Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

But Hermione had gone pale. "Didn't Viktor say he wasn't supposed to go out after dark?"

"It's not quite dark yet." Draco looked pointedly at the window, where the sky was darkening to sapphire. He could see the angled roofs of the nearby buildings, the gabled windows hung with colorful curtains. Soon, outside, the Lighting Charms would go on and the sky would darken and Harry would come into the apartment, shutting the door behind him, opening his mouth in surprise when he saw Hermione and Draco there.

And maybe he would be angry and maybe he would crumple in resignation and maybe, just maybe, if he was caught off guard enough -

Draco broke off the thought and turned away from the window. Hermione was sitting on the bed, and she had taken one of Harry's shirts — it was his old Puddlemere United shirt that he usually wore to bed and that had a rip in the left shoulder, just below the collar — and was stroking it absently, plying the worn cotton between her fingers.

In his head, Draco heard his father's voice, those clear familiar cadences.

A Malfoy does not want for anything, Draco. There should be nothing beyond your reach that you desire and cannot have, for you are what you are, and if you cannot have it, it is likely not worth desiring. Desire is a tyrannical master. You are a Malfoy and you should never let yourself be mastered by anything that is unworthy of you.

Draco wondered if his father considered himself to be a worthy master.

Very probably he did.

"I'm going into the other room," Draco said abruptly. Hermione looked up, surprised, but before she could inquire further, he had walked out, and slammed the door behind him.

"And Pansy masterminded all this? Pansy Parkinson?" Sirius said, for what, Ginny thought irritably, had to be the sixth time.

She had no idea why this was so difficult to believe. She had never liked Pansy and had always assumed her to be a bad lot. That Pansy would attempt to kill Draco while simultaneously seducing Ron for nefarious purposes seemed to Ginny to be par for the Slytherin course.

"Yes, Pansy Parkinson," said Blaise, whose frightened expression had given way to one of slight impatience. She was sunk deep into Mr. Weasley's favorite worn green armchair, regarding Sirius and Lupin across the coffee table with a warily defensive expression. The table, like every other surface in the living room, was strewn with books and papers and Lupin's discarded chocolate wrappers. "Never trust a girl who wears green and orange together, I always say."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Lupin, dryly. "Do you have any idea how many other students knew what she was up to?"

"Malcolm, maybe," said Blaise thoughtfully. "They were close. Millicent might have known something. Other than that, I don't think most of us had more than a general idea that something bad was coming."

"And you didn't think it necessary to tell anyone this?" Sirius asked. His tone was edgy.

Blaise, curled deeply into the armchair, raised her chin. "Why would I?"

she said shortly. "You treat us Slytherins like second-class citizens, you know you do. You think we're all liars, untrustworthy. You would only have thought it was some kind of plot, and Pansy would have thrown the blame on me, and I'd have been expelled. And then when the Death Eaters came to punish my family, who would have stood up to protect us? Your precious Harry Potter? He only looks after his own."

"But you're telling us now," Lupin said, more gently.

Blaise glanced down, but before she could respond, the door opened and Charlie came in. Ginny suspected he had been doing the washing up; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his hands and shirt with splashed with water. "Ginny," he said. "I need you in the kitchen."

"Charlie, not now — " Ginny began.

He quelled her with a look. "NOW, Virginia."

Sulkily, she unwound herself from the sofa, and followed him into the hall. "Can't I help with the washing up later?"

Charlie snorted. "You think I called you out here for the washing up?"

"Didn't you?"

"Only if you define "washing up' as 'a tall blond obnoxious Slytherin you seem to cherish an unlikely fondness for'."

Ginny stopped dead. "Draco?"

"No, the other tall blond obnoxious Slytherin — oh, what's the use." Charlie broke off with a sigh. "In the kitchen," he said.

Ginny ran down the corridor, then stopped in front of the kitchen door, and composed herself. She would not run to talk to Draco Malfoy. He did not deserve it. Also, he would make fun of her and she was not in the mood. She pushed the kitchen door open and glided inside.

It took her a moment to realize the kitchen was empty. She stared around in surprise. Was Charlie playing a joke on her? If so, he would pay. She had some of Fred and George's prototype Rodent Ripples in her room. If this was Charlie's idea of funny, he could spend the next week gnawing the furniture and trying to build a dam out of chair legs.

"Over here, Weasley." Draco's voice came from behind her, slightly tinged with exasperation. "Didn't Charlie tell you…?"

Ginny whirled around. Oh, of course. The fire in the grate was low, and there in the fireplace, visible from the waist up, was Draco. He was wearing a thoughtful expression and a vastly oversized black jumper with red stripes around the sleeves.

"Is there some reason you're wearing a Bulgarian Quidditch jersey?" Ginny asked him, keeping her voice determinedly casual.

He squinted at her. Little flames were licking up engagingly around his face and hair, making him look as if he had been outlined in metallic ink.

A golden boy. "Come over here," he said. "I can hardly see you."

She went over and knelt down next to the grate. "Where are you?" she asked.

"Prague," he said, and she knew from his tone that that was all he was going to say about it.

"And have you found Harry?"

He shook his head, and sparks flew around his hair. "Not yet, but we're close."

"So you're what? Just popping by to say hello?"

"Maybe I wanted to see you."

"No, you didn't. You want something. What?"

"My, you've become a cynic," he said. "Whither all that charming optimism of yours? You sound like me."

"Don't evade the point," Ginny said. "I'm too tired to go back and forth with you."

"Fine," Draco said with a shrug. "I wanted to know if you'd heard any news about Tom."

"Tom?" Ginny shook her head. "No. We don't exactly have the sort of relationship where he sends me postcards."

"Well, given that he's dementedly obsessed with you, I thought he might have made some attempt at contact."

Ginny flushed. "He's not dementedly obsessed with me."

"Yes, he is," Draco said. "Trust me, I know a thing or two about demented obsessions."

"I suppose you do," Ginny said dryly. "Anyway, no, I have no idea what's happening with him, and if you think that isn't bothering me — "

"I think he might have gone to see my father," Draco interrupted.

Ginny gaped. "What?"

"I was at my father's office today," Draco said. "His secretary did a double-take when he saw me. I think he thought I was someone else, someone he recognized. Now, I suppose there could be a plethora of blond teenage boys making their way in and out of my father's office at all hours, but that's a troubling and I must say, rather unlikely scenario. I think he assumed I was…"

"Tom," Ginny said, her voice wavering. "But why would he go see your father? Why?"

"They knew each other at school," Draco said. "They were friends. Perhaps he was looking for help. Maybe he needed a golfing partner. Who knows?"

He shrugged. "Also, on my father's desk, I found this." He reached a hand out from the flames, a small piece of parchment held between his fingers.