Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Tom shrugged. "You make much out of nothing."

Ginny shook her head. "You don't understand guilt," she said. "I wouldn't expect you to. But it is its own form of torture."

Tom's blue eyes narrowed. "You cannot honestly imagine," he said, "that I would spare her at your request. Not when I am unwilling to spare you."

Ginny hesitated. Tom stood still, looking at her, his hands at his sides. In the silence between them, she was agonizingly aware of the loud tick of the clock downstairs, the drift of dust in the diffused beams of torchlight, he faint tinkle of the chandelier. Tom's eyes were feline and watchful.

They held a clear and malicious amusement. No, he would never spare her. He had waited too long for that.

But I don't need you to spare me, Tom, she thought. She raised her head.

Almost without her own volition, her hands went to the clasp that held her still-soaking jacket together in front, and undid it. The jacket slid to her feet. Tom was watching her, his eyes beginning to narrow. Her fingers found the buttons on the front of her blouse and undid them. The wet cloth peeled away slowly, like a second skin. She let the blouse fall and shook her hair out; it fell down around her shoulders and tickled the bare skin there.

Tom was staring at her. His expression hadn't changed, only his fingers had begun to curl in towards his palms. "Virginia," he said, "what are you doing?"

Her hands went to her belt, undid it, began to slide it through the loops.

They were shaking, determined. "I'll trade you," Ginny said. 'You wanted her because she looks like me — now you have me. I'll do anything you want, anything you say. Just let her go."

They were up on the roof of Viktor's flat, and there was a rent in the eastern sky where the sun was beginning to come up, as if someone had taken a bloody knife to the lower banks of clouds. The stars were still out overhead, dim and irregular sequins that cast just enough light for Harry to clearly see Draco as he walked to the edge of the roof and looked over the side, as if he were considering jumping the distance to the next house.

Harry leaned back against a brick chimney and watched Draco as he hopped up onto the low wall that ran around the edge of the roof. His black clothes blended in with the darkness but his pale hair and face were marked out very clearly against the dark sky. Whatever it was that he was doing, he was a pleasanter sight than the corpse sprawled where Draco had left it in the middle of the balcony, its open dead eyes gaping blankly at the sky.

Draco was still standing at the roof's edge, hands in his pockets, silvery head tilted back. Harry wished he wouldn't rock back and forth like that while standing so close to a sheer drop. It wasn't good for Harry's nerves.

They tensed again as Draco abruptly turned around, ran along the wall, stared into the distance, then leaped back down onto the roof and strode over to the dead man. Drawing aside his cloak, he hooked a hand into his belt and stared down at him thoughtfully.

Harry could stand it no longer. "Amazing," he said dryly. "He's still dead."

Draco shot him a look. "Toss me one of your knives," he said.

Harry drew a knife slowly from his wrist sheath, and threw it to Draco.

Draco caught it neatly out of the air, crouched down by the dead man, and cut through the tie at the throat of his robes. They fell away, showing a black shirt underneath and, when Draco sliced through that, a quantity of unpleasantly pale and mottled skin. Black gashes snaked across the dead man's chest, crusted with dried blood.

Harry arched his eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

Draco did not reply, but turned the knife in his hand, and laid the edge against the corpse's neck. After a moment's hesitation, he sliced down, hard, neatly slitting the throat.

Harry's breath hissed through his teeth; a little dark blood seeped out around the cut, and Draco sat back on his heels. "Damn," Draco said. "We waited too long."

"Too long for what?"

"Blood," Draco said. 'His heart's stopped beating. You can't get blood out of a dead body for long after the heart's stopped pumping."

Harry arched an eyebrow at him.

"Mystery novels," Draco said, by way of explanation.

"That's not what I meant," Harry said. "I meant, there are plenty of Medical Magic spells to restart hearts that have stopped beating."

'Living hearts," Draco said.

Harry shrugged. 'There's nothing to say it couldn't work," he said, and raised his hand. He held it out towards the dead man. 'Cardiatus," he said.

The corpse jerked as if electrocuted, midsection curving upward, forming a bow shape with the head and heels still touching the ground. The dead fingers scrabbled at the roof as a black tide of blood poured from the gashed throat, spilling across the overlapping roof tiles. A high bubbling scream came from the corpse's mouth: it sounded like a pot boiling over.

Draco stepped back hastily to avoid getting blood on his boots. He looked horrified and slightly sick; he raised his hand and gestured quickly, "Finite incantatum."

The body collapsed, limp, at his feet. Its already livid skin had taken on a greenish, waxy sheen. Draco stared at it, then at Harry, his lips very white.

I'm sorry, Harry thought quickly at him, I wasn't expecting that to happen.

Draco shrugged. It worked, he thought, and then scowled. And stay out of my head.

'Sorry," Harry said again, although this time he wasn't. The sky was lighter now and he could very clearly see the bright spots of sickly color on Draco's cheekbones and the angry set of his mouth; he remembered Draco's hand awkwardly patting his back in the kitchen and thought about what a very confusing person he was. "Look, are you all right? You look — "

He broke off as a high cry split the night. Draco's head jerked up and Harry followed his gaze. The dawn sky was heavy with a clear brassy light, and Harry saw a wheeling shape, dark and winged, growing larger and larger against the fading moon, angling down towards their roof Draco's mouth curled into a satisfied smile. "Thestrals," he said.

Incense had been left burning in the clawfooted gold brazier next to the bed in Ron's quarters, and the room was full of a a heavily scented black smoke. Ron went to put the incense out while Hermione glanced around the room frowning, her eyes narrowed. "They've certainly put you up in style," she said.

"Yes," Ron said shortly. It was hot in the room, and he felt himself sweating through his lace-trimmed shirt and velvet waistcoat. "Maybe you should sit down. Rest."

"I'm all right," Hermione said. She was obviously lying. She was still very pale, her lips a dark purplish-blue, and she shivered under the cloak despite the heat in the room. "That man who brought me here — "

Lifting a slim gold poker, Ron prodded at the coals in the brazier, not looking at her. "Gabriel. He's a vampire."

"I know that, Ron," she said, with a flash of her old, superior crossness.

Her tone was acid. "Is he a friend of yours?"

Ron whirled on her, poker in hand. "Whatever you're implying, I wish you'd quit implying it and just bloody say it."

Hermione raised her chin. "Fine," she said. "Are you cooperating with the Dark Lord? Are you — working with him?"

Ron flung the poker to the ground with a clatter, and spoke between his teeth. "No," he said. "And I don't suppose it would do any good to tell you I'd never do that, because you won't believe me. So let me tell you instead that he's never asked for my cooperation, because it's the truth. He's drugged me up, and made me play chess for hours, and forced me to see visions, visions so bad I thought my head would split apart — "