Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

"I haven't heard anything about injuries that glow, in Medical Magic," said Hermione anxiously. "Are you sure Madam Pomfrey — "

"No Madam Pomfrey," said Draco with such unutterable finality that she knew it was hopeless.

She sighed. "All right," she said. "I'll see what I can find out, Draco. But If I don't find anything out…"

"Then I will continue to read in bed using only my shoulder for illumination," he said lightly. He glanced towards the clock on the wall. "I have to head down to the pitch," he added. "The game…"

"I know," she said. "I'd wish you luck, but…"

"But I don't need it?"

"But I really want our team to win," she replied, and made a face at him.

His eyes lit up and he laughed: a real laugh, not a snide one. "Thanks," he said. "For helping out," and before she could say that he was welcome, he had walked off. She watched him make his way out of the library, and a moment later followed after, emerging from the stacks into the lighted main room to see that Draco had been right: someone had come into the library after they did.

Pansy Parkinson was sitting at one of the long tables, a book open in her lap, but her eyes were fixed on Hermione. There was a look of such loathing in them that Hermione, struck speechless, could only stare. Pansy stood up, almost knocking her book over, and stalked stiffly out of the room, her back rigid with disdain. Hermione watched her go, feeling weak in the knees. She had always known that Pansy didn't like her, but what had she ever done to make the Slytherin girl hate her so much?

Draco didn't know it, but his opinion that Dumbledore's office was possibly the most interesting room in the school was one that was shared by Harry. Draco stood in the center of the room and waited; the Headmaster had not arrived yet and so he was at leisure to examine the fascinating objects that were everywhere. The antique claw-footed desk was littered with items of interest: there was a pile of Chocolate Frog cards (Draco noted that Dumbledore had apparently amused himself by drawing green mustaches on most of the famous witches and wizards, including himself), a Pocket Sneakoscope, an empty Pensieve, a collection of singing mechanical canaries, a Broomstick Trajectory Calibrator, a blank FiloParch, and a sleeping dormouse. Draco moved around the desk, not touching anything, and then his gaze fell on a stand behind the desk, on which rested an immediately familiar worn, patched, pointy-topped hat. The Sorting Hat.

He stood and stared at it for a moment. Then, without knowing that years ago Harry had once done much the same thing, he reached for it and with trepidation, lifted the hat and put it on his head. Darkness enveloped his vision as the hat fell forward to cover his eyes. The hat had a musty, familiar smell, and he immediately remembered the moment he had sat on that tall stool in front of the assembled students, his whole mind a tight ball of determination focused on just one goal: Slytherin, Slytherin, let it be Slytherin.

The hat stirred on his head now, and a voice spoke in his ear. What have we here….It seemed to hesitate. You're older, it went on, then my usual subjects, but I can't say I recognize the shape of your mind. Have we met before?

Yes, Draco thought, perplexed. You Sorted me…into Slytherin.

Into Slytherin? The Hat sounded amused. How very curious. Do you mind…if I look a little deeper into your thoughts?

Draco hesitated. No. I don't mind, he said, then felt a shiver run down his spine as a most curious feeling took hold of him, as if something inside his head were fluttering.

The voice spoke again. Why, you're a Malfoy! It sounded amused now.

You're Draco Malfoy…I recollect you well. And yet, how you've changed.

You're almost a different person now, aren't you? As if there were another person inside your head.

Something like that, Draco muttered, thinking of Harry.

Yes, another personality, as strong as your own. So what have we here? A good mind, sharp as a quill and twice as cunningly crafted…Quite a lot of arrogance and a nice dose of insecurity to match…bravery, oh yes I see that…you've known loss, then…and disappointment. And loyalty….as strong as iron. You would never desert anyone you loved, yet those you don't care for might as well not exist to you. And you're not above using them to get what you want. Ha! Draco jumped as laughter sounded in his ear. You're a bundle of contradictions, young Malfoy…and the most interesting mind I've seen in years.

"Thanks," said Draco, without much feeling. "So would you still, I mean…would you…"

Would I what?

"Sort me into Slytherin?"

I might. You're cunning enough for it…at the same time, clever enough for Ravenclaw, loyal enough for Hufflepuff, and brave enough for Gryffindor.

So the question is, my boy…would you still want to be Sorted into Slytherin?

"I don't know," Draco whispered, and added with a sharp flash of annoyance, "It's your job, isn't it, not mine!"

What is?

"To know where I belong!"

When you're a child, you need someone to tell you where you belong, perhaps, said the Hat. At your age you should know it for yourself.

"Well, I don't," Draco snarled, and yanked the Hat from his head in a fit of vexed disappointment. "I suppose I should have known better than to look for help from some stupid piece of talking haberdashery," he added, and drop-kicked the Hat across the room.

It landed at the feet of Albus Dumbledore, who had come in very quietly while Draco was distracted. "Oh dear," said Dumbledore mildly. "Not much point taking things out on the Hat, really. It doesn't feel pain."

Draco looked guiltily at the serene-looking headmaster. "You wanted to see me, Professor?"

"Yes. Why don't you come sit at my desk?" Dumbledore said, and Draco did as he was requested to do. He sat down as Dumbledore settled himself into the dark-blue high-backed chair behind the desk, and templed his hands beneath his chin. Draco did his best to return the Headmaster's gaze steadily, but found he couldn't — Dumbledore's eyes were too piercing; it made him feel as if his own head were made of glass. "Young Mister Malfoy," Dumbledore said. "I know better than to assume you will tell me why you went to the top of the North Tower, or who you were meeting there. No — " he held up a hand as Draco began to speak. "I am well aware you weren't meeting Harry. I understand all that, and that is not why I called you here."

"Oh…" Draco said slowly. If there was one person in the world who robbed him of his ability to make smart comebacks, it was Dumbledore. "If you're not going to ask me about that…what are you going to ask me about, Professor?"

"I was going to return something to you," Dumbledore said. "Something you lost."

Draco's eyes widened. "Yes?

Dumbledore stretched out his hand, and Draco's eyes widened further. In the center of his wrinkled palm something glittered blackly: a signet ring, carved out of onyx, in the shape of a griffin. "My seal ring," he said blankly, and reached for it. "I thought I'd left it somewhere…"

"You did," said Dumbledore. "At the top of the North Tower."

Draco's hand closed spasmodically around the ring he had just retrieved.

I shouldn't have admitted it was mine…

"I knew it was yours, Draco," said Dumbledore, as if reading his mind.

"The moment Charlie brought it to me…How many times did I see that ring flash on your father's hand when he was at school, and on your grandfather Julius' hand as well. Your father especially was always so particular about wearing it…I am surprised he would have taken it off."