Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Harry was silent for a moment. "I thought you were done being my friend," he said finally.

"That doesn't matter," Draco said, "that doesn't have anything do to with this."

Harry laughed shakily. "Sometimes I wish you'd lie to me," he said, "just a little."

"No, you don't."

"You're right. I don't." Harry let go of Draco's shirt entirely, but didn't move away from him. "Malfoy…?"

"Yes?"

"What's the difference between being strong enough to do things you know are evil, and actually being evil, then?"

"I don't know." Draco paused for a moment, thought about the difference between defeat and acceptance, and the blood on Harry's hands that had transferred itself to his own clothes and skin, and the fact that he didn't mind. "I don't know, Potter. I really don't know."

In the half-light all Ginny could see was a tangle of black fabric and a sprawl of slim, pale limbs; an arm flung out at an angle, legs bent towards the chest, a white throat splashed with black blood. No pulse in the throat. Fingers bent into claws. The wand clattered out of Ginny's nerveless fingers as she flung herself down by the corpse, put her hand on the shoulder, pulled -

It rolled towards her and Ginny jerked her hand back, a sharp cry escaping her throat. Bulging eyes stared at her out of a face so distorted with horror that it was barely recognizable, but Ginny would have known her anyway by the gaudy barrettes, the tangle of dark brown hair, the bitter little mouth: Pansy Parkinson.

There was no wound on her that Ginny could see, but the white front of her shirt was stained with red, and there was blood in her brown hair. For a moment Ginny thought of unbuttoning her shirt to see what Tom had done to her, but she quailed; what did it matter, anyway? What mattered was that she was dead.

Gently, she reached out and, with the tips of her fingers, closed Pansy's staring eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, very softly, but her voice seemed to echo anyway in the empty stairwell, and the echoes that bounced back to her whispered the same two words over and over: your fault, your fault, your fault.

'No," Ginny hissed under her breath, and reached out to the wall behind her, hitching herself to her feet, "no — "

"There's no need for you to cry, Ginny," His voice came light and soft, and the torches along the walls seemed to flicker, or perhaps it was her own dimming vision. "Don't pretend you care that she's dead; she always hated you. She told me that, among other things, before I killed her."

It took every bit of Ginny's amplified willpower for her to raise her head and look at him. He was standing at the top of the stairs, just where the shadows were darkest. The faint torchlight knitted itself around his pale hands and face, his barleycorn hair. His mouth was curved into a lucid and passionless grin and his eyes, as they fixed themselves on her, were full of hunger.

"I knew you'd come," he whispered. "I knew it." His gaze was satisfied.

"You belong to me."

Rage exploded behind Ginny's eyes, almost blinding her. Wandless, she flung herself up the stairs, running — hurled herself at him, her fingers curled into claws — and struck the ground, hard, bruising her hands and knees.

There was no one there.

She struggled to her feet, casting around wildly, but he was gone — she was alone at the top of the twisting staircase. Below her Pansy lay dead in her own blood on the landing. Above her — Ginny looked up, but there was nothing, only the immense chandelier hanging still and lifeless, its pendant drops of dark red cut glass glimmering with a dull fire.

I could leave, she thought. I could run down the stairs and out of the house and he wouldn't follow me.

He wouldn't have to. Tom knew she would come back. She would always come back to him. Hate wedded her to him, stronger than love, more enduring. Hatred's an emotion you can trust, Draco had said to her. You always know where you stand with it.

Straightening her shoulders, Ginny turned from the stairs to the corridor, and began to walk forward.

Ron was only halfway up the narrow stone staircase when his breath began to puff out of his mouth in small white clouds. God, it was freezing, he thought. Fear for Hermione made his blood pound in his ears. The sides of the tower were so steep; it was so cold -

He reached the top of the stairs, pushed the wooden door open, and found himself atop the North Tower. The flat stone floor stretched away to the battlements, and the sky above was a pebbly gray. A knifelike wind blew fine particles of snow against his bare face. He raised an arm to shield his eyes and called out. "Hermione!"

A long moment passed before he heard her reply and even then, he almost mistook it for more wind. Spinning around, he saw a dark shape huddled against the wall of the inner tower.

He raced over and knelt down beside her. She was huddled in against herself, her thin bare arms wrapped around her denim-clad legs. When she raised her face to his, he saw that her lips were tinged with blue.

"Ron," she said, shakily. "What — w-what are you — "

But her teeth were chattering too hard for her to get the words out.

Quickly, Ron shrugged off his blue cloak and slung it around her shoulders. clutched at it, and then at him as he helped her to her feet.

"We've got to get you inside," he muttered, and pulled her to her feet.

She held tightly to his arm as they crossed the roof through the snow. Her fingers felt like wands of ice pressed against his bare skin. When they were finally inside the tower, he pushed the door shut against the wind and turned to face her, his eyes searching her face anxiously.

"Hermione are you all right?"

She had let go of him, and was standing huddled underneath the heavy blue cloak he had draped around her. Under the cloak, her right hand was pressed to her side; for a moment he thought she was in pain, then realized she was holding something against her side. He caught a flash of silver — a knife, perhaps? Her lips and eyelids were tinged faintly with blue, and her hair stuck to her cheeks and forehead in limp brown tendrils. "Ron," she said, her voice hoarse. "What are you doing here?"

'I was captured by the Dark Lord," Ron said, "and brought here just like you. I don't even know how long I've been here, Hermione, how many days "

'You don't look like a prisoner." She gestured at his clothes. "You look like you're ready for a fancy dress party."

"Hermione — " Ron reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrank away from him. Her eyes were filled with suspicion. Ron felt as if he had swallowed a block of ice — to have endured so much, and still to be distrusted — "Fine," he said, shortly, and turned to head back down the staircase. After a moment, she followed him.

The first three rooms Ginny glanced into were empty. The third was not.

It was a bedroom, probably a spare room, furnished in dark yellow velvet.

On a brocade chair in the middle of the room sat Blaise. Ropes circled her waist, securing her to the chair's mahogany back, and thin cords tightly bound her wrists. A pale green kerchief was stuffed in her mouth. Her eyes, a much darker green, widened when she saw Ginny, then began darting wildly around the room.

Ginny raised a finger to her lips, then stepped forward and drew the kerchief from Blaise's mouth. The other girl gasped and licked her dry lips. Up close Ginny could see that her eyes were full of tears, although knowing Blaise, they were probably tears of rage or pain rather than fear.