Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

That much wounded pride ought to put a slump in anyone's upright posture, Draco thought, but it didn't seem to in this case: Seamus glared at him from the other side of Dumbledore's office, standing rigid and upright against the far wall. His face was a colorful relief map of bruises: blackened eye, bloody nose, bruised chin, swelling lower lip.

Draco smiled at him pleasantly. They had been herded in here by Professors McGonagall and Snape and told to wait for Dumbledore to arrive. As soon as they had left, Seamus had commenced glaring at him and hadn't stopped yet. Smiling at Seamus hurt Draco's split lip, but it was worth it anyway just to see his hands clench against his sides in impotent fury. He supposed it was interesting to note that he hadn't lost his joy in malice via his association with Harry. He wasn't sure if it was a good thing, but at least it was interesting.

Surprisingly, it was Seamus who broke the silence first. “She would never kiss you back,” he said. “Never. Never. Never.”

Draco picked up a crystal paperweight from the desk and held it up to the light that poured through the window. “Never never never?'” he echoed.

“That's right, Finnigan. Because if you say it three times, that'll make it true.”

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Seamus demanded, his voice thick with dislike.

“What do I want?” Draco echoed with a laugh. “Let's see…I've always wanted to own a Quidditch team. Maybe the Appleby Archers. And I want to be old enough to get a tattoo. And I'd like a really nice suede jacket that won't get ruined in the rain —”

“No,” Seamus interrupted. “What do you want with Ginny? Why her?” His eyes slid away from Draco, and fixed on the floor. “You've got everything already. Haven't you? Why do you want her too? Just to show…that you could have her if you wanted?”

The crystal paperweight felt heavy in Draco's hand. It was shaped like something, he couldn't quite tell what, it seemed to move fluidly under the touch of his fingers. “You're in love with her,” he said, feeling some surprise, although he thought he might already have known it. “Aren't you?”

Seamus raised his eyes from the floor. They were intently blue, the one beauty of an otherwise ordinary face. “If you take her away from me just to show that you can,” he said, “and then you hurt her again, I swear I'll kill you, I don't know how yet, but I'll find a way and I'll kill you. You can die, you know — even if you are a Malfoy.”

Draco just stared at him. Behind them, the door to the office opened with a click, and Dumbledore came into the room. He regarded both boys silently for a moment before he spoke. His voice was grave and quiet. “Sit down,” he said. “Both of you. Please.”

Draco looked down at the paperweight in his hand. It was a rose, he saw, with a heart carved out of a chip of emerald. He wondered why he hadn't seen it before. Setting the crystal flower on the desk, he sat down, and Seamus sat down beside him, leaning as far away from Draco as he could get.

Dumbledore looked from one of them to the other. His expression was one of tired resignation. “So,” he said. “I have heard what transpired in the museum. I suppose it would be a truism to state that I am surprised at you both. Neither of you seems the type to employ physical violence.”

“They took our wands away,” Draco said. He heard his own voice with surprise. That wasn't what he had meant to say at all. “Sir,” he added, weakly.

Seamus shot him a look of grave disgust. “It was just a scuffle, Professor,” he said. “It got a bit out of hand.”

“I started it,” said Draco, and batted his eyelashes at Seamus.

“That's true, sir,” Seamus said, steadfastly ignoring Draco. “He did start it.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “Yes, I'm sure he did.” He looked at Draco, and Draco's heart dropped into his shoes. “You have disgraced the school,” he said, “and more importantly, you have disgraced yourself. Both of you.”

He looked down at his folded hands, and then back at the hangdog boys slumped in their chairs. “Twenty points from Gryffindor,” he said, “and thirty points from Slytherin. You will both serve detention. A month of it for you, Mr. Finnigan. And for you, Mr. Malfoy — a month.” He saw their horrified expressions, and for a moment it looked as if he might smile.

“You will serve your detentions together,” he added. “By the end of it, I expect you to be able to write each others' life histories.”

“I could already write Finnigan's life history,” drawled Draco irritably.

“Was born, ate a potato, sucked at Quidditch, almost got shagged but not quite, ate a potato, died.”

“Thank you, Mister Malfoy,” said Dumbledore coolly. “Let me make that two months of detention for you.”

“Good,” interjected Seamus, and shot a glance at Draco. “And I think you should have to pay the bill for the damage to the museum, you smug git, Malfoy.”

Draco looked at Seamus. Then he smiled politely. “That was the Malfoy wing of the museum,” he said. “I'm hardly going to have to pay off my own Foundation, am I?”

Seamus turned an unbecoming shade of scarlet, and was silent.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mister Finnigan,” he said. “I believe that will be all I need from you.”

Seamus got to his feet, still puce, and stalked out of the office. Draco could feel Seamus resisting the urge to slam the door as he went out, and smiled to himself. When he turned back to Dumbledore, however, his smile melted like snow in April. The Headmaster was looking at him with a gaze so piercing Draco felt as if Dumbledore were drilling into his head.

“Mister Malfoy,” he said. “I am quite sure you had your reasons for doing what you did. And Merlin knows they are opaque to everyone but yourself. However, there is no excuse for ruthless use of other people's sincere emotions. No matter what your intended ends might be.”

Draco swallowed hard and looked down at the ground. In his place, Harry would likely have felt terrible. Draco merely felt terribly confused. Surely, if Dumbledore knew what they had been trying to accomplish… “I understand, sir,” he said. “I'm sorry-”

“Don't apologize to me,” said Dumbledore in a clipped voice. “You will apologize to Mister Finnigan. In public. And furthermore…” The Headmaster's voice trailed off then. Draco chanced a look up and was startled at what he saw: Dumbledore was looking at him with an expression of unutterable weariness. He seemed old in that moment, almost frail, his face very lined. “Draco,” he said at last. “I understand that I have put you and Harry in a terrible position. I know that. And I am sorry for it. I wish that there were more that I could do, but I am afraid that I cannot.”

“Headmaster…” Draco said in a sudden burst. “What you told me last week — about my father and Harry's parents — do you think I should tell him?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “I am afraid that is your decision to make,” he said. “But I would say that yes, you should. It is never wise to hide things.” He sighed, and shook his head again. “That is all, I suppose,” he said. “And you will not go to Madam Pomfrey to have her attend to your wounds — I wish you to bear your bruises. And, when you have a moment, give a thought to what they mean.”

Draco nodded silently, not exactly sure what Dumbledore might mean, and the Headmaster smiled at him. It looked like a real smile, if a tired one.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “It is Monday afternoon, and I know you have an appointment in the armory. Go along, and give Harry my regards.”

Outside the door to Dumbledore's office, the only sound was the ticking of the brass grandfather clock in the corner of the hallway. Ginny tried to ignore the insistent noise as she waited, nervously, for the office door to open. The moment they'd all returned to school everyone had scattered — back to their respective common rooms to gossip, she didn't doubt.