Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Fortunately…"

Draco groaned. "Don't say it!"

"…I have a plan," Harry finished.

"And I actually thought I might reach the end of my days without having to hear you say that again."

"It's a good plan," Harry said, hoping his injured tone covered the break in his voice. He hated it when Draco talked about his death; he knew why the other boy was doing it, but he hated it just the same.

Draco slouched against the boulder. "Lay it on me, Potter."

"Well, clearly, one of us has to get inside — "

"I'd say both of us have to get inside. Already your plan is flawed."

"It's not flawed."

"Sorry, I should have said 'extremely flawed' or perhaps 'flawed up the wazoo.' Although I despise vernacular slang, as you well know."

"Shut up a second, Malfoy, and listen." Harry paused a moment to organize his thoughts. "Okay, there's no door, right? So the only way to get inside is either through the windows or by getting up to the roof."

"The walls aren't going to be easy to climb," Draco said, raising his eyebrows. "They make those things sheer for a reason, you know."

"I know," Harry said. "I wasn't suggesting we climb."

Draco's eyebrows stayed up. "Then…"

"One of us has to wingardium leviosa the other," Harry said. "I think you ought to do it to me. Then I'll make my way down through the fortress and let you in."

"Because, of course, you know the way so well?" Draco's tone was cutting.

"Clearly, if anyone's being catapulted into the upper reaches, it ought to be me. I know the way through the castle, I know how to find the front door, and I know what back ways to take in order to avoid the guards. In addition," he said, "I really haven't got the strength to wingardium a mouse, much less a strapping bloke such as yourself."

"So you agree it's a good plan, then?"

"I didn't say that," Draco pointed out. "It's a terrible, stupid plan. I can tell you, for one thing, that it's harder to wingardium someone than you might think. I can tell you that from experience — "

"I know," Harry said. "Hermione told me about that, but you were both using Lifting Spells then. This will go much more smoothly. Besides," he added, "you haven't got a better idea, have you?"

Draco stared at him.

"I didn't think so," Harry said. He stood back, raising his right hand. The scar along the palm shone white in the light of the rising moon. "Are you ready?"

Draco stepped away from the boulder, looking resigned. "Stupid Gryffindor plans," he said, "they bookend my life." He put his hands in his pockets. "Go ahead."

"Wingardium leviosa!" Harry cried. He felt the familiar energy pulse through his hand, and then Draco rose into the air, not with the familiar forward-directed motion of broomstick flying, but as if he were being lifted on invisible strings. As Harry raised his hand higher and higher, Draco rose quickly, until his bright hair melted into the darkening twilight and he became a black speck, rising swiftly but steadily up the fortress's side. Harry stepped back out of the shadow of the boulder, squinting his eyes — And backed directly into a platoon of guards who were rounding the corner of an outflung buttress. He heard them shout in angry surprise as he stumbled, and one grasped at his upraised hand. He saw the black speck that was Draco jerk wildly before being flung hard against the fortress wall. Then his view was blocked as the guards, weapons drawn, surrounded him.

Once Hermione had gone, Ginny sat and stared at herself in the mirror that hung opposite the bed. She looked strange to herself, incongruous and barely real, her pale, anxious face standing out above the brightly colored fabric of her dress, and the dark bed hangings falling all around her.

Hermione had said that Tom would come to her. She wasn't sure why she'd believed it, but it beat the alternative, which was to accept that her future would consist of being Tom's concubine while the wizarding world collapsed around her into ashes and dust, and everyone she knew and loved died.

Yes, going with Hermione on this one was really the best option.

She'd often wondered what exactly Tom's interest in her was — how it could be explained or described. She felt as confused now as ever. He didn't love her, of that she was sure, whatever Hermione might say. But there was something in the way he looked at her that was like — that was like the way Draco looked at her.

Maybe it was merely that they both wanted her. She knew Draco had wanted her, once. It wasn't that he'd kissed her; she knew him, and he was perfectly capable of kissing — thoroughly and expertly — people he didn't care for at all. It was the very slight tremble in his wrists when he took her face between his hands. That tiny weakness spoke to her more than any words he was ever likely to say.

Assuming they ever even saw each other again. Ginny rose from the bed, intending to splash some cold water on her face. Halfway across the room, she stopped and stared. A dark shape hovered outside the window, too large to be a bird, coming closer and closer -

The window exploded inward in a wave of shattering glass. Carried with it, like a bit of driftwood carried on an incoming tide, was Draco Malfoy. He struck the ground and crumpled, amid a rain of silvery shards.

Ginny raced to where he lay on his back amid the glittering pile, one arm over his face, like an enchanted sleeping prince whose glass coffin has just been smashed to bits all around him.

"Draco?" she whispered, kneeling to him, heedless of the glass. She drew his arm gently away from his face. For a moment she felt certain that he was dead. The impact of striking the window had been formidable — and he was so still, sprawled amongst the jagged bits of broken glass, the thin bright lines of a dozen shallow cuts visible on his face, his hands, his clothes sliced to ribbons — she leaned closer, her hand still gripping his.

"Draco?"

He opened his eyes. They roamed her face, his expression dazed. His lips parted and he spoke, his voice soft and almost bewildered.

"Ginny sodding Weasley," he said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The pain was intense. It was the first thing he had become aware of on waking. His wrists, tied tight behind his back, hurt sharply, and there was a dull ache in his shoulders. His head felt as if someone had bashed it in with a stovepipe. Groaning, Ron rolled over, and stared about.

He was lying on a metal platform. It hung from the ceiling of the Ceremonial Chamber, each corner secured by a long iron chain. It was far too high from the ground for him to jump, even if his hands and feet had not been tied and the floor had not been made of very hard stone.

The chamber was circular, the walls tapering to a conical ceiling whose apex was open to the sky. Ron could see stars, and a sliver of icy moon.

The floor was bare, polished green stone, swirled through with rococo designs. A huge five-pointed star had been drawn upon the center of the floor in some kind of reddish-black fluid that Ron hoped was paint.

Objects had been set at four points of the star: a mirror, a dagger, a sword, and a cup. He recognized the cup instantly; it was the one he, Harry, and Hermione had stolen from the museum.

The ceremony is about to begin, he thought listlessly. Looking to the side, he could see Wormtail busy at work, fixing a row of iron rings to the wall.

When he stepped back, Ron could see that they were shackles. Voldemort stood beside the pentagram on the floor, deep in conversation with a young man with dark hair.

The double doors to the chamber opened then, and Rhysenn hurried in, her dark hair flying behind her. She approached the young man and whispered into his ear. He nodded curtly, bowed to the Dark Lord, and left the room, passing Lucius, who was just entering. He stepped back to let Tom pass, a strange smile on his face, then turned to Voldemort. His voice, when he spoke, was clear and carrying.