Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Hermione was stricken speechless by this piece of information. Fleur just laughed. "Viktor and I have an understanding," she said. "Although we often disagree. Now, for instance. He felt we should not tell you that Harry was here."

Draco's head jerked up and he went rigid all over. "Harry's there right now?"

"No," Fleur said, unexpected gentleness in her tone. "He left this afternoon. He was very ill when he arrived — "

"Is he all right?" Hermione interrupted anxiously.

"He is fine," Fleur said. "Quite recovered."

Draco had shut his eyes. Hermione spoke for him, knowing what he wanted to ask: "Do you know where he went?"

"Yes," Fleur said. "We sent him to Viktor's apartment — " She broke off with an exclamation, and shot a reproachful look behind her. "Well, we did," she said. "He was to remain there until Viktor could rejoin him — Viktor, stop it. They have a right to know! They are his friends and they love him very much!"

"We do," agreed Hermione, fervently.

"Speak for yourself," Draco muttered.

Hermione shot him a look. "We just want Harry to be all right," she said, turning back to Fleur. "There are things he doesn't know, things that could put him in danger — "

"Tell us where he is," Draco said. When he spoke again, it was with a certain amount of effort. "Please."

"He's in Prague," said Fleur. "More than that I cannot tell you. I would have to give you a Portkey."

"Please," said Hermione, saving Draco from needing to repeat the word.

"We haven't much time."

Fleur took a deep breath, and then her hands appeared from the flames, stretching themselves out towards Hermione and Draco. "I could bring you through," she said. "But the restrictions — the alerts might be triggered

— "

"We're in the Ministry," Hermione said quickly. "There are no restrictions." She looked at Draco. "Can we?"

He nodded. He looked a little dazed, as if events were transpiring too quickly for him to process. "Yes."

Hermione held her hand out, and Fleur's cool slender fingers closed around it. She could feel the heat of the fire but it seemed distant and not frightening. It lapped against her skin like hot water, scalding without burning. She shut her eyes as Fleur pulled her forward, and felt herself weightless for a moment, sliding down. Then her feet found purchase and she stumbled. Fleur righted her, and she looked up, opening her eyes.

She stood in the center of a small, furnished room, its walls lined with books. She was facing an empty fireplace, the bricks that formed the back of it gone transparent. She could see through them — as if she looked through a window, they gave a clear view into Lucius' office, without any wavering distortion. She could see Draco kneeling there, looking at them through the fire. The flames seemed to lick up around him, darkening the fine pale skin to bronze.

Fleur held her hand out to him. "Draco, come along now."

But he had gotten to his feet. For a moment Hermione could see only the lower half of his body as he stood in front of the fireplace. He was reaching up for something; his jumper rode up as he raised his arms, showing the bare skin of his flat stomach. He lowered his arm and backed away and Hermione saw that he was carrying one of the lighted tapers from the top of the mantel. He turned away and walked across the room, away from her, and then he held the flame of the candle to the bottom of the brocade curtains and waited for them to catch alight.

"Draco!" Hermione half-screamed. "What are you doing?"

But Fleur had caught at her arm. "Let him," she said.

The curtains were burning now. Hermione could smell the reek of singed fabric. Draco stood where he was, watching the flames lick up the velvet, the glow so bright that the city view was no longer visible through the windows. There was an absorbed, intent, delicate look on his face, as if he were mastering a tricky Quidditch move. Abruptly, Draco flung the burning taper to the floor and turned away. He came quickly back towards the fireplace, stopping only briefly to seize something off his father's desk. Then he was on his knees in front of the grate, reaching his hands out, and Fleur had taken him by the wrists and pulled him through.

No Malfoy may have red hair. Colors Malfoys are forbidden to wear include canary yellow, powder blue, and pale pink. No Malfoy may use pastel stationary, nor accept letters written upon pastel stationary. At teatime, all Malfoys must pour milk into their cup before the tea is added, especially inside the Manor. Upon the birth of a Malfoy the child's name must be chosen from the following lists; for a boy: Octavian, Lucius, Vladimir, Augustus, Alexander, Darius, Draco…

Harry sat back in his chair, being very careful not to spill any coffee from his full cup onto the thin parchment pages of the Malfoy Family Code of Conduct. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd brought it with him when he'd left the flat looking for a quiet place to buy something to eat. Partially perhaps because all the books in Viktor's flat had been in Slavic languages he didn't recognize, but there was probably more to it than that.

The parchment was so old that it felt as frail and thin under his fingertips as moth wings. He let his hand trail across a page, looked up and stared out the window. The kavarna he had found was as close, he imagined, to the Leaky Cauldron as he was going to get in this unfamiliar city of cobbled streets and colorful, gabled old buildings. Where Diagon Alley looked as if time had stopped for it a hundred years ago, the wizarding section of Prague looked as if it had drifted out of a fairy tale. The small coffee shop he was in now was half-timbered, with a soft mellow glow emanating from hovering golden globes that floated overhead. Rows of pastries as gorgeous as jewelry gleamed under a glass-fronted counter top

— if jewelry had been decorated with whipped cream, chocolate, cherries, and sugary slivers of almond. It was beautiful and strange and everything looked delicious and it made Harry so horribly lonely that he wanted to crawl under the nearest chair.

He had never really been out of England before, and he had always thought that when he did go, it would be with friends. He'd vaguely imagined accompanying Ron to visit Bill in Egypt, taking some romantic trip to Italy with Hermione. Draco had traveled all over the continent and they'd spent all of an afternoon's detention together once talking about where they would go if they could go anywhere; Draco had been animated, talking about all the places he'd been that he would like to show Harry: ice palaces in the mountains of Switzerland, the glass houses of southern France, the sky over St. Petersburg burned green by the midnight sun. "We were always on business, and my father never wanted to stop to look at anything," he'd said, "but it would be fun to go again, if I went with you."

Harry had been pleased by the offhand compliment, but then that was the only way Draco ever did compliment him — offhand, as if he himself had forgotten what he was saying.

Harry brought his coffee cup up and stared unseeingly into it. He was remembering the dream he'd told Fleur about. In it, he had been a ghost inside the Manor, walking its empty halls. He had wandered them until he'd found Draco inside the library, which had looked just as it had the last time Harry had seen it, but Draco had looked ten years older, and he'd sat behind the desk just like his father, and regarded Harry with an emotionless surprise. There are so many ghosts in this Manor, he had said, but I never thought you would be one of them. What brings you back?

You, I think, Harry had replied. Did you call for me?

Draco had shaken his head. His face had been young still, lineless, but his eyes had been old. I would never call for you, he'd said. You couldn't be bothered with me while you were alive, why would you be bothered with me after you were dead?