Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Lucius' tone was curt. "No. Who are you?"

The boy smiled, and his pale face lit up like a morning sunrise. But his blue eyes were as cold and dark.

"Retribution," he said, and stood up.

Lucius found that his voice had dried up in his throat. Those eyes — but it couldn't be. This was some child, some boy playing tricks or games, a friend of his son's -

"Do you remember," the boy said softly, his voice gentle, deliberate. "The day you were Sorted? The hat said 'Slytherin' right away, of course, and then you jumped down from the stool and came to sit with us. I'd already cleared a space for you, at my right hand… "

"What?" Lucius felt himself go cold all over. "How could you possibly know…?"

"You were such a little thing," said the boy. "You never thought I'd take much notice of you. But I knew what you'd become. What you have become. And now look at you."

Lucius shook his head numbly. "This isn't possible," he said. "You lie."

The boy paused in the middle of the room, a delicate smile on his mouth.

"I am Tom Riddle," he said. "I am sixteen years old. Now and forever, sixteen years old. I was ink and paper. Now I am flesh and blood and fifty years have passed like a dream."

"The book was destroyed," Lucius said. "I threw it on the fire myself."

The boy's eyes widened. "Did you?"

"It was ruined already, my Lord," said Lucius quickly, without thought, "a precaution only — " He broke off and then cursed himself inwardly as a delighted smile spread across the boy's face.

"You believe me, then," the boy said. "You know it's me. Or are you not satisfied? Ask me, if you like, Lucius. Ask me something only we would know. Do you remember that seal ring of yours, with the griffin wings?

And how when they named me to be Head Boy I took the sharp edge of a wing and cut words into my arm, do you remember what those words were?"

"I remember," said Lucius. "Do you?"

The boy's expression was grave. He lifted his left hand then, and with his index finger wrote on the air between them. Shimmering words appeared, tracing fiery paths in the air. Non serviam.

"I will not serve," said Tom, and Lucius remembered Tom looking down at his bleeding arm and remarking that when Lucifer had ridden to battle against Heaven at the head of a host of rebel angels, those had been the words written on his banner.

Lucius found that his knees had bent and he was kneeling on the floor at Tom's feet. "My Lord," he said, feeling himself half delirious with shock. "I remember you — I remember everything."

Tom waved a hand, and the shimmering letters vanished. "If only I did," he said, his boy's voice a little wistful. " I have spent the past two days reading histories of my life, Lucius. At first I could hardly believe it. Such a tale of defeat and betrayal it was. I was filled with rage. I wanted to destroy everything in my path. Then I realized that was foolish. There are those who deserve my condemnation and vengeance and they shall receive it. All my Death Eaters who left or renounced me — they will die."

His voice was cool and certain. "One by one I will kill them all."

"But they are protected," said Lucius, stumbling slightly over the words.

"They have been forgiven, and their houses warded by the Dark Lord — "

"Wards will not keep out the one who made them," said Tom. "And we are one and the same." His sharp teeth showed in a snarl. "Well, not precisely the same of course. As for him — my elder self — he above all is deserving of my vengeance. I cannot understand how he has come to be what he is -

old and insane and weak and ugly. I would never have allowed myself to become such a disappointment. Better to have died. And die he will. There is hardly room for two of me in this world," and a faint look of amusement touched his face. "In fact, I recollect you saying that there was hardly room for one of me. Do you remember, Lucius, the first time we ever met?"

Of course I do. "I was ten years old," Lucius said. "Perhaps I do not recall."

Tom took another few steps towards him. "You recall," he said. "You were with your father. I believe he was on a school inspection tour. The Headmaster introduced us, for your father always had an interest in Slytherin house and its best students. I was expected even then to be the next Head Boy. Do you remember what he said to me?"

"Yes," said Lucius, through numb lips.

"He said, 'I trust you will look out for my son,'" said Tom.

"And you did," said Lucius.

"I did." Tom spoke quietly. "You cannot desire to serve him. Not that mad old man, that sick and vile creature. Lucius — together we can start over. It is your choice."

For a long time Lucius did not reply. Finally, Tom touched him on the arm. He had to reach up to do it — not much, but just a little, as Lucius was taller than he was now. "Lucius," Tom said to him, and Lucius looked across the space between them at the blond boy who was regarding him through narrowed blue eyes and remembered that when those eyes asked something of him he could not say no. "Do you choose me?"

Lucius bowed his head. "I am, as always, loyal to you, my Lord," he said.

"You and no other."

Hermione was nowhere close to asleep when he came in. She had crawled under the heavy covers and pulled them up around her shoulder and lay there in the bed, too tired to sleep. The French doors to the main room threw barred squares of light against the pale, tiled floor. The bed smelled like a hotel bed: soap and too much starch. The sheets were rough against her skin but she didn't mind the light abrasion. It felt like a punishment, something deserved.

She did not quite remember how it had felt to kiss Draco. It seemed to have gone, like the memory of pain. She could remember that it had happened, but not the feeling of the specific moments. It had been like a storm of weeping after months of holding back tears. She felt strangely empty now, spent of emotion. When she closed her eyes she could feel his fingers as if they still touched her hair.

There was a click as the knob of the door turned. Hermione didn't move.

Head pillowed on her wrist, she watched as the door opened and he came in. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it.

Backlit by the faint illumination coming through the panes of glass, he was only a silhouette. The light outlined his thin body, the curve of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw. She could see the shadows pencilling his collarbones, his hair a negative halo, lit to a pale flare by the dim light.

The dull gleam of gold chain sparked against his throat as he turned his head and looked at her.

"You're awake?" he said. It was a question.

She sat up. The covers rustled around her, the starched sheets crackling like a bed of dry reeds. She pushed her hair back behind one ear. It was still damp from tears. "I'm awake," she said, and drew the covers beside her back, clearing a space for him.

She heard him sigh, and his shoulders relaxed. It was an odd sort of sigh.

It sounded like defeat. She could see exhaustion plain in the lines of his body as he crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside her, his bare feet making no noise on the carpet. He unbuttoned his cuffs and slipped his shirt off over his head and lay down beside her.

She turned slightly to look at him. He was flat on his back, his hands crossed on his chest, staring blankly up at the ceiling. His lashes cast long shadows on his cheeks, making him look younger than he was. She had always thought his long lashes were the only gentle thing about his face.

No longer. Weariness had not destroyed his beauty, only softened it somehow, all his sharp planes and angles gone to the curves of tired eyelids and downturned mouth. Only the hands on his chest were clenched tight with a sort of furious penitence.