Кассандра Клэр: Draco Veritas

"Hey, Malfoy." It was Malcolm Baddock, the dark-haired Chaser who vaguely reminded Draco of Harry at that age. If Harry had been as cunning as a ferret and as mean as a snake, of course. "Letter came for you."

He tossed the sealed parchment into Dracoś lap. It unrolled at the touch of Dracoś hand, and Draco quickly moved his arm to block it from Malcolmś view. "Thanks, Baddock."

Malcolm nodded and moved away, and Draco had leisure to study the missive. He had already guessed what it was, and was not disappointed: a finely drawn map, showing the front door of the castle and the route he should take from it to a designated meeting place. At the bottom of the map were inked three words in bold lettering. Meet me here.

With a sigh, Draco crumpled the map into a ball in his fist, and went to get his cloak.

Hermione looked over at Harry where he sat in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a copy of The Defeat of the Wizard Grindelwald open and unread on his lap. They had been sitting and

'studying´ for about two hours, and Harry had yet to turn a page. His eyes were wide and unseeing, fixed on the fire, his head bent, his unruly mass of dark hair falling to hide his eyes. He hadn´t said much of anything to her since she´d come down to the common room to study with him, and hadn´t seemed to notice her new outfit at all. So much for Ginnyś theory, she thought darkly. I could have come down here wearing a live badger and he wouldn´t have noticed.

"Harry," she said finally, breaking the silence. "Are you even reading that book?"

"No." Harry looked up, impatiently pushing a lock of dark hair out of his eyes as he did so. The light caught and sparkled on the gold watch she had given him for his birthday — a pocket watch which he had had set into a band so he could wear it around his wrist as his father had done. "I can´t seem to concentrate." He pushed his hair back again — it had grown down to the point where it almost touched his collar, and tumbled forward when he bent his head.

This gave Hermione an idea. "I know what you need," she announced.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"A haircut," she said.

He almost smiled. "A haircut?"

"Thatś right." She got up and crossed the room to where he was sitting, put her hands on his face and tilted his head up to hers. Gently she smoothed the long locks of hair back from his eyes, letting the loose curling ends slip through her fingers. His hair was rougher than Dracoś, more textured.

"This is just an excuse to play with my hair," he said. "Isn´t it?" He was actually smiling now. She could feel his awareness of her suddenly snap into focus, of the place where her sweater dipped down into the V of her chest, of how close her bare legs were to him under her short skirt. He shifted in his chair. "Hermione…are these new clothes?"

It was her turn to smile. "Maybe." She held out her wand hand. " Accio scissors," she said, and in a moment was holding the embroidery scissors that she kept in her trunk. She picked Harryś book up off his lap and set it down on the table, with her wand on top of it. "Are you ready?" she asked.

"I don´t — " Harry began, but snip went the scissors and he subsided into a meek silence. Hermione tried to cut the hair evenly, but she had to admit to herself she knew nothing about cutting hair, she just hoped she wouldn´t lop off an ear or leave a bald spot anywhere. Harry was uncharacteristically quiet; either enjoying the attention or stupefied by boredom, she couldn´t tell. She certainly wasn´t bored. She was acutely aware of everywhere she was touching him. Her hand steadying him under the chin, her other hand in his hair, his leg between hers, her knee against his thigh. She could smell the faint scent that came off him, the clean soapy boy-smell that was Harry. His green eyes looked up at her, framed by the dark lashes she both envied and loved. "Here," he said suddenly, his voice a little hoarse, reached out, and put his hands on her waist, drawing her closer. Now she was straddling his legs and he was just about eye level with her chest. Oh dear. Is it working? I think it might be working.

Harry shifted in his chair again.

"Sit still," she said. Her voice came out on a squeak.

He released her waist and caught at her wrist with his right hand. The scissors fell out of her hand and bounced harmlessly on the carpet.

"Hermione-" he said, and pulled her towards him.

And then she was kissing him. She leaned into the kiss with an urgency that was nearly painful, and to her surprise he opened his mouth under hers, welcoming the kiss, welcoming her touch. Her hands fell from his hair to his shoulders, and then slid to lock around his neck. She felt her knees give, and she sat down in his lap, looping her legs over his. She could feel the pressure of her chest against his, his heartbeat through the thin cotton t-shirt he wore. "Hermione." His voice was rough in her ear, his hands rougher on her back. He set his mouth to her cheek, her ear, the smooth line of her jaw, the sensitive skin of her throat. His fingernails almost raking her skin, he slid his hands to her waist, and then roughly up under her shirt, finding and tracing the lacy edges of her bra.

Hermione shivered with the feeling, and also with surprise — this wasn´t like Harry, to be so aggressive. But he was here at last, really here, and as his fingertips traced circles of fire over her skin she gave up wondering what had gotten into him, and tumbled into the moment. There was only Harry, his fingers on her skin and his mouth on her mouth and she -

Overbalanced. With a tiny shriek, she grabbed at Harry, and succeeded in pulling him over with her as she toppled off the chair on to the floor.

They landed on the carpet in a torrent of gasps and laughter and it was several moments of tangled legs and arms before Hermione realized that the only one laughing was her. Harry wasn´t laughing at all. He was staring down at her with a look of frozen horror on his face, and such a blaze of pain in his eyes that it stopped her laughter dead in its tracks.

"Harry?" she gasped, struggling to sit up. "Harry, whatś wrong?"

He shook his head, pulling away from her. "What are we doing? What were you doing?"

"What was I doing?" Hermione stared at him. "I was kissing my boyfriend."

Harry put his hands over his face.

"My boyfriend," she said again, and this time there was anger in her voice. "Who barely talks to me any more, who won´t look at me — "

"Thatś not true," said Harry sharply, taking his hands away from his eyes. He fumbled for his glasses on the table, and put them on. "I´m just busy, thatś all."

"And I´m not busy? I´m Head Girl, Harry, and I´ve got extra classes and study groups, and I still have time for you. I have nothing but time for you, but you don´t seem to want to spend any time with me."

"Hermione," Harry said tightly. His eyes behind his glasses were cold and removed, and his jaw was set in a hard angry line. He had never looked at her before like that. Are we having a fight? she thought numbly. Is that what this is? But everybody fought. This seemed like something else.

"Hermione, let it go."

"Is this about this summer?" she asked, her voice cracking. "I know we went through hell, Harry, and I know how awful it was — "

"You don´t know," he said, and his voice was like the ice that sparkled on the windowpanes.

" Then tell me."

Harry seemed to hesitate for a moment. He was sitting with his back against the armchair now, leaning away from her, hair wild and disarranged, flushed from kissing and from anger. His eyes met hers, and held and for a moment, just a moment, she felt the old connection spring to life between them, as vibrant as a living thing.

Then Harry looked away, and it was gone. "Just let it alone, Hermione," he said. "Please."