Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"It's nothing to do with waiting," Hermione said, glaring at his back. She felt very angry suddenly, without being able to quite understand why.

"You just wanted to prove you were still a Malfoy."

"I am," Draco said, "still a Malfoy."

"You don't have to be anything you don't want to be," Hermione said.

"Deny thy father and refuse thy name," Draco said, with gentle mockery.

"And to what purpose? Don't try to make me into something I'm not, Granger. I'm a Malfoy. I'm proud of it. I'm proud of my blood."

"Your blood's full of poison."

"Well," Draco said, "at least it's pure."

God, don't you even want to live, just a little bit? she thought furiously, but didn't say it. She doubted he even meant his words to be stinging; probably he didn't, because for him, this was simply the way things were.

But it sparked a sudden bitterness in her, a small corrupting rage against someone she loved very much. "And you wouldn't give that up, would you?" she said, "Not even to live a little longer?"

"No," he said. His hands were in his pockets; he was facing away from her, but she could sense the tension in his posture.

"Would you give it up to have Harry love you the way you want him to?"

she asked.

His shoulders stiffened and he turned to look at her. "Because you don't think he does?"

"No," she said. "I don't think so. Do you?"

The flame in the grate turned a dark red, signaling its readiness. "Why are you so angry at me?" he said, and he sounded a little bewildered, as if he couldn't quite take in what she'd said. "What have I done?"

Hermione bit her lip, unsure if she knew the answer to that question. She was already beginning to feel that she had just done something horrible.

Without looking at him, she went past him to the fireplace and knelt down and drew her wand. She held it out towards the flames. "Auditori," she whispered.

There was a distant crackling noise that reminded Hermione of the static on a telephone line. She looked up at Draco, standing behind her.

"Something's happening," she said.

He didn't reply.

There was another distant crackle, and then a familiar voice said something Hermione didn't understand. She struggled to remember the bits of Bulgarian she'd picked up fourth year. "Viktor," she called, "It's Hermione. Hermione Granger. "Chuvash li me?"

"Koi e?…" A moment passed, and then Viktor's head appeared among the flames. His thick black hair was tangled and there was what looked like soap on his face. He glowered at her. "Hermione," he said. It still sounded like Her-my-own when he said it, but she let it go. "Is everything all right?

Is there an emergency?"

"We're looking for Harry, Viktor," Hermione said. "It's very, very important that we find him. I know he was in the Floo Hub with you the other day, you must have seen him. Did he come through with you?"

Viktor looked at her. His expression was entirely blank. "I have no idea what you are talking about," he said. "I have not seen Harry since the summer. I am afraid, Hermione, that I cannot help you."

When Ron finally awoke, it was to the sound of giggling. He rolled over in bed and groaned.

Having spent several days sleeping in filthy clothes on a hard marble floor covered with smashed chess pieces, Ron had been relieved to find that the quarters Rhysenn brought him to were extremely well-appointed. Thick rugs covered the stone floor, and incense smoked in a claw-footed gold brazier next to the four-poster bed. There was a bathtub behind a screen, filled with scented water. There were no windows, but it seemed a small complaint considering that he had been expecting something a little more like the deepest dungeon under the castle moat, and a little less like a nice hotel.

The first thing Rhysenn did was order him to undress and pass his clothes out to her through the door. Ron complied, muttering to himself. He was left with nothing to wear but a long silk robe printed all over with gold and red dragons. It had obviously been made for someone shorter, as it barely reached his knees. "I resemble a scarlet woman," Ron muttered, glaring at his reflection in the gigantic gold-backed mirror that hung opposite the bed. "I wonder if this is the dark lord's idea of psychological torture?"

Wondering if Voldemort was using the mirror to spy on him, Ron took the opportunity to open his robe and do a brief and disrespectful naked dance. Then he bathed, and went to bed.

Later he would realize that he had underestimated the toll that several days spent badly frightened, with little sleep and less food, coupled with the immense stress of his Divination visions, would take on his body and mind. As soon as his head hit the pillow, Ron fell into a profound death-like sleep that lasted for two days. He awoke at intervals, found food placed on the table near his bed, gobbled it down, and fell back asleep, curled in a tight ball, the coverlet dragged over his head.

He had no dreams at all.

When he awoke for good on the morning of the third day, he found Rhysenn stretched catlike along a nearby velvet chaise. She was wearing an apple-green transparent outfit barely held together with black ribbons and a pair of thigh-high stockings. "Why hello, darling," she said. "Did you have a nice sleep?"

"Don't call me pet names," Ron muttered, pushing himself into a sitting position. His head felt muzzy from sleep. "We're not… friends."

"I never said anything about wanting to be friends with you," she said with a throaty chuckle, and with a wave of one long slim hand, pointed to what looked like a stack of folded fabric on the table next to the bed. "I brought you clothes. The Dark Lord wants to see you."

Ron looked at her resentfully. "Don't you get tired of being half naked all the time?"

"Not as tired as I get of you being dressed all the time," she replied, examining a blood-red nail for imperfections. "Now get out of bed."

Ron pushed the covers back, still glaring at her. "I'm not getting changed with you watching."

"Then you're not getting changed at all. The Dark Lord asked me to stay here and make sure you dressed yourself properly. Anyway, it isn't as if I haven't seen it all already." She waved her hand airily towards the mirror.

"That was quite a performance. I especially enjoyed the high kicks."

Blushing furiously, Ron flung himself out of bed and snatched up the clothes. He retreated to the other side of the room to get dressed with his back turned, ignoring Rhysenn's giggling. "Keep your eyes closed," he snapped, positive she was peeking over her shoulder at him.

"I promise you," she purred, "I can't see a thing."

The clothes were complicated, not quite like any he had seen before. The trousers were a very thick, supple material that laced up the front; then there was a shirt with ribbons woven through the sleeves and lace around the cuffs, a jacket that went over it, and a long cloak that went on over the whole thing. The cloak was a heavy dark blue velvet with a gilt lining, and fastened in front with a number of complicated brass clasps. He had been fiddling with it for a good five minutes when Rhysenn, with an exasperated clucking noise, stalked across the room and batted his hands away from his throat. "You're doing it all wrong," she muttered, flicking the clasps closed with her agile fingers.

'And you're acting like my mother."

Rhysenn backed away, looking profoundly insulted. "I am nobody's mother." She tossed her hair back. "I will wait for you in the corridor."

She flounced out. Ron wondered what had happened to her promise to the Dark Lord to keep an eye on him while he dressed, then decided that since it didn't matter to her, it hardly ought to matter to him. He pulled the cloak a little tighter around himself and crossed the room to look at his reflection in the mirror, expecting that he looked ridiculous.