Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Harry's stomach knotted. "Someone always…wants me? Wants me for what?" he asked, although he had a feeling he knew perfectly well what.

"Well, a lot of them want to be you," the boy said, his tone hesitant.

"That's why I thought — when I saw you — that you were a customer. You reacted like you recognized me, and I thought you were…you know…playing." His voice trailed off.

"And Draco," Harry said. They were at the top of the stairs now, and had turned onto another interminable corridor. More oil paintings lined these walls, but these were not portraits. Harry could see flesh-colored paint, writhing limbs, long trailing scarves of lace and satin. At regular intervals down the corridor were doors, each one set with a bronze numbered plate. "Someone paid you to…?"

"Well, not specifically. They usually keep a few of him around as well.

Especially since he's been in all the news articles lately…that always ups the demand, and — "

The boy's speech was interrupted by Harry, who had chosen that moment to stagger off into a corner where he could be violently sick. He had eaten so little that day that there wasn't much to come up, mostly stomach acid that burned his throat. When he straightened up and turned around the boy was staring at him.

"I'm sorry," the boy said nervously. "I forget, working here, that the idea might upset people who aren't used to it."

"Used to it?" Harry said savagely. "It's disgusting, how could you get used to it, or want to? It's using people."

"It doesn't hurt them. They don't even know about it — "

"That's not the point!" Harry shivered. The nausea was receding, replacing itself with a feverish anger. "If they did know — if Draco knew about this, hell, if his father knew about this — I mean, I hate the bastard, but I can't imagine he'd be any too pleased if he knew that-"

"Well, of course Lucius Malfoy knows about the Midnight Club," interrupted the boy, looking surprised. "He owns it."

Dearest Seamus, Nothing could have made your father and I happier than your last letter.

That you should choose to be so open and truthful with us makes us very proud parents indeed. Although we really don't understand the cause of your anxiety. It's perfectly all right with us, of course, if you're gay. We're just glad you were honest with us so that we can be properly supportive.

Let us know if there are any organizational meetings we should be attending. If there are no existing organizations we'd be happy to start one. And if you'd like to bring your boyfriend home for the holidays, that would be fine as well, we've still plenty of room in the East Wing. And if you haven't got a boyfriend yet, your aunt wants me to remind you that she always thought that Dean Thomas you were friends with was a nice, good-looking boy. And so artistic!

Enjoy your holidays and don't drink too much butterbeer at New Year's -

you remember what happened to your Uncle Eamon. Although we suppose they don't have nearly so many cattle gratings in London.

Love, Mum

Standing in the alley outside the Shrieking Teacup, Tom read the letter over again. It was his sixth reading and still he could not believe his eyes.

Surely the Finnegans had misunderstood his initial missive? But no, it appeared that they hadn't and that in fact he himself had made a miscalculation. Not a grave one, but a miscalculation nevertheless.

He tossed the letter into the air, where it burst into flames. The ashes sifted down around him like a fine dark powder, dusting the shoulders of his cloak and catching in his damp hair.

He bit his lip in vexation. It would not be exactly accurate to say that things were not going to plan. He had no plan for events to either go along with, or at least, if he had a plan, it was not yet a fully formed one.

He had seen Harry in the bookshop and wanted to cause him trouble; that had, he thought, worked splendidly until the Death Eaters who had been chasing Harry had returned, shaking their heads, apparently having somehow lost their quarry. They were not inclined to share the details of their defeat with him, a total stranger, and he did not deem it wise to lose his temper and show his hand at such an early juncture. More importantly, he thought, he had heard them speak a name — the Midnight Club.

Tom knew the Midnight Club. It existed in his day, owned by Lucius' grandfather and run very profitably. During the war years it had been a base for smuggling operations, but at its heart, it had still been what it had been designed to be: a whorehouse. Tom had always found the concept rather amusing. A logical extension of the uses of Polyjuice, to be sure. And a testimony to the venality of the Malfoys. Very admirable.

It would not be difficult to find the club again. In fifty years, the streets surrounding Diagon Alley had hardly changed at all. He began to walk down the alley, fastidiously skirting the banks of dirty snow piled at the edge of the pavement. If he recalled correctly, the Midnight Club allowed the nightly rental of its rooms to patrons, and never asked for any kind of identification. They were not in a business where asking for identification would have been a judicious professional move. He could pay them in the cash he had taken from Seamus' trunk for a room and they would ask no questions. All the rooms were warded by Silencing Charms. In relative peace and quiet, he could read the books he had bought in Diagon Alley -

he could learn his own history. And later…

He glanced down at his left hand, where he had wound the single strand of Ginny's poppy-red hair around his ring finger. Later there might perhaps be time for other amusements. Yes, later. He closed his hand into a fist and drew his hood up to hide his sudden savage grin.

Blaise felt a chill as Draco turned around to look at her. He didn't look pleased to see her — not at all. He looked tense and tired and his face was pale between the dark collar of his coat and the hood that concealed his silvery hair.

"Blaise," he said. "What do you want?"

She had seen the two of them from across the street. For a moment she had thought nothing of it. She was always seeing Draco, in crowds of people, from the windows of trains, navigating his way along city pavements. Any slim tall boy reminded her of him — sometimes it was less than that: the spark of sunlight off blond hair, the angle of a pair of shoulders, that certain way of walking, the expensive cloaks he favored.

This time it was only the fact that Hermione was with him that had convinced her it really was Draco.

"I need to talk to you," she said. She had spent the last two days wondering how on earth to get in touch with Draco safely; bumping into him on Diagon Alley, whomever he happened to be with, was too good a chance to pass up. She had followed him from outside the Leaky Cauldron and had finally worked up the nerve to interrupt them. She was glad she had. Even if he didn't look terribly happy to see her.

He sighed and raised his chin. His hood fell back and she saw that his pale hair had been cut shorter, and was tangled as if he'd forgotten to brush it

— for Draco, an oversight as serious as if he'd gone out with no trousers on. "What about, Blaise?"

For a moment she just looked at him. She had missed looking at him. She saw the way Hermione moved towards him when he spoke, the unconscious way she reached out and put a hand on his arm. And she saw the way he let her. She took a breath past the catch in her throat. "It's about Harry," she said.

Hermione dropped her hand from Draco's arm, her lips parting and her eyes widening. Draco evinced no similar response. His face was a study in utter blankness. "So talk."

Blaise tightened her lips. "Just give me five minutes alone," she said; it hurt to ask. She hated begging; it went completely contrary to her nature.