Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"Oh, no," Harry exclaimed, aghast.

Draco was scarlet with the effort of not laughing. "You've eliminated one of the Dark Lord's spies!" he announced. "Perhaps you're right! Perhaps we could stroll right up to his front door, singing traditional wizarding drinking songs the entire way, and be none the worse for it. In fact…"

Draco took another swig from his bottle of brandy, tucked it under his arm, and began to warble a deliberately off-key tune.

Finished, Draco flung his now-empty brandy bottle against a nearby tree.

It shattered. Harry looked at him, at the messy blond hair and the satisfied smirk on Draco's face and the sharply drawn shadows under his eyes. "That is not a traditional wizarding drinking song," he said. "You just made that up right now."

"Maybe I did," Draco said, blinking gently. They had come out now into a field, sparsely dotted with stunted trees. Draco paused. "I need to sit down for a moment," he said, and flopped down onto the frozen grass.

"Sorry if the music wasn't quite your style, Potter."

Harry sat down next to him. The ground was cold, but it was very pleasant to rest. "It wasn't half bad," he admitted.

"Thanks," Draco drawled thoughtfully. "I think I'll dedicate it to Ginny."

"Wh- oh, never mind. I don't even want to know what you meant by that."

"No," Draco agreed, staring idly up at the sky, "you probably don't."

There was a long silence. It stretched out between them like pulled taffy.

Harry turned on his side slightly and looked at Draco, who seemed lost in thought. The moonlight blanched him; in the middle of the field, with nothing around to cast a shadow, Harry could clearly see the shadows cast by Draco's own eyelashes against the sharp tops of his cheekbones, the dark spaces below his mouth and eyes, gathering in the hollow of his bared throat. Harry wondered if he was correct about what Draco was thinking, or not.

"So, do you love her?" Harry asked.

Draco blinked. "Who?"

Okay, perhaps not. "Ginny," Harry said, with emphasis.

There was another long silence, but this one was taut. "I think what you mean when you say love, and what I mean when I say it, are two entirely different things," Draco said finally.

"That's not an answer," Harry said.

"I know it isn't," Draco said agreeably. He turned his head towards Harry, so that his cheek was pillowed on his hand. The moonlight washed his eyes out, turned them white and blind. "What's it to you, Potter?"

"Can't it just be natural curiosity?"

Draco laughed, and the dry grass stirred with his breath. "Or you want me out of your way."

"I don't," Harry said evenly, "want you out of my way."

Draco's gaze scanned Harry quickly. In the pale light, his lashes were the same color as the dry straw, his hair a few shades lighter and his skin lighter still. Harry remembered the Draco of his dream, older and with all the flaring curves of chin and cheek and jaw gone to hard straight lines. "I don't know," he said finally. "Sometimes I think I could. But then, sometimes I used to think I could beat you at Quidditch. I could picture it so clearly, it was like it was happening. I could feel the wind in my hair and the Snitch in my hand, me closing my fingers over it…" His voice had turned drowsy."..you know the way it feels, when you hold it in your hand, and it beats like a heart?"

"Yes," Harry said quietly.

"Sometimes you want things so badly, you picture them so clearly, it's as if they're already real."

"And you want…Ginny?" Harry asked, utterly confused. "So you do love her."

"I want," Draco said, "to be able to love her. Sometimes I think I could. I can picture it. I think it would make me happy. But I think perhaps it's not in my nature to be happy. Happiness is simple, after all, and I've never liked anything simple."

"Happiness isn't simple," Harry said. "And I don't see why you can't love her."

"I still can't see the stars," Draco said.

"The moon's too bright," Harry said again, wondering if Draco had forgotten having had this conversation before, because he was drunk. "It blots them out."

"Exactly," Draco said.

Harry stared at him, mystified, and Draco reached out a thin hand then, and touched his hair. It was a light touch, like a leaf grazing his cheek, and a shiver passed over Harry.

He stared.

"You had straw in your hair," Draco said, and pulled his hand back.

"Oh," Harry said. "Well, thanks."

"I would have thought happiness would be simple for you," Draco said quietly. "You know who you love."

There was another silence as Harry tried to puzzle out what Draco meant.

How could anyone not know who they loved? Love was like pain; you didn't not know when you felt it, any more than you could miss having stepped on a carpet tack. "If you mean Hermione," Harry said, "it's like I said in the letter I wrote to her when I left Hogwarts. I've always — "

He broke off then, not because Draco had made any noise to interrupt him, but because Draco had somehow interrupted him with his silence — in a way Harry could not have explained, he had felt the explosion of something inside Draco, a burst of bright realization followed by a sudden terrible tension. He turned to look at Draco, whose eyes were very wide, his mouth half-open.

"What letter to Hermione?" Draco said.

"What letter to Hermione?" Draco said.

Harry stiffened and bit his lip. "Look, I know you said you didn't want to talk about the letters, but — "

"Letter," Draco interrupted. His tone was cold and precise. "Not letters. I didn't say anything about not wanting to talk about any letters you may or may not have written to people other than me."

"Yeah, well." Harry got to his feet, the mood of closeness between them irrevocably spoiled for him. "Every time I bring up those fucking letters, you go mental, so no thanks, Malfoy. Just drop it."

Draco stood up quickly, if what he was doing could be said to be standing

— he was alert, poised on the balls of his feet, like a cat ready to pounce.

His eyes were feverishly bright. "I want to know," he said. "I have to know.

You wrote Hermione a letter? What did you do with it? Where did you leave it?"

"With yours," Harry said stiffly.

Color was coming and going in Draco's face in bright shifting tides. "And what did it say?"

"That," Harry said, "is none of your business." He turned, unable to look at Draco. An irrational rage was building inside him — so many times he'd tried to talk to Draco about that stupid letter, and Draco had behaved as if Harry had just performed an Unforgivable Curse on his pet owl. Now, suddenly, Draco wanted to talk about it, wanted to make Harry break the promise he himself had elicited.