Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

"Ginny." It was Charlie speaking, looking at her with questioning eyes. "Did you really think that that person was me? That I would do something like that?"

Ginny bit her lip, trying to focus her thoughts. "Well, at first you -

he — seemed perfectly normal, and then at the end everything happened so fast we didn't really have a chance to think anything.

Then we were unconscious." She raised her eyes to her brother's, saw the worry in his expression, the shadows in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Charlie," she said, her voice cracking. "It wasn't fair even to think that for a minute."

But Charlie, studying his hands, took a moment to reply. "It's hard to say," he said finally, "just what people really are capable of. You never know, people sometimes think they're doing the right thing, and then it turns out to be a mistake, but it's too late to change things."

Ginny was confused. "What are you talking about?"

Charlie smiled faintly. "Just rambling pointlessly. Ignore me. Come on, let's go into the kitchen — I'll make you some tea."

"According to his Apparating License, his name is Alexander Taylor," said Mad-Eye Moody to Sirius, who was standing next the body on the gurney with his hands in his pockets and an intent expression on his face. The moonlight streamed through the small barred window overhead, turning the edges of Sirius' dark hair red.

"And according to his Ministry Registration, he's a werewolf."

"A werewolf?" Sirius glanced down at the body of the man who had disguised himself as Charlie Weasley. The glamour he had been under was fading with death; the red hair turning black, the distinctive Weasley freckles disappearing. "Actually, that makes sense."

"Does it?" said Mad-Eye neutrally.

Sirius nodded without answering. Mad-Eye knew about Lupin -

nearly everyone in the wizarding world did — but Mad-Eye also knew Lupin. He had been one of Sirius' instructors during his days of Auror training, and had met him not infrequently. He knew of their friendship. "What I don't get," added the scarred old Auror ruminatively, scratching his head, "is how the attacker" — (so far, no one had mentioned Slytherin by name, but had referred to him simply as 'the attacker' — trying not to sound too mad, Sirius suspected)-"managed to get into the house. Arthur Weasley is no fool; he's got his house well warded."

Sirius shrugged. "The wards are set to recognize family members by sight, so it's no big mystery how the false Charlie got in. As for the rest, Hermione Granger told me that 'Charlie' spent the afternoon

'working in the garden'. I suspect what he was actually doing was taking the wards down. It wouldn't be too hard to do from on the property. And then, when he was done, he Summoned his Master."

Sirius sighed, feeling weary. He raised his eyes and glanced around; he and Mad-Eye were alone in the dark corridor. "Has he got any family?"

"Who? The werewolf?"

Sirius nodded.

"Not that we can find a record of. Probably the best thing, too, considering…"

"Considering what?" asked Sirius sharply.

Mad-Eye wasn't looking at him, but down at the body of the man on the gurney. "He has injuries," he said. "On his hands. Not defensive injuries. As if he clawed his way out of something. A cage, some kind of holding pen. The glamour hid them. I suspect he was being Called. I suspect all the werewolves in Britain are being Called and that's what's behind this plague of werewolf sightings that's been in the news."

Sirius tensed. "That's an interesting theory." He had so far told no one about Lupin being Called, and didn't want to mention now that he might have any special knowledge of Calling, werewolves, Slytherin, or anything else. He knew this made no sense logically, and perhaps ethically as well, but he didn't care. He wasn't prepared to answer questions about Remus and that was final.

"It's not a pleasant process, being Called," said Mad-Eye, avoiding Sirius' eyes. "It's agonizing, and it goes on and on until the one being Called either answers the summons, or dies."

Sirius looked down, his hands tight on the metal edges of the gurney. The red gem in his bracelet winked as he turned his wrist.

"Is there nothing that can be done for the condition?"

"There was talk of creating a potion to cure it, back when the Dark Lord was in power, but I don't know if anything ever came of that."

Mad-Eye was still refusing to look at Sirius, who was glad. Mad-Eye cleared his throat. "And the Weasleys. How are they managing?"

"They're all right. They were frantic at first, still are probably, but the Burrow is knee-deep in Aurors right now. They'll have a constant twenty-four-hour guard of forty Aurors at least, ringed around the house and the grounds. There won't be a safer wizarding house in Britain."

"And will you be one of those Aurors?" Mad-Eye asked. Sirius suspected that Moody would have liked to be one himself, but in consideration of his age (103, by all accounts) Mad-Eye had lately been restricted to inactive duty.

Sirius shook his head, and looked down again at the body of the man on the gurney. Close up, it was easy to see the telltale signs that marked him as a werewolf: the glassy nails, the slightly elongated index fingers. Alexander Scroton was not the first dead werewolf Sirius had ever seen; nor, at this point, did he think he would be the last.

"No," said Sirius. "I'm going home. There's something I have to do."

Hours had passed. The adamantine room was quiet. Harry was sleeping on a long wooden bench, his arm over his eyes. Draco stood by the wardrobe, looking at himself in the mirror that hung on the interior door.

Normally looking in mirrors was one of Draco's favorite activities, but at the moment he found himself vaguely troubled by the reflected image that met his gaze. He had taken some of the clothes from the wardrobe and changed into them, grateful to be rid of his bloodstained shirt. He now wore a shirt made of some tough, unfamiliar black material, black boots (a size too big, his feet slid around in them) and over that, a long black cloak that fastened across the chest with a silver chain whose links were tiny, interlaced serpents. Dark green piping banded the hem of the cloak. It wasn't that he didn't look good in them (of course he looked good in them!

— dashing and mysterious). It was that these were the clothes he had reached for instinctively when he had opened the wardrobe; the cloak was also the same his dream-self had worn, standing in the center of a circle of demons and bartering away his soul. He heard the demon voices again in his head: There is a natural balance to all things. For every profit in one thing, payment in some other thing.

He raised his head, saw the mirrored image raise its head in answer, the blue light in the room giving his ashen skin and silver hair a dark, gunmetal sheen. When will I have to pay? Or perhaps I should ask: What will I have to pay?

He turned away from the mirror, and crossed the room to look at the tapestries on the wall. They were very beautiful in their own weird way — the largest was woven with silver and gold thread picked out against a background of black velvet; it showed stars and moons and constellations and galaxies and universes, whirling and glittering and drawing in the eye until you forgot what you were looking at and wandered through the spaces between the stars.

Malfoy Manor had always been filled with things that were grand, but not many that were beautiful, and Draco found that looking at the tapestry touched him oddly. He put his hand out and felt the material, which was dusty and stiff and not nearly as nice to feel as to look at.

The other tapestries showed scenes of wizard court life and battle and hunting. There were various magical beasts depicted — dragons and basilisks, hippogriffs and werewolves, groups of veela riding huge beasts with lion bodies, heads like men, and scorpion tails.