Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"Has he?" asked the boy, his blue eyes reflecting the gold light in the room; and then, with a look of indolent amusement, he swept his left hand towards Nott. It described a shimmering silver arc in the air, which turned before Nott's eyes into a razor-edged silver disc. The disc launched itself across the room with unbelievable speed, spinning itself into a blur; it struck Nott in the throat, severing his head neatly from his body as cleanly as a razor might slice a scrap of parchment, killing him instantly.

Tom watched, one light eyebrow arched in amusement, as the decapitated body thumped to the Aubusson carpet. The bloody, severed head itself rolled across the room, fetching up at his feet.

With a cat's grace, Tom knelt and stared down into the dead face of Thaddeus Nott.

"Perhaps your master has forgiven you," Tom said. "But I have not."

As he reached to shut the staring black eyes with the tips of his fingers, a smile touched the corners of his mouth. He straightened up, and looked about himself in satisfaction.

"One," he remarked, to the empty room.

When Rhysenn finished telling her story, Ron stood up abruptly, detaching himself from her hands and her cloak, and went to stand on the edge of the roof.

It was like standing at the edge of the world. The sky was not properly black but a deep transparent blue like the water at the ocean's floor, five miles down. Charcoaled streaks of clouds touched the tops of the mountains in the distance and somewhere far below there was the sound of water crashing over rocks — a river? Or a waterfall?

He could hear Rhysenn behind him, getting to her feet. He turned around and looked at her. She looked smaller than he had first thought she was, and the wind took her black hair and whipped it across her face, hiding her expression. She had hair like Harry's hair, that black so black it looked unreal, as if each strand had been individually dipped in ink. Hair that made you think that if you touched it, the color would come off on your fingers. Harry, Ron thought, and felt that sharp slicing pain that came with thoughts of Harry, that was clean and sharp as the cutting edge of a piece of glass.

"Did my tale upset you?" Rhysenn said, pushing her hair out of her small white face. "If it did, then I am sorry. That was not my intention."

"No," Ron said. "No. It wasn't you." Hate that was once love is the strongest hate there is, he thought, and realized how close he had been to hating Harry and hating Hermione and damning them along with himself for the mistakes they had all made, the ways in which they were imperfect. "I was just thinking," he said, "that I'm a Diviner. So why can't I see what I should do? I don't know what to do. I wish I was more like — like Malfoy. Well, except for the being a giant arsehole part. It's just — it's easier when only one thing matters to you."

"No one is that simple," said Rhysenn. "Nor do you have many choices.

You are a prisoner, after all."

"There are always choices," said Ron. "I could throw myself off the roof right now. You couldn't stop me. Splatter myself all over the rocks.

Voldemort wouldn't have much use for me then."

"Is that what you want to do?" Rhysenn looked at him curiously, sidelong, her eyes gray and bright. "Kill yourself?"

Ron pulled his cloak close about himself and shivered. "No. I want to live.

Does that make me a bad person?"

"I don't know," Rhysenn said. "I don't know very much about people. I have only ever known the Malfoys."

Ron snorted. "If you can call them people," he said. His hand was still at his collar, holding his cloak shut. The brooch Hermione-who-was-not-Hermione had given him, with its intricate design and winking single jewel, pressed against his hand. With a decided motion, he pulled it free and held it in his palm. You are marked now twice, Voldemort had said to him. With my sign.

She had never really loved him. Ron drew his hand back and flung the brooch hard; it arced out and tumbled down towards the darkness below, striking silver sparks from the air as it fell. Ron watched it go. The wind took his unfastened cloak and pulled it from his shoulders and it spun away from him as well, caught by the wind's edge, fluttering and falling.

"All your protections gone," said Rhysenn at his side. If he hadn't known better he would have thought she sounded sad.

"No," Ron said. He squared his shoulders resolutely. "Not all of them."

We interrupt Wake Up With Warbeck to bring you this emergency bulletin from the Daily Prophet. A surprise attack on a wizarding house in Devon during the night has left the magical community stunned. As of this report, there is one confirmed death. Information is sparse but it has been confirmed that a Killing Curse was not responsible for the death, although sources claim that a message was found written in blood on a wall inside the — Hermione, groping blearily for the volume control on the Wizarding Wireless Alarm next to the bed, succeeded in knocking the radio to the floor. It made a sproinging noise, popped a coil, and fell silent. She gazed down at it for a moment, hanging off the edge of the bed. "Oh," she muttered under her breath, "honestly. What a way to wake up. As if we hadn't — "

She broke off, suddenly wide-eyed. We. Of course. She wasn't sleeping alone in this bed. She bit her lip, remembering the night she'd passed: falling asleep with Draco's arms around her, her hands knotted across his back, her legs flung over his, tangled together. They must have untangled themselves during the night, somehow. She had no memory of it. She'd slept like the dead.

Hermione pulled herself back onto the bed, cleared her throat, and turned around. "Draco, are you — "

The words died on her lips. Apparently, she'd been wrong. She was alone in the bed. The other side of the bed was unoccupied, the sheets pulled smooth, the pillow, jammed against the headboard, still crumpled where he'd slept on it.

A feeling of unease washed over her. Then she told herself she was just being silly. Surely he'd merely gotten up to go take a shower. He'd been sleeping badly lately, after all. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded, barefoot, into the living room.

It was empty. The fireplace was full of smashed glass. The wall was dented where the candlestick she'd thrown had struck it. Draco's jacket was on the floor, but his boots were gone. She could feel the blood rise into her face and hurried towards the bathroom, pausing only to pick up the antidote flask she had thrown the night before. It had rolled to a stop beside the couch. For a moment, she cradled it against her chest. Then she tucked it into the pocket of her dressing-gown and hurried down the hall to the bathroom.

It was empty, although a damp towel flung over a rail showed her that he had, indeed, showered that morning, or some time during the night. The second bedroom was also empty, as was the kitchen. By the time Hermione reached the door to the balcony and flung it open, her heart was pounding.

The balcony was bare and the wind was icy — shivering, she slid her hands into her pockets. She picked her way over to the railings and gazed blindly down at the view of Diagon Alley below, its wheel-rutted streets glazed gunmetal gray with dirty snow. Crowds of black-clad witches and wizards, hoods up over their faces, hurried to and fro on the pavement.

He could have been any one of them. Hermione tightened her grip on the flask in her pocket.