Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

When Ginny's eyes fluttered open, the first thing she saw was clear blue sky, rising high above her. The unmistakable, cloudless sky of midsummer.

She sat up slowly, looking down at herself in surprise. No blood, no visible wounds on her body — and she was wearing a long dress, of a very pale, peachy pink, the sort of dress she'd never pick out herself. It had a lace hem, and there were small pink sandals on her feet. Ginny blinked, baffled — the last thing she remembered (and she remembered it very clearly) was hurling herself over the balcony at the Parkinson's house, watching the hard polished floor flying up to meet her. The crunch of bone as she struck. Pain and blackness.

There had been a voice in the blackness, too, whispering to her. Wake up, Ginny. Wake up. A familiar voice, dark and sweet, threaded through halting breaths. Ginny, wake up.

Well, she thought to herself. I'm awake now.

She stood up, the long dress fluttering around her bare legs. She was standing in the middle of a flat, grassy meadow that stretched away behind her. The grasses were thickly sprinkled with wildflowers: bluebells big as a fist, sprays of golden amaryllis, lush violets. Rising in the distance was a castle — but not a castle like ancient Hogwarts, or Slytherin's dire fortress. This castle looked like a birthday cake, all silvery-white, with big gold spires and glowing, stained-glass windows.

Ginny blinked again. "Crikey," she muttered under her breath. "Where am I?" It was odd — wherever she was, she had the nagging feeling she'd been here before. But surely she'd remember a place like this. She turned away from the castle, looked behind her — and froze.

Someone was coming towards her through the wildflowers. Someone tall and blond and lanky, dressed in a ruffled white shirt, tight black trousers, and knee-high shiny black boots. Someone whose familiar gray eyes lit up as he saw her — saw her and rushed through the flowers to gather her up in his arms.

"Ginny!" Draco cried. "My Ginny, my darling — thank heavens you're safe!"

Slowly, Voldemort lowered his wand. "Good news?"

He sounded, Ron thought, as if he were identifying a particularly bizarre and unusual species of plant.

Lucius glanced from Ron to Hermione, frowned in distaste, and returned his attention to the Dark Lord. "Yes, Lord, good news. I have identified the wizard who has killed so many of your supporters."

A frown line appeared between Voldemort's brows. "Is he known to me?"

"One might say that," Lucius replied, flicking an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve. Ron could not help but be reminded of Draco. In many ways he and his father were very much alike.

"That is, certainly, significant, Lucius," Voldemort said. "However, it must wait. At the moment I am trying to retrieve the Cup from this wretched Mudblood girl. She proves resistant to torture."

"Ah." Lucius' eyes raked Hermione; he looked bored. "That is because she is wearing the Cup on her belt."

Wormtail gave a high, nasal gasp. Hermione went white. Even Voldemort looked startled. Only Rhysenn did not react; she was staring at Lucius with a sort of desperation that made Ron feel profoundly uncomfortable.

"I don't see anything!" Wormtail exclaimed in his unpleasantly squeaky voice. "Just — "

"Ah," Voldemort interrupted, ignoring his sputtering minion, "the flask, is it, Lucius?"

"I should say so," Lucius said. "Clearly she has Transfigured it. Clever -

and quite difficult. It takes a high level of magic to Transfigure a Worthy Object."

Hermione's hands flew to her waist. Ron knew immediately what she was trying to conceal: the bright silver flask he had noted there earlier, with its dark blue stopper. "Don't touch me!" she shrieked. "Don't you — "

"Silence!" Voldemort's hand flew out like a striking snake, bright lines of light lashing from his fingertips. Hermione screamed as her belt snapped open and slithered through the loops on her jeans, writhing like a live thing. The flask tumbled free and sailed through the air. Voldemort caught it expertly, his long white fingers closing around it.

He laughed aloud. "I see," he said. "Ingenious, yes…" He tapped it with the tip of his finger and murmured, "Revelatus,"; the flask shuddered, and reformed with the suddenness of a toad turning into a teapot in McGonagall's class. Suddenly it was the Cup Ron remembered having stolen from the museum on that class trip so long ago. Hermione let out a strangled cry and lowered her face into her hands.

"Beautiful," Voldemort murmured. "Beautiful…" He turned to Wormtail.

"Go and prepare the Great Chamber for the ceremony of the Tetragrammatron, Wormtail. As for the girl…" His narrowed eyes raked Hermione. "She is of no further use. Kill her."

"Yes, my Lord," Wormtail replied.

"No!" Ron shouted and lunged forward, trying to put himself between Hermione and the Dark Lord. He didn't get far — Voldemort swung his wand towards Ron and hit him with a savage Stupefying curse. It was like being cracked across the back of the neck with a Beater's bat. Ron fell stunned to the floor as Wormtail raised his silvered hand with a vicious grin, pointed it towards Hermione -

"Wait, my Lord," Rhysenn protested suddenly. "It would be best not to kill the girl in front of the Diviner. It might unhinge his mind." Voldemort looked uncertain; Rhysenn glided smoothly to her feet, and over to Hermione. "I will do it," she said.

Voldemort appeared to hesitate.

"It might be best, my Lord," Lucius said. "Wormtail will only botch the job and let her get away."

"True." Voldemort waved a hand at Rhysenn. "Finish her, then. Outside."

Rhysenn nodded, then snapped her fingers, and Hermione was pulled to her feet as if on strings. "Walk," Rhysenn demanded, and Hermione began to shuffle towards the door, her eyes blank and staring.

Ron could not even cry out. He felt as if his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth as Rhysenn propelled Hermione to the door and then out of it. Hermione glanced back, once at Ron, before the door shut behind her.

She looked strangely calm, almost happy. Ron closed his eyes.

For several long moments, Ginny didn't move. Partly this was because she was immensely startled and partly, she had to admit, this was because she was enjoying the sensation of being held tightly by Draco. His arms were as strong and slender as she remembered, although the ruffles all over his shirt front and cuffs did itch, and for some reason, he reeked of magnolias.

Eventually he began to pepper her face with kisses. "My angel," he said. "I feared I had lost you."

Ginny drew back. "Really, Draco," she said. "There's no need to take the mickey." She stared. "Malfoy! What's that on your lip?"

Draco looked shifty. "What? Nothing. There's nothing on my lip."

But there was. Crawling across Draco's upper lip was what looked like a hairy blond caterpillar. Ginny gazed at it, riveted. "Malfoy," she breathed.

"Have you grown a moustache?"

"I thought you liked the moustache!" Draco, looking upset, put his hands on his hips. Ginny noted that the trousers, which laced up in front, did not provide all the coverage one might ideally have wished. She averted her eyes — although that merely brought her gaze back to the moustache, which was no good either. It was so hard not to stare.

"I've never seen it before," she pointed out. "I'm sure I'll get used to it…eventually."

Now Draco looked testy. "Are you sure you're all right? You didn't fall down the stairs when the pirates attacked? Maybe hit your head or something?"

"Pirates?" Ginny abandoned herself to staring at the moustache. "No, look

— the last thing I remember was being in Pansy Parkinson's house. I was fighting with Tom — "