Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"If you say so."

"You asked Hermione yet?"

Harry looked taken aback. "Well, no. I just assumed…why do you ask?"

Alarm was creeping into his voice. "She didn't say she wanted to go with anyone else, did she?"

"No, idiot. It's just…well, you're not going to win any points not asking.

Nobody likes to be taken for granted, Hermione especially."

Harry's mouth twitched. Ron wondered if he was remembering their fourth year. Next time, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort! It was the first time Ron had really seen Hermione angry, not counting the time she'd slapped Malfoy across the face. The memory made him smile now — both memories actually. "Right then," said Harry.

"I'll ask her." He scuffed moodily at the snow with the toe of his lace-up boot. It was black dragonhide, waterproofed. One thing Ron had noticed: even as Harry's moods seemed to have deteriorated, his wardrobe had improved. Gone were most of his sweaters with holes in the shoulders, the too-small shirts that rode up over his wrists, the well-used trainers. Ron had no idea if this was Draco's influence or if it was just that Harry now had a girlfriend who took an interest in what he wore. "Ron…?"

'What?"

Harry opened his mouth to speak, then paused, looking ahead of them.

Ron followed his gaze and saw Pansy Parkinson coming over the small rise that led up from Hogsmeade. She was carrying a sheaf of parchments in her hands.

She smirked when she saw them. "Hello, Ron, Harry," she said. "Shouldn't you be in Care of Magical Creatures?"

Ron regarded her irritably. It was no wonder Pansy didn't have a date for the pub crawl, she was even more bossy that Hermione but without Hermione's endearing kindness and generosity. Also, while he didn't know much about women's fashions, he was fairly sure it was not in the best of taste to wear orange, bright blue, green and yellow all at once. The combination made her look even more sallow than she usually did. There were probably boys who would have been attracted to Pansy's brand of hard-faced prettiness; Ron was not one of them. "What're you up to, Pansy?"

"Got permission to come down to Hogsmeade and distribute the leaflets about the Pub Crawl," she said in a superior tone. "Did you?"

"No, we're skiving," said Harry crossly. "Do run back and tell everyone all about it."

"We're on business," elaborated Ron. "Going to the Wheezes factory.

Dumbledore gave us passes, so no point squealing."

"As if I would anyway," said Pansy, looking indignant.

"Of course you would, if you thought it would do you the blindest bit of good," said Harry, in a tone that surprised Ron with its harshness.

"Goodbye, Pansy."

And he turned and stalked off, so that Ron was forced to spin round and follow him. "Cor, Harry," he said, catching up. "What was all that?"

"I don't like her," said Harry, and his mouth was set in a hard straight line. "She makes my skin crawl."

Ron snorted. "You're the one who's all Up-With-Slytherin, not me."

Harry continued to stalk, kicking up lace-like sprays of snow with his boots. "Yeah, right. Whatever. I don't expect you to understand."

"Harry-" Ron began, exasperated, but he could tell from the tense set of Harry's back that there was no point pursuing the matter. Instead he paused, and looked back over his shoulder. Pansy was still standing there in the middle of the snowy trail, looking back at them, and for a moment he saw a flash of what looked like utter malice cross her face. Then she turned and started back down the path and was soon lost among the trees.

Having nearly fallen asleep in History of Magic, Draco was almost late to Care of Magical Creatures. The other students were already there, although Charlie had not yet arrived. As he approached the snow field where they were meeting, he saw that a little ways away from the rest of the Gryffindors, gazing off towards the Forbidden Forest with a distracted expression, was Hermione, looking very much alone. Without either Harry or Ron bookending her, she looked smaller than she usually did and more fragile. It was odd that they weren't there yet — officially class had already started. Walking past Hermione towards the grouped members of his House, Draco paused, swore, knelt down in front of her and proceeded to pretend to be tying his shoe. Out of the corner of his mouth, he hissed, "Where's Harry? And Weasley, for that matter?"

Hermione jumped slightly, then busied herself tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. "They went to Hogsmeade with some Pub Crawl paperwork. Dumbledore gave Ron a pass."

"But not Harry?"

"I don't think so."

"So he's just skiving then."

Hermione looked unhappy. "Maybe he's on his way."

"Maybe." Draco abandoned the pretense of tying his shoe, stood up, and went to stand with the rest of the Slytherins. Blaise caught at his hand and gave it a quick squeeze of welcome as he joined the group.

"You're late," she said, smiling up at him.

"I stopped off in Madam Hooch's office to reschedule yesterday's match,"

Draco replied.

"We won that," said Malcolm Baddock mutinously, pushing his dark fringe away from his pale, sharp-featured face. "Fair and square."

"We never win anything fair and square, Malcolm," said Draco. "We're Slytherins, let me remind you. Not Hufflepuffs. We win by employing guile."

"And cheating," added Blaise.

"Also cheating," Draco agreed.

"Look," said Blaise, her green eyes going very wide and saucery. Draco turned to see what she was looking at, and saw Charlie coming down the path towards them, swathed in a dark winter cloak. He was pulling behind him something that looked like a large trolley on wheels, which was draped with a heavy tarpaulin fabric covering. From beneath the fabric covering, what looked like thick white steam was rising.

"I wonder what he's got in there," said Malcolm, interested.

"I think I know," said Draco, with certainty. Only one thing made Charlie light up that way. "It's got to be — "

"Dragons," said Charlie loudly, stopping in between the groups of students and letting go of his trolley, which sat and steamed beside him, "are the most fascinating magical creatures in existence."

The whole class nodded. Everyone loved Charlie. Even the frosty Slytherins had melted a little under his relentlessly outgoing charm, and some of the Slytherin girls grew almost giggly when he was around. He was young enough to be the sort of teacher that students had crushes on, and true to form, quite a few of the seventh-year girls in all the houses fancied Charlie. If he'd said that trolls were fascinating conversationalists and Cornish pixies made good study partners, they would have nodded along with him.

"I've been working with dragons for six years," Charlie went on equably, "and there is no animal more misunderstood in the wizarding world. The one I've got here under this covering is only one week old. Now…" he glanced around the class, and Draco saw his eyebrows draw together as he registered Harry's absence. "Right," he went on, "who here wants to see a real live baby dragon?"

The class chorused their eagerness, even the normally reserved Slytherins managing an affirmative-sounding mutter. With a cheerful grin, Charlie picked up two objects from the top of the trolley — thick fireproof gloves -

and stripped off the heavy cloak he was wearing to reveal underneath it his battered jacket and trousers of black dragonhide leather. A happy little gasp of appreciation escaped several female members of the class, which Charlie apparently didn't notice — or if he did, he was doing an excellent job of pretending to be oblivious.