Кассандра Клэр - Draco Veritas

Feeling as if he had wandered into a very strange dream, Draco went to his clothes chest, pulled out a pair of black trousers and a Knarl Lagerfeld dark green shirt, crossed to the other side of the room, and changed hurriedly, watching Hermione as he did so. She did not move from her place on the bed, only sat where she was, staring down at her hands. He pulled his shirt on, buttoned it, went back to the bed, and sat down next to her. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Why don't you tell me what happened?”

She didn't reply, only stared past him, at a point beyond his left shoulder.

He reached out, and took hold of her shoulders, gripping them tightly.

“Hermione,” he said firmly. “I assume you came here because you wanted my help. But if you don't tell me anything, I cannot help you.”

“I know,” she said, very softly, not raising her eyes to his. “I know, but how can I tell you what happened when I don't understand it myself?” His grip on her shoulders tightened, and she winced. “I've gone mad,” she said. “It's the only explanation.”

He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, it was very steadily. “You,” he said, “have always been the sanest person I know. If you're mad, then we all are. I am. Harry is. Weasley is —” Her shoulders jerked violently under his hands, and he ducked his head to try to see her face. “Ron? This has something to do with Ron?”

She nodded, a tiny nod. “Yes.”

“Tell me,” he said. “Not what you think happened, or what you think might be wrong with you. Tell me the facts.”

She took a deep and ragged breath, and raised her eyes slowly. They were so dark the pupil seemed to have disappeared into the iris; they looked like black tunnels, going on and on forever. “You won't believe me,” she said, and her voice cracked with pain. “Harry didn't believe me, and you won't either, and Ginny will believe Ron because he's her brother, and what will I do, I won't be able to stand it if you don't believe me, I won't be able to stand it —”

“I'll believe you,” he said sharply, cutting her off. “I believe you already.

Just tell me what happened.”

“All right.” She nodded, and looked down again at her hands, balled into fists on top of her knees. “All right,” she said again, and then she began to speak, haltingly at first, then in a rush of words like a river undammed, telling him what had happened in the Gryffindor common room, what Harry had said, what Ron had said, what they both had done. And as she spoke, her small steady voice going on and on, Draco found himself at first unable to believe what he was hearing — and then, strangely able to. I knew there was something wrong. I knew there was something.

“And then,” she finished, her voice unsteady, “a-and then, Harry said he never wanted to see me or speak to me again, and I should never go near him. I ran out — I saw McGonagall and Lupin rushing up, but I ran past them. I guess they ran into the common room — the Veritas curse must have set off the wards, they have those wards up, you know, the Dark magic ones, and —”

“I know about the wards,” Draco interrupted her gently. “Sod the wards.”

She nodded. “Of course. I'm sorry.” Her voice was empty and flat, and when she glanced down at her hands again he saw that she had something balled up tightly in her right fist. He dropped his hands from her shoulders, and slowly reached for her hand. She let him, offering no resistance as he pried her fingers open, and he blinked at the familiar glimmer of gold that was revealed. It was the gold watch that Harry always wore on his right wrist, his gold watch with the dark leather band. “He threw it at me,” she said, by way of explanation, and closed her fingers again. “He said I should never come near him again.”

“I know,” Draco said. “You told me.”

“He's right,” she said. “There's something wrong with me. I don't remember — I don't remember having done anything with Ron, but I must have done, mustn't I?”

Draco took a deep breath. He knew his next words must be chosen with great care. “Hermione,” he said. “There is nothing wrong with you. I knew Weasley was developing some sort of — feelings for you. I just didn't realize he was quite this delusional about it.”

Her head snapped up and she looked at him almost accusingly. “How do you know he's delusional? How do you know it isn't me that's delusional?”

“Because he's the one telling the bizarre story, Hermione, not you.”

“You didn't see him,” she said, her voice rising, “he was so sure, Draco, he was so sure, and the way he looked at me — and he was under the Veritas curse, how could he be lying?”

“Because,” Draco said firmly. “The Veritas curse makes you tell the truth, but it doesn't gift you with knowledge you don't possess. In other words, just because he believes it's true doesn't make it true. He could be under a Confundus curse — or have been Memory charmed — or just be a complete nutter, for all I know, although I doubt it. What I don't doubt is that the Veritas curse, in this case, doesn't prove anything. Anything.”

He broke off, because Hermione was staring at him. Her eyes were enormous. “You believe me,” she said. “You really believe me, don't you?”

“Yes,” he replied, because he did. “I absolutely believe you.”

“Oh, thank God,” she said and burst into tears. He stared at her in alarm, but before he could do anything, she had thrown her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. She was sobbing in a way he would not have thought possible, every bit of the controlled reserve that had kept her so calm throughout this past half hour swept away as if by a flood. Very gingerly he put his own arms around her, and held her as she wept. He felt sure that there were Things One Did in these situations, soothing noises to be made, heads to be patted, but he had no experience with comforting people, much less comforting anyone he cared about. He could do nothing other than sit and hold her as the tumult of her grief spent itself.

“I feel like I can't breathe,” he heard her whisper finally, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “I don't understand what's happening to me.” She still had her arms around him, her hands fisted in the back of his shirt. All of her softness was pressed against him, and he could almost taste the salt of her tears in his mouth. Against his will, he felt his body react to her proximity; after all, he was seventeen, and some things were beyond his immediate control. Quickly, he reached up and firmly detached her arms from around his neck.

“You should lie down,” he said, pulling away from her. “You're exhausted.”

She shook her head swiftly, her hand still gripping his shirt. “No. No. I can't. I couldn't possibly sleep.”

He sighed, his mind darting back and forth between various options.

Holding her on his lap again was not a workable one. Neither, apparently, was she willing to lie down on her own. He slid off the bed and knelt down in front of his small bedside table; he slid the bottom drawer open, and drew out a bottle. The label on the bottle proclaimed it to be wine from the Archenland Vineyards, bottled in 1867. He looked at it for a moment — it was meant to be a gift for Sirius and Narcissa, and was worth more than he cared to remember. But, it couldn't be helped. “Apierto,” he muttered, and the cork popped out of the bottle with a faint sound.

He handed the open bottle open to Hermione, and she took it and looked at blankly for a moment. Then, without hesitation, she raised the bottle to her lips.

“Whoa,” said Draco, jumping to his feet. “You're supposed to…oh, hell, whatever,” he finished in a resigned manner as Hermione knocked back a healthy swig — then gasped and choked.