Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"So what?" His mouth was against her throat, and then moving down, and she shuddered with the pleasure of it, and also with tension — she felt on the edge of panic, and wasn't sure why… why would she be afraid of Harry?

"So, this is private, that's what. Harry!" He was pushing her dress down off her shoulders. She realized that in a moment she would be just about naked. While she admired his skill in getting her laced-up bodice undone so quickly — it had taken her nearly an hour to get it on properly and he had dispatched with the whole thing in under a minute — she was more conscious of the growing fear that someone would come along — Ron, probably — and see them. "Harry," she whispered. "Not now."

He appeared not to hear her. "I've missed you," he whispered back. "I've missed you so much," and she felt herself tense as he captured her mouth with his again. His hands were on her skirt, gathering the material with his fingers, sliding the dress up over her thighs. The chill air struck the bare skin of her ankles, then her calves, and now she was shaking with more than just the cold. He was touching her in ways he never had before, and suddenly a strange sense of wrongness shot through her veins, frightening in its intensity. Kissing Harry, touching him, had always been like coming home to a familiar and beloved place; now she felt suddenly as if she had opened the door to her own house and found it inhabited by strangers. Without even thinking about what she was doing, she put her hands flat against his shoulders and pushed him away, hard.

Harry looked shocked. He stared at her for a moment, the dizziness fading out of his eyes. She was reminded of the way he was just after winning a Quidditch match — it took him a moment to come back down to earth, even after he had landed. She supposed, in a way, he had just been flying

— only she had not, this time, been flying with him. "Hermione," he said.

"What's wrong?"

He didn't know? He really didn't know? She realized she couldn't tell him.

Instead, she said the first reasonable-sounding thing that came into her head. "Missed me?" she whispered. "How could you have missed me — I've been right here with you all this time."

"You've been here." Harry reached for his sweater, took it, and pulled it back on over his head. She wondered if it was busying his hands so he wouldn't have to look at her. His cheeks were scarlet and, she suspected, not just with cold. "I haven't."

"And now you are?" she replied. She had crossed her arms over her chest, covering herself, but she was still cold. "Or are you just drunk?"

Harry bent down and picked up her white cloak, which had fallen on top of his black one. He held it out to her, and she took it, wrapping it around her shoulders. "Maybe I'm a little drunk," he said, very quietly. "But it's not as if I wanted…wanted to be with you because I'm drunk. I always love you. It's just, usually — lately, anyway — I can't say it."

She shook her head. Her hands, lacing up the bodice on her dress, were shaking. "Why can't you say it?" she asked. "Have you changed your mind? Do you feel differently now? Are you…ashamed of me?"

"Ashamed of you?" He laughed; it was a painful sound. "Me, ashamed of you. That's funny. Sort of." He bent down again and retrieved his glasses, which were streaked with snow. He began to clean them on the hem of his shirt. He looked different without them. Older. It emphasized how his face had thinned, becoming more handsome, less soft and childlike. Harder.

"Why would you even say that?"

"You don't kiss me or touch me in public, but back here in this alley, you're all over me. What does that say, Harry? I always said I wanted to wait, so it would be really special when we finally were together, but I get the feeling you'd be perfectly happy to just get drunk and do it against a wall."

"Hey!" said Harry sharply, and slid his glasses back on. "You brought me here. And then you kissed me, and what am I supposed to think? You're my girlfriend! Of course I want to-you know. And — and I'm all right now."

He had gone slightly scarlet. Hermione was briefly amused. She had a feeling the Dursleys had probably been very peculiar where it came to sex education. "Yes, but that doesn't mean that…" She broke off. She knew what she wanted to say, could hear the words in her head. You're all right now, because you've been drinking. And you're all right when you're flying. And if we had sex, you'd probably be all right for that too, because it would be just another drug to kill the pain of whatever's bothering you.

But I don't want any part of that. Because it wouldn't last. And then I would have given you everything, and it still wouldn't have been enough.

But of course, she couldn't say that.

"Well, what did you want to come back here for, then?" Harry demanded, looking honestly confused.

Hermione covered her face with her hands, embarrassed. "Well, you were flirting with Blaise, and I…"

"Flirting?" Harry looked amazed. "I was not flirting!"

"Oh, you certainly were."

"With her? She's a Slytherin! And she's Draco's girlfriend, and anyway, she despises me."

"She does not, she said you were gorgeous and she could eat you up with a spoon and…why did I tell you that? It was yucky the first time I heard it."

Harry was staring at her in frank amazement. "You made that up," he said.

"I did not."

"Bet you did."

Hermione sighed. "Harry, you idiot — half the girls in this school are in love with you."

Harry started to laugh. "What, only half?"

"I think you lost the other half to Draco. But hey, they're mostly Slytherins anyway." She shook her head. "I can't believe you never noticed, but then, that's just typical. You don't know how cute you are and that is the cutest thing about you. Girls adore that — and now I think I've said too much."

"Ah, so this is top-secret not-to-be-shared-with-the-male-gender information?"

"Yes. Now I have to kill you before you go tell Ron, or God forbid, Draco."

"Right, I suppose that they don't know how cute they are either."

"Well, Ron possibly not, but Draco? I hate to break it to you, but Draco knows exactly how cute he is."

Harry grinned. "Yes… kind of revolting, isn't it?"

"Well," she said. "Revolting isn't exactly the word."

Harry snorted. "Well, if you mean that — ow!"

Hermione jumped. "Harry, what?"

But Harry was already stepping back, brushing snow off the shoulder of his cloak. "Someone threw a snowball at me — Ron!" he yelled, and burst out laughing. Hermione followed his gaze and saw Ron standing at the alleyway entrance, holding his hands up as if to say, "Who, me?" But he was grinning. Behind Ron she could see other dark shapes, hurtling to and fro: the seventh-year boys Blaise had been talking about, who were throwing snowballs at snogging couples.

"I didn't have a choice!" Ron yelled back. "Neville and Dean would have done it if I hadn't!"

But Harry was shaking his head. "You…are…going…to…die," he shouted, and then raced towards Ron, who bolted away, laughing. Hermione stared after them for a moment, thinking, What are they, twelve? She walked towards the alley entrance slowly, arriving at the main road just in time to see Harry jump on Ron, knock him over, and begin stuffing snow into his shirt. Ron yelled, and began scrabbling in the snow with his fingers in an attempt to make another snowball. Looking at them, she suddenly saw another image superimposed over this one: she saw the two of them rolling over and over in the snow with her when they were all fourteen and it hadn't mattered that she was a girl, she had still been fair game to have her shirt pockets stuffed with ice, and she missed that suddenly -

suddenly and piercingly. They had been so happy together, the three of them, a perfect unit. Stealthily, she bent down and gathered up a handful of loose snow, which burned her hand with its coldness. She crept up behind Harry, who seemed gleefully intent on shoving snow into Ron's ears, and very carefully dumped the lot of it down the back of his shirt.