Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

That broke the tableau. Ron scrambled for his clothes, and Malcolm, as if suddenly sensing the seriousness of the situation, began to back towards the door.

"Malcolm — " said Ron, sharply.

"I won't tell anyone," Malcolm interrupted quickly, his eyes on the wand next to Ron's hand. "Really, I'll keep it to myself — "

He turned and bolted then, and Ron, leaping to his feet and fumbling with the zipper on his jeans, swore out loud. "Wait here," he said to her, and raced to the door, buttoning up his shirt as he ran, without putting his shoes on or stopping to pick up his wand.

She hesitated for a moment, frozen, before her own shock drove her to her feet. She paused to seize up Ron's wand and his shoes before she raced after him, flinging the door closed behind her. She dashed out into the hallway — saw a flicker of movement off to her left, and bolted after it -

fled around a corner and then another corner, running on instinct — stairs rose up before her; she raced up them, spun to her left, and nearly crashed into Ron, who was standing stock-still in the middle of a hallway, his hands at his sides.

"Ron," she gasped, almost in tears, "Where is he — where's Malcolm — "

"Right there," said Ron, in a queer strained sort of voice, and pointed.

She looked where he indicated, and then the wand and shoes slid out of her grasp and hit the floor. "What — what happened? What happened to him?"

"I don't know," said Ron in the same strained voice, looking down at where Malcolm lay, sprawled across the hallway floor, his arms flung out stiffly. He was on his back, his eyes staring up blankly, his body rigid. "I just came around the corner and — he was here, like this."

"Did you — did you do anything to him?"

"No!" said Ron sharply, turning to face her. "I didn't even have my wand -

what could I have done?"

"I know… I'm sorry. What should we do? Should we get a teacher?"

"And get caught together?" he demanded, then paused. "But we can't just leave him….you go. Go on back quickly, take care no one sees you."

"What will you say when they come?"

"I'll say I came across him while I was..I don't know… I'll say something, okay? I'll say I was on my way to check up on the prefects' bathroom and I found him like this. It doesn't matter. I'll think of something." She looked at him in distracted panic, unable to move, and he touched her face gently, with so much loving concern it almost made her start to cry once more.

"Go," he said again, and she went.

The map led Draco to an outside balcony, up a flight of stairs, and along a wide stone pathway he had never noticed before, running along the castle's edge, high above the ground. As he walked along the battlements, the clear night air broke over his exposed skin like splashes of cold water.

All around beneath him the icy world stretched away towards the Forest, an unbroken and unmoving sea of milky glass. The fragile winter moon showed its lace-like edges against a sky of black velvet, illuminating the hexagonal paving stones beneath his feet. Exhilarated by the night and by the coldness of the air, Draco began to forget that he had not wanted to come out tonight.

The long walk along the battlement dead-ended at the circular top of a tower, fringed with a collar of crenellated stone. Rhysenn was there, as he had expected her to be, all black hair and black eyes and black cloak blowing in the wind, against a background of moonlit sky.

"You're late," she said as he approached. Under the cloak she wore another velvet dress; this one gold and indigo and scarlet. Matching gems sparkled on her fingers: champagne and ink and blood. "I almost didn't wait for you."

"Don't you ever worry about freezing to death?" he demanded, by way of an answer. "Why can't you just meet me inside?"

Rhysenn just smirked. "The fresh air is good for you."

"Look-"

She waved a jeweled hand. "I am not welcome inside these walls."

"Why not?"

"It's a long story. And part of it concerns things I would rather have left alone." Her eyes shut down; he knew he would get no more from her on that subject. And yet it nagged at him. Everything about her nagged at him. What did she get out of acting as his father's personal courier, if that was even what she was really doing? Did she do it for money? For fun? She didn't look more than twenty, but she behaved as if she were much older.

"I have a letter for you, Draco."

"Now there's a shocker. And I thought you invited me out here to give me my Christmas present."

"Christmas isn't for twelve more days," said Rhysenn severely. She was nothing if not literal-minded. Then, to his surprise, she reached into a fold of her cloak and drew out a rolled white scrap of parchment, and handed it to him. He took it with surprise. Never before had Rhysenn handed him a message without insisting he "search" for it first. "Read this tonight."

"Say 'please.'"

"You know," she said, "you would probably have a much more pleasant personality if you had been born ugly."

"But how much worse life would be for everyone else around me." Draco reached out and took the parchment from her hands, which gave up their grip reluctantly. "Nothing nice to look at during those long boring History of Magic classes."

Rhysenn smirked again. "You would do well to pay attention during your history classes, Draco."

"Thanks, Mum." The parchment was cold against Draco's bare hands. He wanted to unroll it and read it, but not in front of Rhysenn. Her cool curiosity unnerved him.

"Those who do not understand history," she said, turning so that she looked out over the frozen grounds, "are condemned to repeat it."

Draco took a deep breath. The icy air seared into his lungs. "What do you know, Rhysenn?"

She didn't turn around. "I don't know what you mean?"

"You know something you're not telling me."

Now she turned, and ran a catlike finger through a loose curl of her hair.

"I know a lot of things."

"I bet you do. But only some of them are relevant to me. Who sends you to me? My father, or him? Do they tell you what to say, what to do? All this pouting and flirting, it's just to catch me off guard — I'm not stupid, I know that. But why?"

"Who are you," she said, and the tone of her voice had changed, "that you think I should answer to you?"

"Who do you answer to, then?" he demanded, but she turned away with a dismissive gesture, and then to his own surprise he found he had reached out and caught her by the wrist, and spun her towards him, angrily. "Are you the best they can do?" he snarled. "It seems to me like the forces of darkness aren't even trying."

"Let me go," she said coldly.

"Answer me first," he replied.

"Let me go or I will make you sorry," she said in a sharp hard voice, and her eyes were black splinters in the still white face turned up to his. The fine hairs rose up all along the back of his neck, as if someone had walked over his grave. "And so will my Master, who rules the world."

He let her go. She moved away from him, her black cloak falling open; it was lined with colorful cloth woven in eye-dizzying patterns. "My father — " he began.

"Your father," she said, her voice flawed with crystalline disgust. "He is Voldemort's lapdog. "It is not the place of a Malfoy to serve, but to rule-"

"I didn't realize you were on our side," said Draco, snidely.

"On your side?" Her voice was freezing. "You cannot even begin to comprehend what I am, or who I serve. You cannot help me, any more than an ant or a snail could help me. And you are no more to me than that. You, with your little magics and your life as short as a heartbeat."