Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

She cast another look towards Draco as they left the Scamander Room, because they were passing a sign that denoted that the Exhibition of Dark Age Artifacts was to their left. She knew what was in that room: the remaining three Keys of the Founders. Her Lycanthe, Harry's scabbard, and Ginny's Time-Turner. They had all of them been there at the dedication ceremony over the summer: the four Heirs, and Ron as well.

But Draco did not look back at her; he was deep in conversation with Malcolm, so Hermione turned to look at Ginny instead. There she had better luck; Ginny, hand-in-hand with Seamus, returned her glance with a rueful look and a smile. Hermione winked back, and thus almost missed it as they passed under an arch which declared that they were entering: The Cantwell J. Muckenfuss Exhibition of Implements of Indeterminate Purpose

“Ooh,” whispered Hermione, “this is IT,” and in her transport of excitement, she punched Harry in the arm.

“Some women get excited about earrings,” he whispered, wincing, “Others get excited about grand-scale larceny.”

“Hmph,” said Hermione, and fell silent as they entered the room.

The glass display cases in this particular exhibit were filled with all the magical objects the curators had never been able to identify an express purpose for. There were enchanted watches that always told the wrong time (but why?), stone tablets engraved with magical runes that could not be translated, enchanted bells that probably did something when rung, but nobody had ever had the nerve to ring them, and a spinning pen that Hermione well knew would be spinning in perpetuity because there was a magnet in it, and not because it was magical — some wizard obviously didn't quite understand Muggle artifacts. This cheered her up, as it meant the museum curators were hardly infalliable. And there — there it was, the Cup, smaller than she had imagined from the illustrations, glimmering silver behind a glass case. She detached herself from the rest of the students and went to stare at it, drawn as if in a dream. It sat between a long bone-handled knife and a stone pestle of some sort. A plaque was affixed to the base of the display case:

Cup/Goblet, Uncertain workmanship, circa 1100 AD. This cup is believed to have belonged to Gareth Slytherin, although all evidence to that end is largely apocryphal. The cup rates a startling 8.7 on the IMP scale, although what purpose it might be put to is entirely unknown. The interior of the cup is carved with a pattern of waves and scales. It may perhaps have served as a tool for use in various alchemical preparations.

“Come on,” said a voice, and then Harry's hand was on hers, drawing her away. The students had already begun filing out of the room after Flitwick, who was still chattering away in his clear little voice. She cast a last glance at the cup, sitting quietly behind its thick sheet of glass, and her heart quailed. She tightened her hand on Harry's, and followed him out of the room.

The inscription was carved onto the base of a stone fountain containing the statue of a bearded man spitting water. When Harry looked at him, he waggled a stone eyebrow. Harry looked away hastily, and examined the placard at the bottom of the display, which proclaimed it to be the Fountain of Brisingamen, whose waters had magical healing properties — and, the placard added helpfully, were rumored to make freckles vanish.

“Best not stick your head in,” he said to Ron, who was standing at his side.

“We might never see you again.”

“Bah,” said Ron, by way of a rejoinder, and glanced around the room.

They were in the high-ceilinged Room of Enchanted Statuary, which was pretty much what it sounded like. There were statues of mermaids singing and playing harps that actually sang and played harp music, although not particularly well, and a carving of a sleeping centaur that snored aloud, and some statues of what Ron had described as “tall Greekish looking chaps in nappies” in the corner, who had flipped their togas up at Lavender Brown and made her scream. “Those people still staring at you, Harry?”

“Yeah,” said Harry dispiritedly, changing a glance to the side. They had all assumed that the museum would be closed to everyone but students on the day of the trip, given the limited amount of Portkeys usually dispensed by the curators. But it was not empty. A visiting contingent of Canadian witches and wizards was there, and many of them had hung back from their own tour to stare at Harry with curious eyes. “How are we going to get away?” he muttered under his breath to Ron, close to despair.

“They're all staring at me.”

Ron shrugged. “I know,” he said. “Maybe Hermione and I ought to try to get away on our own, you could give us the cloak…”

“No.” It was Hermione, coming around the side of the fountain, a determined look on her face. She joined them and continued in a whisper, “We need Harry, because he can be talking to Draco out here — you know we need him.”

“Well,” Ron said slowly, “and I can't believe I'm going to suggest this: we could bring Malfoy with us, and Harry could stay here. He could even create a distraction instead. Maybe he could start handing out autographs.”

“No,” whispered Hermione, “the second Draco left, Pansy and Malcolm would notice.”

“And nobody's going to notice we're gone?” Ron asked.

Hermione gave him a dark look. “That's why we need Draco to distract them.” She looked at Harry. “Can you talk to him for a moment for us?”

“To Malfoy?” Harry looked past her, towards the far end of the room, his eyes seeking a familiar lankily graceful form, crowned with silver-tinsel hair. He immediately found where Draco stood between Pansy and Malcolm Baddock, staring at a row of unicorns carved out of marble.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can talk to him.”

He shut his eyes and reached out; because Draco was so physically close, contact was instantaneous. Malfoy?

Uh-huh.

I think it's distraction time.

How distressing. I was really enjoying this exhibit.

Oh. Harry checked himself. Well, we could wait…

Something bubbled like soda water in the back of his head. Belatedly, he realized it was Draco laughing.

You must be nervous, Potter. Normally you wouldn't be such a pillock.

Of course I'm nervous. We're about to rob this museum, you know.

Pfft. Draco actually shrugged, without turning around. And you call yourself the hero of the wizarding world.

I never call myself that! Harry began indignantly, then cut himself off as something poked his ribcage. He looked down and saw that it was Hermione's quill.

“Harry,'” she said warningly. “Do not get sucked into an argument please.”

Harry made a face at her, and she smiled angelically. “I mean it,” she added.

So, Malfoy. About that distraction — Harry began, but was interrupted by Professor Flitwick, loudly calling the students over towards the doors to the room that contained the Cursed Artifacts exhibits. The students began to move quickly towards him; this sounded like interesting stuff. Pansy and Malcolm detached themselves from the railing they had been leaning on and Draco followed them, hands in his pockets, not looking to the side.

Hermione looked at Harry. “What did he…?”

Give me five minutes once we get into that room, Draco said. Then put the Cloak on and run like hell.

Harry looked at Hermione and Ron, and, inexplicably, felt himself begin to smile. “We're on,” he said.