Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Draco crinkled up his nose in confusion. "Wait, I thought they didn't know about magic…"

"He's being sarcastic, you tit," said Harry, craning his head over Draco's shoulder to get a better look at the paper. "And I still don't get why you wanted me to look at this."

"See the mirror there, Potter?' Draco demanded, jabbing his finger at a color photograph of what looked like a silver hand mirror, very old-looking. The handle and back of the mirror were elaborately carved all over with birds, flowers, and graceful whorls of silver. It reminded Harry a bit of the work on his Gryffindor scabbard, if slightly less colorful.

"Yeah?" Harry looked sideways at Draco. "So what?"

"So, that is the mirror from my dream, that's what," Draco said, staring at the photo. "It's unique — I'd recognize it anywhere."

"From your dream…oh. That dream."

"Yes, that dream. As far as I'm concerned, this clinches the question of whether the dreams are real. In the dream, Wormtail told Voldemort that he'd only gotten the mirror that day…and this robbery was a few days ago. The question then becomes, why does the Dark Lord want this mirror so much? If he's sending his henchwizards out into the Muggle world to get it, he must need it for something."

"You don't think he just wants to admire himself in it?" Harry asked.

Draco snorted. "No, he has minions for that. 'Oh, Voldemort, your skin is such a luminous shade of green today, and your eyes are so radiantly red.' Potter, he wanted that mirror for something, and knowing him, it probably wasn't a gift for his dear mum."

"Well," said Harry, and yawned, "if you want to know what it was about, you know what to do."

"What?"

"Go to sleep and have another dream about it."

Draco looked offended. "I can't just dream on command, you know."

"No? Not a very useful talent, then, is it?"

"You just want to nap. Despicably lazy, you are," said Draco, and turned to look out the window. "Fine, we can talk about this when you're awake, then."

Harry followed Draco's gaze through habit, and saw the outside world flashing past at dizzying speed, trees and buildings bending to get out of the way of the Knight Bus. Only the night sky seemed to be remaining still, high and cold and as clear and transparent as a sheet of black glass.

Harry almost imagined he could look into it and see no end. He spoke then, without thinking.

"Do you believe in God, Malfoy?"

Draco started, and turned to look at him in disbelief. "Do I what?"

"You heard me," said Harry, uncomfortably. "Do you believe in God — at all?"

Draco looked dubious. "I guess I believe in God," he said. "Sometimes I think he has some pretty strong reservations about me, though."

"What about heaven? And hell?" Harry asked.

The other boy shook his head. "What is this about? Anyway, of course I believe in hell…we saw Slytherin get dragged off somewhere by those demons. Where did you think they were taking him? All-expenses-paid balloon tour of the Urals?"

"What about heaven?"

Draco shrugged again. Harry had a feeling he was making the other boy very uncomfortable. "Stands to reason there's a heaven, if there's a hell."

"Well," said Harry, sitting forward, "what do you think it's like?"

Draco leaned back against the wooden post of the bed, his mouth a crooked line of bemusement. "You're asking me what heaven's like, Potter? Come on, you've had your name down for entry there since before you had your name down for Hogwarts. Whereas I…"

"Whereas you are going to hell in a handbasket, I know," Harry interrupted. "In the meantime, use that ferocious imagination of yours for a second, will you? I really want to know what you think."

"Do you?" Draco's eyes were the color of quartz crystals, and about as readable. "I think heaven would be different for everyone who goes there.

For you, it's probably bunnies and Christmas and optimism and everyone shoving flowers in their ears."

"And for you?"

Draco was silent a moment, looking out the window at the dark world flashing by. "A place to rest, I think," he said finally.

"You tired, Malfoy?"

Draco turned his gray gaze back to Harry. "Always," he said. "Aren't you?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't think I get to be tired."

"Yeah," said Draco, looking back out the window. "Maybe you don't."

The bedroom was full of pale dawn light. Ron sat in the window seat, and looked out. Just above the eastern line of trees sunrise was unraveling like a red seam along a pale gray cloth. It touched the Forbidden Forest with its light and the trees seemed to burn as if they had caught fire. The unmarked snow beneath the Quidditch pitch shone like a crystal dipped in scarlet ink. It was a beautiful new day, and Ron regarded it with almost no interest whatsoever. The deepening sky above the treetops made him think of a slit throat gushing blood, and his head ached and pounded as if it had been trapped in a vise.

He was tired, physically exhausted from lack of sleep compounded with stress and tension. But he had gotten used to that. What gnawed at him was the anxiety. When he was with her, he was happy; when he was not with her, he wondered if he would see her again and that made him miserable. She had been the one who had come to him first, but somewhere along the way, the balance of power had shifted, and what had seemed like a game had become something else instead. Initially, it had seemed like a convoluted way of getting his own back — a revenge for slights real or perceived, it hardly mattered. But it was not that now — not for him, anyway. For her, he could hardly guess. She was risking a great deal, he knew. Maybe more than he imagined. He had thought that made him safe. But she had come to him knowing the answer to the question in his eyes and willing to give it, and in taking from her he somehow found he had given her everything. The keys to his locked-away secrets, the hopes buried at the back of his mind. The deepest and most desperate desires of his heart. She knew them all now. He could not have answered honestly that he knew the same about her. Sometimes she seemed to be hiding purposely, keeping him at a distance, and in public, when she looked at him, her eyes said nothing at all; this other life of theirs might as well not exist. It made him want to yell and throw things; to hit her, just to get a reaction. Assuming even that would get one.

Harry had once told him that the worst feeling imaginable was to find yourself hating the person you loved best in the world; he wondered now if this was only because Harry had never known what it was like to love someone and realize you could not trust them. Surely that was worse.

It had to be.

When the Knight Bus finally came to a careening stop, it was nearly dawn.

The sky had lightened enough to reveal heavy clouds, and the air tasted of impending snow. Draco was only too happy to disembark from the bus, and stood next to Harry, who was putting on his gloves and scarf, as the Knight Bus roared away into the distance.

They were on a country road, a slender lane of ice-dusted paving stretching away between black lines of bare trees. Along the left side of the road ran a high stone wall topped with spikes. The graveyard, Draco assumed.

Harry finished pulling on his gloves, and started off down the road. Draco followed, enjoying the cold air. He had always liked low temperatures. The wall soon ended in a metal gate, chained and padlocked shut.

Draco watched Harry as he thoughtfully took his right glove off, and touched his hand to the lock. "Alohomora," he whispered, and the padlock sprung eagerly apart under his hand. The two boys stepped back as the gate swung open, with a faint creaking sound. When they were through, Harry chained the gate behind them.