Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

He looked, for a moment, mildly self-conscious. "You hate it?"

"No, it's…" She made a helpless little gesture with her hand, staring at him. He was dressed in what, for Draco, probably passed as low-key undercover gear. Worn-looking dark hooded jumper, Quidditch cords, and boots. "It's just different," she said.

She supposed she shouldn't be surprised. He'd been complaining it was too long for weeks, and had always been pushing it back out of his eyes. It wasn't that he'd never had hair this short before — it was that it looked like he'd taken a pair of Muggle scissors and lopped off the parts he felt were too long, without much regard for evenness or regularity. All the looping tendrils were gone, and instead his hair, no longer weighted down by its length, curled and stuck up and out and was, well, generally…

"It's a bit untidy," she said.

He shrugged. "Shearing Charm. Bit hard to do properly without a real mirror — "

"Draco!" she interrupted him, aghast. "You're not supposed to be doing any magic at all!"

He was saved reply by the sudden activation of the station's Sonorous Charm. "Midnight Train — King's Cross! Platform Two!"

Over her protests, Draco grabbed her bag on the way to the train, and Hermione stalked after him, irritably. "You're only supposed to be doing magic in emergencies," she reminded him as he held out a hand to help her up the stairs to their compartment. Draco had bought six tickets to ensure that nobody else would sit with them. Hermione had reluctantly conceded that this was a good idea. With Draco in the mood he was in, she dreaded what he might do to anyone unfortunate enough to annoy him.

"The state of my hair is an emergency," he said, swinging himself up into the compartment after her and pulling the door shut.

"Well, it certainly is now," Hermione said.

In reply to this, Draco gave her a very dark look.

She relented. "It's not so bad. It's kind of punk rock."

He threw himself into the seat by the window. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Hermione decided not to enlighten him. Served him right. They had been chugging away from the station for at least ten minutes before she spoke again, "This is the same train we took that night to the Manor when we went after Harry — do you remember?"

Draco didn't reply. When Hermione turned to look at him, she realized to her surprise that he had fallen asleep, curled up against the window with his head resting on one gloved hand. His feet were propped on their bags.

She supposed she should not be surprised. He was ill, after all. Of course he was tired.

She drew off the scarf she was wearing — it was the one he had given her for Christmas — and spread it over him. She briefly stroked his newly-cut hair. It felt like dandelion fluff, so fine it clung to her fingers. Her fingertips brushed his cheek, and burned. He was feverish. She drew her hand away.

She realized with a grim amusement that his use of her bag as a footrest meant that she could no longer reach her books, at least not without disturbing him. There was nothing else around to read except a rather lurid-looking copy of Teen Witch Weekly that someone had left behind on the seat beside her. Hermione picked it up with a resigned air. She detested TWW; all they ever did, in her opinion, was make up astounding lies about Harry, and print "true life" stories about terrible things that happened to young witches, related in every juicy detail. "Help! My Brother's a Werewolf And It's So Embarrassing," "Veelas Stole My Boyfriend," "My Bosom Enhancement Charm Went Horribly Awry," "I Fancy My Potions Professor" ("Oh, no," Hermione thought, "I can't look") and, "I Took A Potion And Now I'm In Love With My Worst Enemy!"

"Ghastly rubbish," Hermione muttered to herself, paging through it listlessly. She paused, then, her lip curling up at the corner. Across from a gigantic photo spread of Oliver Wood wearing approximately two-thirds of his Quidditch uniform, was Teen Witch Weekly's annual Ten Most Eligible Wizards Under Twenty-Five article. Hermione groaned to herself. Harry had been in it last year — never before, because the lowest age allowed was sixteen — and Draco hadn't, and he'd humiliated Harry horribly over it in the Great Hall. He'd had twenty copies of the front page of the article, (which featured a Colin Creevey-snapped photo of Harry coming out of the prefects' bathroom wearing just a towel and a horrified expression) printed up and placed strategically around the Hall. Then he'd stalked over to the Gryffindor table at the head of a sniggering line of Slytherins, each carrying copies of the magazine, and had gotten down on his knees in front of Harry, who was looking as if he wanted to die of abject humiliation and rage.

Draco'd held the magazine out to him, and had said in a wheedling sort of put-on voice (at odds with the bright look of malice in his eyes) "Could you autograph one for me, Potter? You can sign it, 'Harry Potter, ladies' man', if you like.'"

Harry, going quickly from red to white, had snapped out, "No."

"'Harry Potter, Big Name Sex God? 'Harry Potter, Casanova'?" Draco had suggested. "Harry Potter, Singlehandedly Responsible For Ruining Knickers Across England?'"

He'd grinned up at Harry. Behind him, the rest of the Slytherins had been collapsing against each other with mirth.

"You're disgusting, Malfoy," Harry had said. His tone was cold. Hermione had put her hand over his, tightening her fingers, not wanting him to hit Draco — not when Gryffindor had a game against Ravenclaw that afternoon that they couldn't afford to lose. "Go away."

Now, Hermione thought, he would have laughed it off. Draco had given him that, a portion of his own protective armor, although in Harry it was softened, less like arrogance, and more like indifference. Indifference, of course, was cruel in its own right. You could break yourself against that indifference and Harry would not notice. She wondered if Draco was ever sorry for what he had given to Harry, for how he had changed him.

At that time, of course, Harry could not laugh it off. He had snatched the magazine out of Draco's hands and crumpled it in his fist. Draco's grin had turned to a leer of triumph. "You going to hit me, Potter?" he said, a little breathless with the delight of having gotten to Harry, even a little bit. "Go ahead — I'll sell a gawk at the bruises to your fangirls over at the Weekly — look where Harry Potter touched me — "

Harry had bolted to his feet, Hermione still gripping his hand. Draco had blinked, flinching back as Harry leaned into him, their noses nearly touching. When Harry spoke, his voice had been so soft that only Draco and Hermione had heard him. "You wish I'd hit you," Harry had said, his voice soft and very deadly. "Don't you, Malfoy?"

Draco's lip had curled. "Meaning what, Potter?"

"Meaning it would tell you I thought you were worth hitting. But you're not even worth spitting on. And you know it."

Draco's face had tightened. And all around him, the Slytherins had gone silent; in those days, they had all been attuned to him, reacting as he did, following his lead. But Draco had said nothing — he'd been uncharacteristically silent, staring back at Harry, mouth set in a bitter line. A moment later McGonagall, sensing trouble, had bustled up and sent the Slytherins packing back to their table.

Hermione, remembering now the bitter look on Draco's face, reached to stroke his shoulder. He shifted against her hand but did not wake up.

Hermione went back to her magazine, although she was only half reading it. Oliver Wood was on the list, which did not surprise her, and so was Charlie Weasley, which did, although she supposed it shouldn't have. He was posed against a background of dragons in flight, looking mildly amused at having his picture taken. There were one or two foreign Quidditch players she didn't know, the lead singer of the Every Flavor Boys (a talentless but attractive wizarding boy band — Hermione was amused that this phenomenon seemed to exist in both magical and Muggle worlds) and Viktor Krum — Hermione stifled a giggle. Oh dear. If only she had been a bit more attracted to Viktor, her life might have been a lot less complicated. She had liked Viktor. He had been nice, and interesting to talk to, and he had known a surprising amount about the Philosophy of Magic. But he had never made her stomach feel as if she had swallowed a Fluttering Fern.