Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

That Harry was gone. "He's grown up so," said Hermione, in the sort of sad-happy voice that only someone who'd known Harry since he was eleven might be permitted to reasonably use.

Oh, I don't know. He doesn't look any taller to me. It wasn't Draco saying it, but Draco's voice in Ginny's head: sometimes she heard him whispering to her even when he wasn't there, and though she knew it was only her own unruly imagination conjuring up what he might say, it still made her uncomfortable enough to flee Hermione's presence without answering.

That night, in the Great Hall over supper, Dumbledore announced that there was to be a memorial service for Pansy Parkinson and for the other victims of what had come to be known as the Christmas Killings. Ginny knew that Dumbledore was perfectly aware of Pansy's role in Ron's abduction and the rest of the whole sorry business, but she also knew he would never say anything about it publicly, and let those who had known Pansy come to terms with her death as they saw fit. All the blame for the killings had been laid at Voldemort's door, of course, which in a way was true, but still left Ginny with a sick, guilty feeling inside.

She was sitting next to Seamus as Dumbledore spoke, and she saw his shoulders tense as Dumbledore talked of the Christmas Killings.

Dumbledore spoke of the need to come to terms with death, to understand it as a part of life, and yet he said also that he understood the urge to rage against it, especially when the victim was so young and the act of murder was so senseless. "As we did when Cedric Diggory was killed three years ago," he said, "we must face that which is the ugly result of bigotry taken to its farthest extreme, of the sort of intolerance even the best of us can sometimes harbor-"

A ringing in Ginny's ears blotted out his next words. "-of evil,"

Dumbledore went on, "the sort of evil the Ministry thought you should never know about, because you are children. But if we do not admit to the existence of evil, we cannot recognize it. And if we do not recognize it, how can we see it within ourselves?"

The chiming in Ginny's ears grew louder; she realized it was not actually intangible guilt but rather the sound of Seamus' fork hitting the edge of his plate as his hand shook. She reached out and took the fork away from him. "Seamus — "

He pulled back from her and staggered to his feet. Lurching a little, as if he were drunk or blind, he staggered from the Hall. A confused murmur of voices rose like the hum of bees in summertime, and Ginny saw Draco, all the way across the room at the Slytherin table, chin on hand, looking at her.

She got to her feet and raced after Seamus.

She found him in one of the corridors off the Hall, leaning against a wall, his head in his hands. He was murmuring into his fingers. She caught only a few words — "My hands — not my hands — " before she pulled his hands away from his face and held them tightly in hers, fighting the urge to shake him.

"Seamus," she said, "what's going on? What's wrong?"

He looked at her bleakly through a fall of light hair, from eyes a little too dark a blue. "Take heed," he said, " for I hold vengeance in my hand, to hurl upon their heads that break My law."

She took a step back. "What's that from?"

"I don't know," he said. "But I hear it when I close my eyes."

"Why did you leave the Hall?' she asked.

"Dumbledore was talking about me," he said. "I could feel everyone staring. Recognizing evil." He gave a short laugh.

"No one was looking at you," Ginny said, trying to hide the anger in her voice. "No one thinks of you that way."

"I do."

"Then stop. How long are you going to torture yourself like this, Seamus?

How long are you going to torture me?"

She knew immediately it had been the wrong thing to say.

"You don't have to stay with me, Ginny." His voice was flat. "I would understand if you left me. Anyone would."

She half-closed her eyes. In the darkness she saw the Liber-Damnatis, the diary dripping its black ink blood across her fingers as she hauled it from the fire, the pages flying like startled birds as she ripped them from the binding. I hate you, Tom. I hate you. "But Seamus," she protested. "I want to help you get better. I need you to get better."

He looked at her. "Why?"

She floundered for a moment. "Because I love you."

His face softened. "Ginny…" He reached out a hand, drew her hair away from her face, stroking the line of her cheekbone. For a moment he was the freckled boy who had kissed her behind the Quidditch shed before Christmas, who had invited her to visit his house in Ireland and meet his family. He had never reissued the invitation; she didn't know if it was because he wasn't sure of her or if it was because he was avoiding his bewildered, loving parents, who seemed to know there was something very wrong with their son — but not what.

Of course no one knew what. Even Seamus didn't properly seem to know what; he only knew the nightmares, the strange voices that whispered to him at night, the bits and fragments of words and images that made his life a living hell. In all of it, there was only Ginny he drew comfort from; she was all that stood between him and the darkness.

She pressed her cheek into his hand. "Maybe you should get some rest.

We could go up to the common room…"

"I was thinking of a walk," he said. "We could go to the rose garden."

"No!" she said, so sharply that he dropped his hand. The garden full of stars like cold ice slivers, snow on the roses — "It'll be cold," she finished, lamely. "I should get my cloak at least."

He stepped back, his eyes clouded. "That's all right. I should take some time on my own." He spun and stalked away, shoulders set rigidly. Ginny watched him go, her teeth sunk into her lower lip. Run after him, said her brain, he wants you to follow him. But a thick exhaustion kept her rooted to the spot. To have some time on her own — a chance to rest alone by the fireplace -

"I was thinking of a walk," he said. "We could go to the rose garden."

"No!" she said, so sharply that he dropped his hand. The garden full of stars like cold ice slivers, snow on the roses — "It'll be cold," she finished, lamely. "I should get my cloak at least."

He stepped back, his eyes clouded. "That's all right. I should take some time on my own." He spun and stalked away, shoulders set rigidly.

Collapsing against the wall, Ginny watched him go, her teeth sunk into her lower lip. Run after him, said her brain, he wants you to follow him.

But a thick exhaustion kept her rooted to the spot. And she had to admit the idea of being alone appealed to her. Not to be watching someone constantly for signs of changes in their mood, not to be constantly alert for signs that she was needed — just to be able to collapse on the couch in front of the Gryffindor fireplace and shut her eyes — "You know," said a drawling voice behind her, "I find Dumbledore's speeches a bit dull myself, but normally I just sleep through them. This business of charging out of the Great Hall in hysterics is eye-catching, but possibly not practical — "

"Don't drivel," said Ginny dully, turning her head to see Draco coming down the corridor towards him. It had been a long time since she'd really looked at him and the change in his appearance startled her. She remembered the thin boy who sat next to her bed the night she'd found the antidote for him and nearly died in the process. She remembered the hollows under his eyes, dark as if they'd been drawn there with ink. They were gone now, and so was the haunted thinness; nothing remained of his ordeal except the thick scarring on his left hand and a slightly intensified silver cast to his eyes.

"I'm not driveling," he protested. "You are," she said. "You know perfectly well why I ran out of the hall and it wasn't because the speech was boring."