Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Blaise was staring at him open-mouthed. "You're a complete lunatic, is what you are."

But he seemed hardly to hear her. He was staring at Ginny, and his eyes were burning — and in their lighted depths, Ginny saw a heat that could char her to kindling, melt her down and make her anew. "This isn't about her, Tom," she said. "This is about us. You and me."

He nodded, and rose to his feet, light and graceful in his bloodstained shirt. "Then what is it that you want, Virginia?"

Ginny looked at him levelly. "To finish this," she said, and walked out of the room.

Harry let the shower water run as hot as he could stand, then stood under it for a long time, letting it sluice the blood and dirt off his skin. He felt bruised all over, outside as well as in. He swallowed water and soap, spat, closed his eyes and raised his face to let the water run over his mouth and eyelids.

Alone now without Draco, he was acutely conscious of the beat of his own heart, the sting of his bruised skin where the hot water ran over it. He only dimly remembered whatever it was Draco had said to him in the kitchen but being held onto like that had been like having an arrow pulled out of his chest: the agony was gone now, though the wound remained.

When the water had run clear for several minutes, Harry shut the shower off, put his trousers on, and padded barefoot back into the bedroom, toweling off his hair as he went. Draco was already in there, sorting through Viktor's pile of weapons. He looked up when Harry came in.

"You changed," Harry said. "Are those your clothes?"

Draco glanced down at himself. He was wearing all black: black boots, black trousers, a rusty black pullover that was a little too big, a black cloak on over it. He seemed disinclined to look directly at Harry. "These are Viktor's," he said. "I took them out of his closet."He shrugged. "My bags haven't gotten here yet and I didn't want to borrow anything of yours."

"You could have if you wanted," Harry said. "You look sort of depressing. I mean, you don't look bad," he added hastily as Draco's expression darkened. "Black suits you."

"Looking Better in Black Than the Widows of Our Enemies Since 1500,"

Draco said. "It's a Malfoy family motto." He quirked a half-smile at Harry.

"What about you? You know what they say, 'No Shoes, No Shirt, No Epic Defeat of the Dark Forces."

Harry tossed the towel he was carrying onto the bed and looked around for his bags. "I was planning on putting a shirt on."

"Well, before you do," Draco said, straightening up, "come here."

Harry went over to him, stepping carefully around the piles of knives and spiked maces. Draco was standing up now, and holding something in his left hand; he said, "Hold your hands out," and Harry did, palms down, very curious now. Draco still wasn't looking directly at him, but down at his hands, his expression thoughtful. "Don't fidget," he said, and reached for Harry's right hand. Harry realized that what Draco was holding in his hand was some sort of set of cuffs or bracelets, made of very soft leather.

Draco buckled one around Harry's right wrist and the second around his left, then stepped back and surveyed his work critically. "Do they hurt?"

he asked.

"No," said Harry, flexing his wrists. "Is there a point to these, or are you just being kinky?"

"There's a point to them. Here." Draco took Harry's right hand, turned it over, and pushed his fingers down. Harry felt the cuff around his wrist tighten; there was a swish-thuk noise, and suddenly there was a knife embedded in the floor at Harry's feet, its hilt quivering slightly. "It's enchanted," Draco said, his tone satisfied, as if he'd enchanted it himself.

"To throw knives. You'll never run out, either."

"This," Harry said, "will come in extremely handy at picnics."

He couldn't tell if Draco smiled at that or not; Draco was still carefully avoiding looking at him. "Just don't make any really sudden moves,"

Draco said, "you might impale your foot."

'I won't," Harry toyed with the cuff on his left wrist. "Are you all right?

You won't look at me."

Draco sighed and raised his eyes to Harry's. "I thought you might mind being given weapons," he said. "So soon — but you'll need them, and I'd rather you were properly armed, and we haven't got much time-"

"It's all right," Harry said. "Where is the… the body?"

"I'll show you," Draco said. "As soon as you're ready to go." He paused.

"You really don't mind them, then?"

Harry held his arms out. "The buckles are too loose," he said. "Can you tighten them?"

Draco hesitated a moment before starting on the left cuff. His touch was fast and gentle. Harry looked at him curiously, unable to see his face, just the bent fair head, the dangling locks of white-blond hair and the flushed tips of his ears. "You're not going to leave now," Harry said. It wasn't really a question. "What you said before, about going back to England — "

"Of course not," Draco said. "I want to find her as much as you do."

"Maybe not quite as much," Harry said.

Draco shrugged and started on the other cuff. 'I said I'd go with you. I'll go."

"What you said before, in the kitchen, about me being honest," Harry said.

Draco tensed; Harry could feel the tightening grip on his wrist. "Yes?"

I wanted to thank you," Harry said. "I thought, the way you were talking last night, that you hated me — that you'd always hate me."

Draco's tone was guarded. "I don't hate you."

"But then in the kitchen," Harry said, "it sounded like maybe you didn't.

Like maybe you still have faith in me. And I need that — I need you to have faith in me, because if you don't " He let his voice trail off.

'And you think I do? Have faith in you, that is?"

'Do you?"

Draco gave the buckle a final tug. 'You're the only thing I ever have had faith in."

Harry said nothing to that. There seemed nothing to say. Draco released his grip on Harry's wrist, and raised his face to Harry. There were faint lines of tiredness under his clear eyes. "There," he said.

"Do you — does that mean we're friends again?" Harry asked.

"No," Draco said. He took a step backward, picked up the sword belt from the bed, and slung it around his waist. His fingers, where they touched the buckled fastenings, were shaking slightly. "You ask too many questions, Potter. Come on. Let's get ready to go."

He went through the door, and Harry could hear the sound of his boots, fading away down the narrow hallway. Harry looked after him and for a moment, heard a dull roaring in his ears that was like the sound of the sea. Love is faith, he thought, and bent down to pick up his sword.

She heard his footsteps behind her as she walked down the corridor, but she did not stop and turn until she had reached the landing on top of the stairs. When she did, she found he was just behind her, still faintly smiling, and looking at her expectantly. In the red light of the chandelier the blood on his shirt looked hyper-real, like spilled red wine.

"Don't hurt her," Ginny said, without preamble.

Tom lowered his eyelashes demurely. "Don't hurt who?"

"You know perfectly well who I mean," Ginny said wearily. "You've already killed Pansy — you can't hurt her any more."

His eyes gleamed. "I would not be too sure of that. I know spells that can bring a man back from the dead that he might be tortured again and again without recourse to escape."

Ginny shuddered, but held firm. "I meant Blaise," she said. "I want you to let her go."

"I did not know," said Tom, "that she was so dear to you."

"She is not dear to me," Ginny said, falling inadvertently into the rhythmic cadences of his speech. "But I cannot bear the guilt of another death laid at my door."