let me go, Potter. There was an evenness to Draco's tone that was almost frightening. You've got no right — I have every right. It's my team, my teammate. Look to your own team.

Something flashed behind Draco's eyes for a moment, something wild and furious. You can't tell me what to do, Potter.

Oh, yes I can. We made a promise, Malfoy. Every second we stand here is another second that will make everyone suspicious. And for what — you can't do anything for her-You don't know that!

If you go near her the rest of my team will try to kill you.

Not if you stop them.

If you don't listen to me, I won't help you. I won't hold them off.

Harry -

No. I can't help you if you don't help yourself.

Draco whitened further. Let me go — His next thought came with the sharp force of a blow, cracking like a whip inside Harry's head. Let me go, Potter. Let me go!

With misgivings, Harry released his grip on Draco's wrist, and the other boy took a stumbling step back, and then another. He faced Harry, his chest rising and fell as swiftly as if he had been running; his eyes were nearly black with fury and something else. Harry had seen him look like that before and it hit him like a blow and hurt him as it always did, but there was nothing he could do.

I'll tell you what happens, Harry thought. Just — go. Please go.

Draco's eyes narrowed into slits and he looked as if he were about to speak; then, as suddenly as he had whipped around in midair, he spun on his heel and ran off the pitch, up the hard-packed snowy path to the school, his boots cracking the ice underfoot with the sound of breaking bones.

Harry watched him go, then turned, and out of habit searched for Hermione in the stands. He saw her immediately — she was on her feet, her hands over her mouth. As he looked at her, she took a step back, turned, and dashed away from the pitch, up the path towards school, after Draco.

Hermione's feet slipped and slid on the ice as she raced up the stone front stairs of Hogwarts. She ran without really looking where she was going, and without thinking why she was running. She had seen the look on Draco's face before he fled the pitch — fierce, furious, desperate — and it had frightened her. She ran after and towards him, without thinking why.

The entrance hall was cold and deserted. She darted left, down the hallway that led to the Slytherin dungeons. The tapestries on these walls were green, just like the tapestries that led up the stairs to the Gryffindor Tower were red. They were threaded through with gold and silver, faded from many years of maltreatment by students. Ghosts seemed to reach out of the walls and touch her as she ran. She passed a tapestry that bore the Hogwarts motto and paused for a moment to look at it, transfixed by the bold colors and the symbols. It almost seemed to her that the Slytherin snake looked about to lunge at the Gryffindor lion, the Ravenclaw raven poised to hurl herself between them. Hermione paused — was that a voice? It was coming from farther down the hall, and so was another, deeper voice. She slowed down and turned the corner. A flight of stone stairs led down, and the voices were coming from below. She was halfway down the stairs before she recognized one voice: Draco's. And the other was a girl's.

She leaned forward over the carved stone banister. Below, in a patch of torchlight, she could see Draco standing, and facing him, looking furious, was Blaise Zabini. "Don't you walk away from me, Draco Malfoy," she was saying in a freezing voice. "Don't even think about it." The wavering light glittered on the jewelry she wore — more than most girls at Hogwarts. She had multiple rings in her ears and on her slender fingers, and jeweled clips glittered in her strawberry hair. Her eyes looked huge in the dim light, as dark and glossy green as leaves under water. "I want an explanation."

"An explanation?" Draco's voice was a thin steel dagger. Hermione could see the dark patches on the knees of his jeans, the elbows of his Quidditch robes, where he had landed in the snow. The melting snow in his hair washed pale strands into his eyes; he pushed them back with an impatient hand on which the Malfoy seal ring glittered like a malevolent eye. "Blaise, darling," He spit the word out as if it were an insult. "You came running after me to demand an explanation?" He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently back against the wall, pinioning her there with his arms. "You should know better."

Hermione had to give Blaise credit, she didn't back down. She raised her chin, poised and furious-looking. "As if it's not bad enough that you're always goggling at Harry Potter's girlfriend, now this," she spat. "What is it with you and the Gryffindors?"

"You're jealous," said Draco. "Isn't that cute." He didn't look as if he thought it was cute. His expression was calm, even disinterested, but his eyes were thunderous. His hands where they rested on the wall were clenched into fists. Hermione wondered how much that had to do with Blaise, and how much that had to do with his summary ejection from the Quidditch pitch.

"It's my prerogative to be jealous," said Blaise icily. "I'm your girlfriend.

Don't you dare try to tell me I can't be jealous." She reached up and pushed his arms away, matching him glare for glare. "What's going on with you, Draco?" Her voice was icy silk. "I want to know."

"There is nothing going on with me," Draco said flatly.

"Then what were you doing?"

"What did it look like?"

"It looked like you were having a — a fit, over some Gryffindor, just because the little idiot couldn't hang on to her broom. And you let Harry Potter throw you off the pitch. Since when do we listen to him?"

Draco shrugged. "So I was being sportsmanlike. We can't keep on playing when the opposing team is falling off their broomsticks."

"Draco, we're Slytherins. We keep playing even if the other team gets struck by lightning and turned into a brave little pile of ashes."

"Yes, and how well has that strategy worked for us in the past? Blaise, we've lost the past five Quidditch cups to Gryffindor, and you know it.

And half the reason is that the professors and the other teams can't stand us, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff will lose matches deliberately to Gryffindor just to make sure we don't get the cup-"

"And you think if you play all nice-nice that might change?"

Draco folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, looking fed up.

"Yes, I do."

Blaise stopped to ponder this for a moment. There was a sharp scarlet flush in her pale cheeks, but Hermione could sense that her anger was fading. She was, after all, a Slytherin, cold-blooded at the core and driven by practicality over passion. "You've changed," she said finally, raising her green eyes to Draco. "I don't know if I like it."