Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"Let me go!" Hermione screamed, writhing.

He grinned. "With pleasure," he laughed, and released his grip on her shirt. Screaming in terror, she plummeted down, hands sawing helplessly at empty air -

And landed, hard, atop the roof of a tower that had appeared out of nowhere. Impact knocked the wind out of her, cutting off her scream. She rolled over onto her stomach, blinking back tears of pain, and saw the black-haired man alight, still grinning and light as a cat, a few feet away.

"I'm so sorry," he said. His voice was accented, the vowels thick and liquid. He was very pale, with thin lips drawn back over long — too — long -

teeth in a snarl of amusement. His fingers, bare and white, seemed also too long, and there was something unpleasant about the way he moved, too quick and light for an ordinary person. "That was terribly rude of me.

You did seem to be sleeping so pleasantly through most of our journey, it's quite a shame. I do admire those who can sleep through air travel." He smiled, engagingly.

Breath had finally come back to her lungs, and with it, a cold pain and panic. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

"I am Gabriel," he said, and swept her a small, mocking bow. "I serve He Who Rules the Shadows."

"He who what?"

"Rules the shadows," said Gabriel with a touch of impatience. "Look, it's a ceremonial title, I didn't make it up. He Who Rules the Shadows, the Bringer of Night, the Death-Dealer, the Dark Lord — "

"You mean," Hermione said, sitting up straight, "Voldemort."

Gabriel waved a thin white hand. "Such an unaesthetic choice for a name," he murmured. 'I much prefer the titles myself."

Hermione shivered — it was freezing up on the roof, and she was wearing only Harry's old Puddlemere United shirt and a pair of jeans. "So Voldemort's your master? What does he want with me?"

Gabriel shrugged. "I don't much know — or care," he admitted candidly.

"All I know, little witch, is what is written, and it is written that the dark lord will perform the Rite of the Tetragrammaton and it will bring him life eternal — "

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself and glared. "Your prophecy is wrong. I know what's really going to happen. Harry is going to destroy your precious Dark Lord; he's going to banish him down to Hell like he did to Salazar Slytherin, and when he does, you'd better pray he shows you and all Voldemort's other filthy minions the mercy you don't deserve."

For a moment, she thought she saw Gabriel's lips tighten, but then he merely smiled, his long canines showing stark white against his too-red lips.

"Nonsense," he murmured, his tone caressing, "do you think my only order was to fetch you, little witch, do you think you are the only one who matters? I left several Death Eaters there, my best men, trained killers. If your Harry is not quite dead already, he will be very soon."

As always in times of great stress or agitation, everything seemed to snap sharply into focus for Harry at once — although, of course, he could not see, so that focus took the shape of a swift and intense awareness of the hard floor under his back, the hilt of the sword digging into his spine, the rough coarseness of the ropes binding his wrists behind him — he didn't even remember the men binding his wrists, they must have done it with a spell — the sharp tip of the knife pricking just under his chin. There was pain, somewhere, localized beyond the pain at his throat, as if his skin were torn -

Draco, he thought, hard and feverishly, Draco, where are you, are you all right?

There was a pause, just long enough to be agonizing, during which Harry tried to ignore the voices of the men kneeling over him, speaking roughly to each other in some foreign language he didn't recognize. Then: I'm here. Over by the wall. Draco's interior voice, cool and careful and familiar. Can you see anything?

No. Harry swallowed hard, and the knifepoint scraped his throat. Are you hurt?

No — they tied my feet and my hands, though. I don't think they think I'm much of a threat, anyway. It's you they seem to be interested in.

Lucky me, Harry thought dryly. What are they doing now? How many are there?

Talking…Draco's tone was hesitant. I don't know the language. There are two of them, Harry; one kneeling over you, and one standing behind him, nearer me. The one has a knife at your throat. The other one is holding a wand, he's got a sword through his belt, too.

There must be something I can do, Harry thought. They don't know we can talk to each other -

Yes, and a lot of good it does us, Draco thought with customary bitterness.

A moment later, however, he spoke again, thoughtfully: Your sword is pinned under you. If you lean back, could you use it to cut your wrists free?

Harry did not reply, but only let his weight settle farther back, pushing his wrists down towards his heels. His shoulders ached but he ignored them, fumbling with numb fingers for the sharp edge along the blade's side — If only I could see, he thought, desperately, and for a moment did not realize that his mind was still connected to Draco's and of course the other boy would hear him; Harry had been alone in his mind for too long.

Harry — Draco's thought cut itself off, and Harry felt the other boy's mind brush his, as if fingers scraped lightly over his skin, seeking something. It did not hurt but was startling; Harry jumped, and felt a twofold pain: the knife under his chin, and the slice of the blade under his hands. He pressed down with his hands, the sting at his wrists sharp even as the ropes, fraying, began to loosen -

Light burst behind his eyes. For a moment, gasping, he froze, as the world swung crazily around him. Although the rough cloth still pressed against his shut eyes, he could see, could see the room he sat in, the two heavyset men in their dark robes, leaning over him, could see himself, on the floor, a cloth bag over his head, the neck of his shirt open and the knife pressed to the pulse that beat there. What he could not see, was Draco; and Harry realized, after the first frozen moment, that this was because he was seeing as Draco, that he looked through the other boy's eyes as if through a kaleidescope or a double pane of glass.

He expelled a whistling breath of shock, and at that moment, the rope that pulled between his wrists, frayed beyond endurance, sprang apart.

The sword — Draco said aloud, and the man kneeling over Harry started and turned to the side, the knife in his hand lowering, not much but it was enough — Harry, his hands freed, was already seizing the hilt, swinging the blade up and over, driving it down. He saw light glint from the blade as it flashed its descent, heard a choked howl in his ear as it drove through flesh and muscle, scraping bone.

Something wetly hot poured down over Harry, as if he'd upended a hot water bottle on himself. Eyes screwed shut, Harry couldn't tell what it was, just that there was a great deal of it. He swung the sword again, and again, and again, and heard yells and a dull thudding and then the one voice he could still have listened to was shouting at him to stop and drop his hands. He let go the hilt, and darkness banded his vision; fingers found the cloth covering his eyes, and tore it away, and he stared up at wide, ice-water eyes in a face gone gray as a winter sky.

"What's happened?" Harry said, wildly. There was a terrible pain in his wrists and he was soaked, drenched in something, his hair hanging in sopping tendrils. "What's all over me — "

Draco took him by the shoulders, hard, and held him there. His voice was steady. "You've killed him, Harry, he's dead. You've killed him, and you're covered in blood."

"What do you mean, he needs my blood?" Ron demanded, a cold chill prickling the skin on the back of his neck.