Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Harry shook his head. “Me?”

Draco looked as if he were enjoying himself. “Hermione.”

“Oh, no.” Harry shot Draco a mistrustful look. “Don't you let her get Hermione anything sharp, or explosive…”

Draco put his hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear,” he intoned.

“Thanks.” Harry's eyes went to the clock on the wall, and he sat up straight. “Time to go down to supper,” he said, and stood up, grabbing his bookbag off a nearby chair. He was halfway to the door when he paused and turned. “Aren't you coming with me?”

Draco, who was still sitting at the table, raised his head, surprised. In the half light, Harry couldn't make out his expression, only the vaguely defined shape of his face: the planes of the cheekbones, the sharp chin, the shadowed eyes. “We can't go down there together,” he said.

“Oh,” said Harry. “Right, we can't — of course we can't.”

“You go — I'll head down in a bit.” Draco gave Harry a curious look. “You all right? You look like you're about to sneeze.”

Harry sighed. “It's nothing. Just…”

“What?”

“Don't come down too soon after I do.”

Draco nodded. “Good point. I won't.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, and left feeling irritable, but not knowing why.

She's not coming.

He had already told himself this three times, but it didn't seem to be making a difference. Ron stood up, easing his cramped muscles, and leaned against the wall, staring sightlessly into the middle distance. It was three in the morning and he was meant to be up in a few hours. In six hours, in fact, he was meant to be robbing a museum. Right now that all seemed distant and unreal: what was real was the fact that she wasn't here, and it didn't seem like she would be arriving any time soon.

He had sent her a message…several messages, telling her to meet him in their usual place. And he had waited. The night before, and the night before that. But she hadn't come. It wasn't the first time; there had been other nights she hadn't shown herself, but never three in a row.

He took a step forward and leaned his hands on the table. The four squares of light from the colored windows: blue, red, green, and gold — splashed across the center of the room, painting the floor. They glowed all the time, even at night. There was no need for other lighting in the prefects' room, another reason it was such an ideal meeting place. And only someone with the password could get in. Of course, there had been that unfortunate Malcolm incident…

Ron pushed that to the back of his mind. Malcolm didn't remember what had happened — an unexpected stroke of luck, that. Not that he felt very lucky right now. He had felt lucky, often, these past months, had felt he was the luckiest person in the world. But now…he looked down at his own hands, resting on the table. The nails were bitten down to bloody half-circles.

A surge of anger washed over him. He got to his feet, feeling suddenly energized by fury — she had no right to act like this. The least she could do was send him a message. He knew they were prevented from speaking about this to each other in public, but she could have scribbled a note. He grabbed at the door and wrenched it open, stepped out into the hallway — and hesitated.

The hallway was filled with faint morning light. It must be later than he had thought. In which case…well, there was no point going to bed then, was there? And if he waited…well, perhaps she might come. They'd met later than this before.

He went back into the room, and shut the door behind him.

Waking up was like swimming through black cold water towards a distant light. Draco's head broke the surface of sleep, his eyes fluttering open, and then the rest of his body followed, shuddering awake in a series of uneven jerks. He sat up in bed, letting his breathing still slowly.

He was freezing cold. He sat up slowly, the icy air striking his skin and making him shiver even more. Lately he had been waking up soaked in sweat, his pajamas drenched and sticking to him, so he had taken to sleeping only in the thin cotton pajama bottoms he usually wore during the summer, the covers kicked down to his feet. Now, however, this was backfiring and he was frozen solid. His bones felt like ice.

He got up, and, taking the blanket with him, went to the window and sat down on the ledge. He wrapped the blanket around himself and looked out at the cold winter night beyond the misted glass.

The word outside was white and wreathed in silver ice. It looked fragile, as if it would ring like a glass bell if struck. The hollow black sky seemed painted with a thousand diamonds, although there was no moon at all.

The night was breathlessly quiet.

Draco looked down at his hands. There was a faint bluish tinge to the nails that might have been cold or shadow; he curled his fingers in against his palms. Images from the dream he had been having moved behind the skin of his eyelids: the castle again, rising from its black nest of pine trees, the diamond-like windows, the echoing empty rooms. The tower, and in the tower the shelf on which sat the mirror, the dagger, and the scabbard.

Tonight, a table had been pulled up to the window and at it had sat his father, absorbed in a solitary game of chess. The chessboard was gold and ivory, and the pieces were carved out of whole rubies and emeralds: one team scarlet as blood, the other green as poison.

By the window stood Voldemort, looking out over the landscape, the trees spilling their autumnal colors down into an empty valley. “Lucius,” he said. “Surely the time is nearly at hand?”

“Yes, my Lord,” said Lucius, moving the bishop. “In two weeks if I am not mistaken.”

“That is good news. Time hangs heavily, here. I grow increasingly bored.”

The Dark Lord turned away from the window and looked down at Draco's father. “I find I prefer these more old fashioned chess sets that capture rather than destroying,” he said thoughtfully. “It is quite novel.”

“I thought you liked killing,” Lucius said, and moved a red pawn.

“Sometimes capturing is a better tactic,” said the Dark Lord. “Why destroy what you can use, or make an example of?” He smiled. It was as unpleasant a sight as always. “How is the boy?”

“As well as can be expected,” said Lucius, and moved the knight. “It is as I told you, my Lord. It is now a matter of waiting.”

Draco was pulled out of his memories and back into the present by a tapping sound against the glass. He realized he was shivering violently enough that his hands were knocking against the window. He pulled the blanket tighter and murmured a Warming Spell, which helped slightly — if only he could sleep, he thought, but he was wide awake. He let his head fall back against the wall, and his eyes trailed to the clock by his bed, whose numbers flared and faded in different colors every minute. Right now the violet numerals told him that it was five in the morning.

In two hours they would get up to have breakfast and go to the museum.

As a prefect, he would have to be there early, waiting with the professors.

Harry, Hermione and Ron were meant to meet him in the entry hall before breakfast even started. He had not expected to be so nervous about what they planned for tomorrow, certainly not so nervous that it would keep him awake. Yet he was dreading it in several ways. Certainly it was hardly the most dangerous thing he had ever done, but it wasn't from fear for his own personal safety that his anxiety sprang.

He wondered idly if Harry was awake yet, the thought lighting a flicker of curiosity in his brain. Without stopping to analyze what he was doing, he sent a tendril of thought out, searching the dark space outside himself for the familiar color and shape of Harry's thoughts. He felt nothing at first, which almost alarmed him. He let himself reach out farther, as if he were stepping from a bridge out into deep water, the darkness rising formless around him.