Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"This is all most distressingly irregular."

"Oh, yes," Draco agreed cheerfully. He was sprawled in a gold-and-burgundy watered silk armchair with gilded armrests, his long legs flung out, his feet up on the mahogany desk. His cloak was open, and he was twirling a small green drink umbrella between his fingers. The drink it had come from sat untouched on a nearby table. "I told my father that myself, Mr. Blackthorpe. He was most displeased. He told me off for back-talking. He's quite right, of course. He is a business genius, after all. And he doesn't like back-talk or disobedience. Why, just last week our head gardener accidentally planted a whole copse of Festering Fireweed upside-down. Well, I bet you can guess what my father did about that."

Blackthorpe looked up at him, his mouth set in a thin line. Behind him, two hulking troll-like men Hermione assumed to be his bodyguards, glanced at one another and frowned.

"No, Mister Malfoy, I can't guess."

Draco leaned forward with a beautifully engaging smile. "He had him killed," he said, and snapped his fingers.

Everyone in the room jumped, Hermione included. She bit her lip. She had promised Draco she wouldn't say anything until he cued her once they were in the office, and she hadn't. It was more difficult than she had thought it would be. Still, a grudging admiration for him kept her silent.

As if the past eight months had never happened, he was suddenly his old self again, all razor looks and smiling malice. It was an impressive performance.

That was, of course, assuming it was a performance.

"Sorry if I scared you gentlemen," Draco said, not sounding sorry at all.

His eyes were sparkling. He had unknotted his dove-gray silk tie, and against the bare hollow of his throat, Hermione could see the bright gleam of his Epicyclical charm. "Didn't realize you were so jumpy."

Blackthorpe cleared his throat. "It isn't that I don't want to respect your father's wishes," he said, glancing down again at the letter on his desk.

Draco had done a good job on it. The signature was unmistakably Lucius', and the mark of the griffin seal ring, pressed into black wax on the parchment, was impressive. "It is merely that Lucius usually conducts his inspections on a more…scheduled basis. We had an understanding — "

"Indeed." Draco sounded bored. "That was, however, before the recent security breaches came to our attention."

Blackthorpe 's deep green skin paled to an unpleasant shade of chartreuse. "Security breaches?"

Draco smiled like a knife cut. "You hadn't heard? Photographs," he said.

"All sorts of photographs, anonymously mailed to the Ministry. My father had quite a job covering it up, I can tell you. He had to cast six or seven Obliviate charms on the secretaries who opened up a packet of photos of Frances Parkinson cavorting about with a Polyjuiced version of the Every Flavor Boys. I'm sure you know how disastrous this kind of exposure could be for you, my good demon."

"I'm not a demon," said Blackthorpe tensely.

"Ah," said Draco delicately. "Skin condition, then?"

"I am an incubus!"

"Of course you are," Draco said soothingly. He settled himself more comfortably in the armchair, still twirling his drink umbrella. "You know, I'm awfully hungry. Have you got anything here to eat?"

"No," Blackthorpe snapped. He was visibly distraught. "About these security breaches…"

Draco shifted in his chair. "Nothing to eat? I'll take chocolate. Biscuits?

Scotch pancake?"

"I saw some scones down in the espresso bar," opined one of the troll-guards helpfully.

Draco grinned delightfully. "Were they the kind with the little chocolate bits in?"

"Be quiet, Thorvald!" The Manager shot a glare at the troll behind him, then jerked his sharply pointed green chin towards Hermione. "And who is she?" he demanded poisonously. "Why is she along for this inspection tour of yours?"

Draco lazily slid his feet from the desk and turned to look at Hermione.

"You mean Hepzibah? She's my personal secretary," he said smoothly, and winked at Hermione. "Charming girl."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak.

"Unfortunately," Draco added swiftly, "she doesn't speak a word of English."

Hermione's speech turned into a gasp of outrage. She shot Draco a violent glare, which he ignored. He was gazing at her with a bland smile.

If the green incubus manager had had an eyebrow, he would have raised it. "One might question the efficacy of a secretary who doesn't speak English," he said.

"One might," Draco agreed, "but I've never had any complaints about her performance." He examined his fingernails. "You should see her take a memo," he added conversationally. "When she bends over the desk — "

"Right," interrupted Blackthorpe with a moue of distaste. "Tell me, Mister Malfoy, just exactly what kind of inspection did your father have in mind?"

Draco smiled, a lazy cat smile, and slowly uncurled himself from the leather armchair, rising to his feet with arrogant grace. "A thorough one," he said. "I'd like to take one of your guards and search all the rooms.

Check the surveillance spells…among other things."

Mr. Blackthorpe began to open his mouth.

"All the rooms," said Draco firmly.

The manager's shoulders sagged. "As you wish," he said.

Harry had finally succeeded in falling into a light doze on the floor when the door burst open. He sprang to his feet, flinging his hand out -

"Stupefy!"

There was a small burst of light and a muffled cry, followed by a thump.

"Don't! It's me!"

Harry blinked. The boy-who-looked-like-Draco-but-wasn't was sprawled on the floor near the door, nursing his arm. He looked at Harry resentfully, which had the side effect of making him briefly resemble Draco far more closely than he had so far. "Ouch! Why did you do that?"

"You burst in," Harry said, feeling a bit silly. "I didn't know who you were."

"I brought your bag," the boy said, pushing it towards Harry with his feet.

"But that's not why I ran in here. Listen, you have to go. There are inspectors here. They're searching the rooms. They say Lucius Malfoy sent them. I think they might be looking for you."

Harry grabbed for his bag and whispered the spell that would shrink it down to pocket size. He stowed it, yanked his glasses off the mantel, and turned around. "How do I get out of here?"

The boy chewed his lip nervously. "I'll take you down to the Portkey room. It's for clients who want to come in and out without using the doors. You can Portkey away, just lock the door behind you." He unbuttoned the cloak he was wearing and handed it to Harry. "Here, put this on, and pull the hood up."

Harry did as instructed, already on his way out of the room. In the corridor outside they kept to the shadows, walking single file. Harry had to walk quickly to keep up, his fingers slipping on the unfamiliar cloak buttons as he did them up. The cloak itself was heavy wool, and smelled of cigar smoke and dirty snow.

By the time they got to the staircase they were almost running. The boy fled down it, and Harry followed. There was another, smaller, staircase leading down from the ground floor, which they took at a run. Harry kept one hand on the railing as he ran. He was finally beginning to realize that the dizziness he was feeling was more than exhaustion. I'm ill, he thought, as his feet hit the last step, really ill. Damn. This is not convenient.

This level of the club was all businesslike wood walls and a polished wood floor. Harry kept a hand on the wall as they went, steadying himself. His skin felt dry and feverish and his eyes prickled. They reached the door at the end of the hall and the boy once again used his lighted cube to open it. He pushed Harry through and then stood in the doorway, looking tense and nervous.