Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Draco leaned close and whistled. The page showed a woodcut engraving, very detailed and lifelike, of a young woman in dark wizarding robes. Her hair was also black and cascaded nearly to her feet: her pale oval face was familiar, as were the upturned eyes and the smiling mouth. Hermione remembered her as the girl who had walked downstairs with Charlie Weasley at Harry's birthday party; Draco obviously remembered her rather better. The girl held a wand in her left hand, and what looked like a jewel on the end of a chain in the other. Along the bottom of the illustration wound six words in block calligraphic letters: Rhysenn Malfoy. In the Year 1357.

"Six hundred years," said Draco, and laid a hand on the page. "Well, she said she was older." The engraved Rhysenn stretched and winked at him, swinging her jewel on its chain. "In fact, she said she was immortal."

"That's a bit odd," said Hermione, "because here it says she died when she was twenty."

"Did she?"

"Yes, of goblin fever. Before that, though, she was engaged to be married…"

"Ha!"

"…To Nicholas Flamel."

Draco blinked, looking as if were grasping at strands of memory. "And he was…?"

"A friend of Dumbledore's. He created the Sorcerer's Stone." Hermione shook her head. "I never would have thought he would have been the sort of person who would have married a Malfoy."

Draco looked injured. "Why not a Malfoy? We're extremely personable, you know. And then there's the sex-appeal…"

"Oddly, her biography here doesn't say anything about sex-appeal."

"They probably called it something different back then," said Draco unflappably.

Hermione snorted. "Like what? Ye Olde Sex Appeal?"

Draco ignored this. "Well, I suppose it helps to know who she was…even though I don't think that the woman I've been talking to really is Rhysenn Malfoy. At least, not this same girl. Could they have brought her back from the dead, I wonder…"

"Shhh," hissed Hermione, although the library was deserted. "Ugh.

Necromancy? That's the worst magic there is. Anyway, it never works properly. There'd be…bits falling off her and things. Are there?"

"What? Bits falling off her? No. She's…complete." Draco looked thoughtful.

"She's pretty spry for a corpse, in fact. Prettier than most live girls."

"Hmmph," said Hermione, and shut the book. "I'll keep looking for information on her. Now that we know when she lived, I can cross-check her in the Flamel biographies."

"Thanks," said Draco, glanced up, and with a quick Seeker's precision, caught a glowing red light that was whizzing by in his cupped hand. He held it for a moment, the illuminated globe throwing a rosy shadow over his face, then let it go. He reached into a pocket then, drew out a folded square of newsprint, and handed it to her. "Take a look at this," he said.

"A Muggle newspaper? Draco, where did you get this?"

"Never mind that. Look at the picture." Draco came to stand beside her, glancing down at the newspaper as well. "That mirror, the one that was stolen. That was the mirror in my dream."

Her head snapped up, and she stared at him. He was still looking down at the photograph, his profile intent and serious. His eyes were lowered, the long lashes casting longer shadows over the pronounced cheekbones, like fine pen strokes. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he said, and explained, swiftly but thoroughly, the means by which he had assured himself it was the same mirror, and his conviction that Voldemort had sent Wormtail to steal it. "Now the question is, what does he want it for? Obviously it can be used to see me with, but there must be a bit more to it than that. Any mirror could be tuned to see me, if he really wanted to make the effort. Why that one?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know. The workmanship looks rather like the workmanship on Harry's scabbard, doesn't it? I know I can check back to see who made that, see if the maker ever created any other enchanted objects. This mirror must be special somehow."

"And if Voldemort really wants it," Draco said, straightening up, "then we should know why."

"Right." Hermione took the piece of newspaper, and slid it into her bookbag. "I can get some books out now and bring them to the match."

She glanced around. "At least, I can if Madam Pince ever comes back."

Draco followed her gaze around the deserted library, and a thoughtful look came into his eyes. "There's one more thing I wanted to show you," he said. "It's a bit strange…"

"All right," she said, and glanced around again. "There's no one here…"

"No." He clamped his hand around her wrist. His fingers felt warm against her skin. "Someone might come in…here, come with me." He drew her after him, past the stacks of books, and into a shadowy alcove lined with small volumes. The hovering lights were the main illumination here, casting distended shadows of emerald, ruby and gilded light against the stone walls. Draco let her wrist go, and she drew it back, instinctively clasping her hands together. She wasn't sure why she felt uneasy: perhaps it was Draco's set, tense expression, or the fact that it was so cold in the library, or something else altogether.

"Draco, what is it? Are you all right?"

His gray gaze slid over her face, almost as if he were calculating, evaluating something. Testing her. Whatever it was, he seemed satisfied.

He took a step away from her, reached down, took hold of the hem of his black sweater, and pulled it off over his head in one quick motion. He was wearing nothing under it.

Hermione heard herself gasp, and she stepped backwards so quickly that she hit her head on the stone wall. Wincing, she exclaimed, "Draco! What are you doing?"

He looked at her in surprise, and then his lips curled into an amused smile. "I said I wanted to show you something."

She regarded him with deep mistrust, trying not to look at the way his narrow waist flared up into a broader chest, at the flat planes of his torso, the faint tracery of muscles under the skin. Harry had much the same build, of course, light and lean, a Seeker's body. "You didn't say you were going to get undressed," she hissed under her breath.

"I need your Medical Magic expertise," he said straightforwardly. "I want you to look at my shoulder."

"At your shoulder?"

"Here," he said, and indicated his left shoulder with a touch of his hand.

"Do you see it?"

She shook her head. "I don't see anything."

"From that distance, you couldn't see anything without Omnioculars." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Is something wrong?"

"No," she said, flushing pink. "Nothing," and she took a reluctant step closer to him, and examined the indicated shoulder. Within a moment she had forgotten her discomfort in curiosity. "Is this where the arrow went in? The other day?" He nodded, looking down at his shoulder. There was a starlike scar just below and to the right of his clavicle, quite healed — when Hermione touched it lightly, he did not wince. "It doesn't hurt?" she asked.

"No," he said. "But…you see?"

She nodded. "It's glowing. Sort of silver. Turn around." He turned around, and she saw the scar on his back where the head of the arrow had exited his body, slightly smaller than the scar in front, but glowing with the same faint and phosphorescent radiance. She put her hand against his shoulder blade. The skin there was very white and smooth to the touch, a shade lighter than the skin on his hands and face. She could feel the slight roughness of the scar under her hand. It felt cold. "It's the same here."

She stepped back, and dropped her hand. "You're sure it doesn't hurt?"

she asked anxiously.

He turned around to face her, and to her relief, picked up his sweater and drew it back on over his head. The resultant static electricity turned his silver hair into a crackling halo. ""It doesn't hurt," he said, pulling the sweater down. "But it's awfully weird. I'm not happy about it."