Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

No, there were only two boys who had ever made her feel like that. And there they both were when she turned Viktor over, Harry and Draco, on facing pages. Their names printed above them in curlicue script, Harry's running horizontal across the full page, Draco's vertical and to the right, the 'r' at the end of Harry's last name overlapping with the first 'r' in Draco's. The article made breathless much of the connection between them: their impending stepbrotherhood, the rivalry between their Houses, their history of enmity on the Quidditch pitch. Photos of Harry had apparently been harder to come by this year (probably because Harry had threatened Colin with death or expulsion if he ever sold another picture of Harry to the Weekly); all the ones they had were blurry shots taken with Omnilenses: Harry at a distance, Harry with his eyes averted, hand over his face, half-hidden by dark hair, cloak hood pulled down, ducking the gaze of the wizarding world.

Photos of Draco were easier to come by. He loved having his picture taken, or he had once, anyway. He looked the same in all the pictures: arrogant chin-tilt and amused expression, flirting with the camera as he'd flirted with the girl who interviewed him:

TWW: And do you have any interests?

DM: I enjoy spelunking, romance novels, canoe portaging, building tents out of cutlery, rubbing myself with pesto, origami and pornography.

TWW: Really?

DM: Well, actually I find origami extremely boring. Maybe I can make a scale model of Hogwarts out of ten pieces of paper and a matchstick, but in the end, of what benefit is that to wizardkind? I ask you.

TWW: Can you tell us anything about your relationship with Harry Potter?

DM: No.

TWW: Come on, just one little thing? After such a long history of being enemies, you're about to be stepbrothers. Surely you've tried to make some kind of peace with each other?

DM: Well, sometimes we wrestle naked in treacle.

TWW: Really?

DM: No, but wouldn't it be funny if we did?

TWW: What would you like to be when you grow up?

DM: When I grow up? * laughs * When I grow up, I'd like to be a pastry.

TWW: You mean a pastry chef?

DM: No. I mean a pastry. I don't have very high aspirations, really. I'm a meek sort of fellow.

TWW: If you'll forgive me interjecting my own opinion, you don't seem meek to me.

DM: Well, I certainly am meek. I heard somewhere that the meek are going to inherit big one of these days and I plan to be around to cash in when it happens. It takes a lot of income to look as pretty as I do.

TWW: So there you have it, girls. Draco Malfoy, seventeen years old, probably the richest wizard in England. Blond good looks, a rapier tongue, and when he grows up, he wants to be a pastry. We here at TWW think he already is one.

A faint twinge of wistfulness tugged at Hermione as she turned the page and saw more photos of Draco there, mixed in with photos of the other boys on the list — there he was in his summer Quidditch uniform, all bare arms and tan skin and wicked bright grin and his fist clenched over the fluttering Snitch. Hermione felt a pang — he seemed armored in the unassailable beauty of youth and perfect health. He stirred against the window and shifted, and as he did so his hand slid from his lap to the seat beside him, and she saw something, just under the edge of his glove where it ended at his wrist. Something that looked like a thin line of silvery thread — but his gloves were black.

She reached down, moving as carefully as she could so as not to disturb him, and delicately peeled back the edge of his glove. He stirred but did not wake up as she drew it off his hand. And caught her breath.

His hand was a mess. The palm was crusted with dried blood around two deep, cross-shaped scars that slashed their way from the heel of the palm to the base of his fingers. She knew immediately that he had tried to obliterate the scar he shared with Harry. He had half succeeded. It was not gone but when his hand healed the shape of it would be altered forever.

"Oh," she whispered, under her breath, and tugged the glove back up.

Very lightly she closed her fingers over his hand. She felt as if she had seen something she was not supposed to see. At the same time it had not surprised her. She supposed she had guessed what he had done. As a gesture, it was just like him.

His eyes were closed, the lids faintly bluish. She leaned sideways and gently kissed his temple, just where the white-fair hair waved away from the sleep-dampened skin. He did not move. She wondered what he was dreaming.

The marriage took place speedily and for several weeks the wizard was very happy with his new bride. True, she had a number of odd habits. She never ate in front of him, preferring to take all her meals alone in her room. He never saw her about during the day, for she claimed to have a rare allergy of the skin that made her extremely sensitive to sunlight.

When he hung gold jewelry on her she winced and shrank from it in disgust, claiming that she had been brought up to find gold ostentatious and unattractive. She allowed him, however, to buy her as much silver jewelry as he liked, and seemed to have an especial fondness for green gemstones.

All these things were odd, indeed, but she more than made up for her small peculiarities, in his eyes, by her talents in other areas. Indeed, she was so remarkably skilled in the arts of giving pleasure that he found he could not be with her often enough. If it had not been for her insistence upon withdrawing to her own bedroom for meals he would not have been able to part from her at all. His studies suffered, as did his practices of magic. All he thought of was her. He dreamed of drowning himself in the nets of her dark hair, burning himself on the coals of her eyes, abandoning himself to the drowsy sensuality of her touch. He wanted nothing but her and dreamed of nothing else.

What was that? You want to know if he loved her? Well, that's a good question, isn't it. That would depend on how you define love, I suppose.

You think you can define it for me? You're just a child, what do you know?

Oh, come now, don't be offended. Come back and sit by me, let me put my robe around you. Give me your hand. I'll listen. Ask me questions.

Did he want to be with her all the time? Why, yes, he did at that. And did he think she was beautiful? Yes, he did. And did he miss her when she was not there? Indeed, he felt it as if his own hand had been wrenched away.

And did he want no one else to have her? Why, he would have killed any man who touched her.

And did he want her happiness more than he wanted his own?

Well, no, of course not. He was a Malfoy. Malfoys don't love like that.

Death Eaters.

Harry's hand flew to his belt and gripped hard at the runic band there. It was freezing cold to the touch. His mind did what it always did when faced with a panic situation — narrowed itself down to a set of exact determined points. He saw the whole alley clearly: its one exit point, the barred metal door in the brick wall, the piles of wet, broken boxes, the places where the stones underfoot were slippery. He flexed the fingers of his right hand and wondered how many of them he could take out before they overwhelmed him -

"Wait." The blond boy who wasn't Draco stepped in front of him, a hand out, and Harry faltered for a moment, because despite everything this stranger still looked like Draco, and the instinct inside him to be loyal and cooperative was hard to choke down. "Give me back the cube — and wait -

you don't know — just wait, wait right here — "

Dazed, Harry held the cube out; the boy took it and hurried down the alley towards the mass of Death Eaters. Harry saw them pause, all in a line, black-gloved hands going for their wands and was reminded of a set of black chess pieces. He remained where he was, left hand braced against the wet wall. He could feel the locked power inside him, wanting to break free, and remembered the release he'd felt inside the Shrieking Teacup as the fire rose inside him like a wave, breaking through his brain and out through his hand, burning a path for him.