Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"Let me go." Draco was panting too, the breath knocked out of him by the fall and his own blind fury. "I said let me go, Potter!"

"Don't call me that."

Draco spat at him. "Harry."

"Swear you won't run if I let you go."

'I won't swear anything of the sort."

"I'm happy to stay here all night like this. It's more uncomfortable for you than it is for me."

Draco changed tack. "I thought you said you were still my friend," he said, his voice acidly bitter, "I thought you were going to let me have a choice -

"

'I don't know if we're friends. I don't know anything for sure, except that you can't leave like this."

"I can do whatever I want!"

'No,' Harry said, "you can't."

"What gives you the right to tell me what to do?" Draco snarled.

"I love you," Harry said. "That's what."

Several things happened after that in quick succession. Draco's eyes went almost impossibly wide and his mouth dropped open; Harry had never seen him look like that, and in another situation he would probably have found it funny. He didn't now. He found it even less funny a moment later, when Draco, going rigid all over, jerked away from Harry so violently that his shirt tore. His face was a white mask of astonishment and dawning anger.

"That,' he hissed, glaring at Harry, "is so — you're so — that's so bloody unfair!" and his voice cracked on the last word, but before Harry had a chance to respond the bedroom door tore off its hinges with an explosive screech of splintering metal and shattering wood.

It crashed to the floor an inch from Harry's feet, sending dust and splinters flying through the air. There was the sound of shouting, and a moment later hands had caught hold of Draco and flung him off Harry.

He hit the far wall and crumpled; Harry began to struggle to his feet, but one set of hands caught hold of his arms, while another hand pressed a sharp blade to his throat. Something dark was flung over his eyes, cutting off his vision. "Get his hand — his right hand," he heard a voice bark just by his ear, and his wrist was grabbed and held. He felt himself being pressed back against the floor, the hilt of the sword jamming painfully into his back. He flinched, and the grip on his arm tightened. "Move," said the voice, "and I'll cut both your throats — starting with your friend's…"

References:

Sic oculus, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat: "Such eyes, such hands, such looks." From the Aeneid.

Take heed; for I hold vengeance in my hand, to hurl upon their heads that break my law: Adapted from:

Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hand, To hurl upon their heads that break his law. Shakespeare, Richard III.

"I have learned to hate all traitors…" Aeschylus.

"Desire is a tyrannical master": Socrates. I seem to be in some Classics phase.

'Denn die Toten reiten schnell: The dead travel fast. From Dracula.

Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose: The more things change, the more they stay the same. Traditional proverb.

Fleur's French lullaby is traditional and translates thusly (with many, many thanks to Glowfrog for the lyrics):

To the clear fountain

I went to walk

I found the water so beautiful

That I bathed in it.

Under the leaves of an oak tree

I let myself dry

On its highest branch

A nightingale was singing.

I have loved you for a long time

I will never forget you

I have loved you for a long time

I will never forget you.

"Your definition of fine is obviously not the same as mine" — Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

"Man, That's Grapefruit": "Why I Hate Saturn" by Kyle Baker.

For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks; the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.

Rainer Maria Rilke

It was raining again when Ginny landed her broomstick on the path that led up to Pansy Parkinson's front door. The snow was melting into slush that soaked her boots as she raced up the path, flinging her broomstick aside when she reached the porch steps. Rain was dripping from her hair into her eyes; she shoved the wet strands impatiently out of her face and saw that the front door was open — not wide open but slightly ajar, as if her arrival had been expected.

She shivered all over once, hard. Then she drew her wand and pushed the door open, stepping cautiously over the threshold.

The foyer was full of light, a sort of pale, harsh gold light that hurt the backs of her eyes. Several candles burned in silver sconces against the walls but that was not the source of the light. It seemed to come from the air all around, and carried with it a bitter scent, as of something burning.

Ginny half-closed her eyes — he was all around her, in the air, in the sharp coppery taste inside her mouth. Her heart began to pound in earnest. He was somewhere in this house, somewhere beyond one of the corridors that led off the foyer, waiting for her there in the darkness, blue eyes burning like gas flames turned low.

She knew she ought to be terrified, and some small part of her was. And yet what knotted her stomach, dried her mouth, set her nerves to pounding, was not fear — it was anticipation. Her brain told her that death waited there in the shadows; her heartbeat said Tom, where are you, Tom?

She bit her lip hard, but even the pain didn't help; what had happened to her willpower? Willpower. Her heart jumped again, and Ginny plunged her hand into her pocket, terrified for a moment she had left it — but no, her fingers closed on the small, blooming branch, and when she drew it out of her pocket she saw that it was remarkably undamaged, the small yellow flowers still fresh and unbruised. She pulled one off and placed it on her tongue. It tasted faintly of butter. She put the rest of the plant back in her pocket, tightened her grip on her wand, and set off down the leftmost corridor, where the sense of Tom's presence was strongest.

The corridor led to a grander entryway, this one with a marble floor. A set of wide stone stairs with a gilded balustrade led up into shadow. At the foot of the steps was a heaped pile of pale fabric. Coming closer, Ginny saw that it was her yellow cloak. The hood of it was half torn away.

Blaise.

Ginny caught her breath. A moment later she was racing up the stairs, her wet shoes slipping on the smooth steps, her blood pounding harshly in her ears. She stumbled onto the first landing, hurling herself forward, tripping and almost falling over something sprawled at the foot of the second set of stairs. She caught at the balustrade to steady herself, staring.

It was a body.

When at last Hermione regained consciousness, the first thing she did was open her eyes. This turned out to be a mistake. She was two hundred feet above the ground, racing along at incredible speed with no visible means of support. She promptly fainted again.

The second time she opened her eyes, she was above mountains. This time, though her stomach lurched with nausea and her mind reeled with terror, she remained conscious. Her first thought was that she was on an invisible flying carpet, but then she felt nothing under her, supporting her. Instead she was dangling, like a kitten by the scruff of its neck.

Slowly she craned around and looked up; it was difficult, with her hair whipping in her face, but she had been right: there was someone holding her, a man with long dark hair and a thin cruel face. His eyes burned. He bent his lips to her ear, "So you are awake at last, little witch," he hissed.