Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

He stood back as she and Ron passed through the doorway and into a narrow room. The only light came from a slit window high overhead. It illuminated a small room with stone-bound walls, a low table covered in a spilled mess of potions, smashed glass from broken vials, and a sticky, thin, red substance still dripping from the corners onto the floor- and a bed, made of carved wood and very old-fashioned, hung around with black draperies. In the bed, a man was lying. Fur coverlets were pulled up to his waist and he was naked above that, his face so ghastly pale that it took Ginny a moment to realize that it was Gareth.

"Is he dead?" asked Ron, his voice harsh in the sickroom stillness. A heavy scent lay on the air, like smoke and something else, something sweet and deathly.

Ginny couldn't reply. He lay so still, and in his stillness he reminded her more than he ever had before of Draco, lying in his own stillness in Madam Pomfrey's infirmary. There was the scar of a terrible wound across Gareth's chest, its edges raw and black-looking, and his fair hair lay in sweat-straggled locks against his skin. Slowly, she reached out and touched his hand. It was icy cold. "I think so," she said, uncertainly.

This was not as she had imagined it; it was much worse. She had told herself she could endure Gareth's death because, of course, in her present he had already died, but she discovered that paradoxes of time were cold comfort in the face of real grief. She thought of Draco, painfully, and let out a small sigh, releasing Gareth's hand.

"Are you done yet?" It was Ben, tall and ragged in the doorway in his bloodstained black robes. "Have you gotten what you came for?"

Ginny drew back from the bed, hesitant. "Ben…"

Ron took her shoulder and pushed her back towards Gareth. "Ginny, take the band. Take it," he hissed in her ear.

Uncertainly, she reached for Gareth's cold hand again, aware of Ben, dark and rageful as a thundercloud, hovering at her back. Holding Gareth's hand was like gripping a statue; swallowing back her instinctive revulsion, she closed her fingers around the cool glassy band, and drew it over his wrist. It came off effortlessly, springing into her hand almost as if it wanted to.

She heard Ben's breath hiss out between his teeth. He was staring at her, at the runic band she held. "It's true, then," he said, in a very different voice now. "He really is dead."

Ron, alarmed by something he saw in Ben's face, moved to put himself between the Heir and his sister-but Ben had lost all interest in them.

Pushing past Ginny like a blind man, he went down on his knees next to Gareth's bed, put his head on the coverlet, and whispered something she couldn't hear. She thought he was crying-certainly his shoulders were shaking, and harsh noises were coming from him, like the sounds of someone being tortured.

"Ron." She took her brother's wrist. Something told her that this sort of grief was private; it should not be approached. She tried to tug her brother away, but he was staring, his mouth slightly open.

"This is what I saw," he whispered, suddenly. "In my vision-Draco on the bed, and Harry next to him-it wasn't them I saw at all, it was this-"

"Ron!" She shoved him, hard. He moved slowly, turning to stare over his shoulder even as she pulled him towards her and flung the gold chain of the Time Turner around his throat.

Harry ducked the blow and parried, steel clashing on steel. Draco had been telling the truth; he wasn't holding back. He slashed at Harry even as Harry turned, and the tip of his blade tore across Harry's sleeve, opening a gash in the material.

"Jesus, Malfoy," Harry exclaimed, involuntarily.

"Oh, it's Malfoy again, is it?" Draco cut under Harry's guard, dexterously.

Harry blocked him, but only just. Sparks flew where their blades crossed.

"I told you I would not be merciful."

"But why-I mean, why this?"

"Why not?" Draco cut at Harry again, high this time, and Harry ducked; the blade bit deep into the wood paneling above his head.

Straightening, Harry observed dryly, "You seem annoyed."

Draco paused to yank his sword out of the wall. "You would keep me from my death," he said. The blade flashed in his hand as he swung at Harry; Harry parried, keeping his feet planted, just as Draco had taught him. In fact, it seemed to him that Draco was using all the moves he'd used when training Harry in swordplay; surely if he really wanted to hurt Harry, he'd try something else, something Harry wasn't prepared for? Emboldened by this thought, he pressed forward, taking the offensive. Draco dropped back a step, his eyes narrowed to lazy silver crescents. "Nice move, Potter."

"It's not your time," Harry said, between gasps. He was sweating, salt stinging his eyes.

"You don't get to say when-"

"Neither do you!"

Draco sprang onto the lowest step of the stairs, striking at Harry's sword with enough force to bruise Harry's fingers where they gripped the hilt.

"It is my life-my death."

"But why? Why not fight for it? Why not fight for every last minute, every second, every possibility of a chance that you might be cured? Why not?"

"Because I'm tired!" Draco shouted, with a sudden anger that struck at Harry more forcefully than the just-delivered blow. "Tired of fighting-and tired of struggling-and tired of this endless, arduous nothing-" His blade snapped up, level with Harry's eyes. "What's the reward, Potter?" he said, his voice half a whisper. "If I die now, then I die in glory, don't I? Fallen in the fight against Voldemort. Dulce et decorum est."

"What? I don't know-"

"Never learned your Latin, did you? Not past the spells you needed to know, anyway." Draco's voice was too weary for the scorn his words implied. "If I live," he said, enunciating clearly, as if Harry were a particularly slow child, "then all that glory fades into ordinariness, doesn't it? You-you'll always be special. The boy who killed Voldemort. I only ever had a purpose when you were my purpose. What do you expect me to do now, now that you no longer need me any more?"

This time, the cold darkness seemed to go on forever. Ginny could hear the howl of wind in her ears, feel the blood freezing inside her veins, stiffening her fingers into claws made out of ice. Even the chattering of her teeth made no sound in the empty void between then and now.

At last she heard a noise-a sort of shattering, like breaking ice- and she broke through the grayness into light and heat and noise. Her knees gave way and she fell to the floor, clutching the runic band tightly in her fingers.

Hands on her shoulders pulled her upright into a sitting position. It was Ron, very pale, his lower lip caught between his teeth. "Ginny?"

Blaise hurried towards them both across the library, her red hair like a stream of torchlight. "Ginny! Are you all right? You both appeared and then you just… fell…"

"I'm all right," Ginny said, though she heard the strain in her voice and knew it wasn't true. She was glad of the pressure of Ron's hands, keeping her upright. She was still shivering so hard…

She glanced down at her hands. The bracelet was clasped between them.

The edges of it were faintly frosted with ice.

"You got it!" Blaise exclaimed, dropping to her knees. Ron let go of Ginny's shoulders. Ginny's stomach lurched and a wave of blackness rose up inside her, threatening to swamp her vision. She fought it back through sheer will, clawing it down until the darkness receded and she could breathe again.

"We got it," she said. She felt as if the ground were rocking up and down under her. Glancing at the bracelet, she saw that a faint glow still clung to it, despite its traumatic voyage through time. "But I don't know what to do now- it's a bracelet, right, not at antidote. Maybe we grind it down to powder or…"