Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

"He must not have been reading his Evil Overlord handbook," grinned Sirius. "Rule 54: 'I will not strike a bargain with a demonic being, then attempt to double-cross it simply because I feel like being contrary.'"

Lupin rolled his eyes. "Sirius…"

"Sorry, I just honestly don't see what all of this has to do with Draco," said Sirius.

"It's a demon sword, Sirius," said Lupin irritably. "It's got a lot of power and it has its own intelligence. Whether that intelligence is benevolent or malevolent, I don't know. It takes will and strength and skill to master something like that, and he's just a child."

"When we were sixteen, we didn't think we were children."

"Oh, but we were. Think how things might have turned out differently if we'd been a bit smarter, a bit more patient, a bit less trusting. Peter might not have turned out like he did, and James -

James might be — "

"Don't," interrupted Sirius. "Don't say it."

Lupin sighed. "There's one other thing."

"Oh, no," said Sirius, with finality.

"What?"

"I know you. Whenever you say "there's just one other thing' it means you've been saving up the worst possible news for last.

'Everything's perfectly fine, there's just one other thing, Harry got himself eaten by a basilisk.' That sort of thing." Sirius sighed. "Well, go on. Tell me."

"There's a prophecy about the sword."

"Bugger," said Sirius glumly. "Well, what is it?"

Reading from the book, Lupin said: "When the sword is once again wielded in battle by a descendant of Slytherin, Slytherin himself will return, and he and his descendant will join together to wreak havoc and terror on the wizarding world."

"I sometimes wonder how you can say these things with a straight face, Remus. Sorry!" Sirius added good-naturedly at Lupin's dark expression. "Well, I don't think we have anything to worry about yet. Draco hadn't wielded the sword in battle as far as I know. Harry was the one who used it against Lucius."

Lupin expelled a breath of relief. "That's good. That's what I wanted to know."

"Just keep him away from it," said Sirius.

"Oh, right," Lupin replied. "Do you remember when we were sixteen, and people told us just to stay away from something, how obedient we were?"

Sirius' eyes lit up with a smile. Lupin had only ever seen Sirius smile like that at a few people in his life. At James. At Lily. At himself. And at Harry. Maybe he smiled at Narcissa like that; Lupin didn't know.

He hoped he did. "We were terrible, weren't we?" Sirius said.

"No," said Lupin, smiling back. "We weren't terrible. We were great."

Hermione screamed.

And skittered backwards, on her elbows, as far away from the horror that was blocking the doorway as she possibly could. She hit the wall and pressed herself back against it, squeezing her eyes shut.

Calm down, she told herself. Be brave. Be like Harry. Harry's seen worse things than this. Be like Harry.

She opened her eyes.

And saw what she had seen before. The wizard who had entered the room was still standing where he had been standing, motionless, his dark hood pulled back to show his face. It was the face of a man about Siriuságe — an face as white as salt, with enormous, prominent cheekbones, and white hair that was matted and shaggy.

This man had a large, beaky nose and razor-thin eyebrows, and his mouth was a grim hard line. He was incredibly thin, even thinner than Sirius had been when he came out of Azkaban. Tattooed on each bony cheek was the clear image of a skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth. The Dark Mark. It was horrible to look at, but that wasn't why Hermione had screamed.

It was because she knew who he was. How could she not? There were statues of him, portraits of him, all over Hogwarts. And yet it was impossible.

Dark magic, she thought. This is very dark magic. He is dead. Dead for a thousand years. And to raise the dead was necromancy, the worst kind of black magic there was.

He took a few steps toward her, and she stared at his feet, encased in thick black boots, because she couldn't bring herself to look back up that awful, scarred, marked face again. As he neared her, she he realized that a powerful smell was wafting off his robes — a smell like burning brandy.

There was a heavy thuck-thuck noise as he dropped to his knees next to her. "Look at me," he said. His voice buzzed as if his skeletal throat had been stuffed with flies or locusts. "Look at me."

Hermione looked up, although she didn't want to. She tried to clear her throat, couldn't, and said in a tiny voice that sounded as if it were being sucked through a straw, "Who are you?"

"Don't you know me, Rowena?" said the buzzing voice. "I know I no longer look as I did. But you should still know your own Salazar."

"Veritas!"

Krum gasped as the Truth spell took hold of him. Draco knew how he felt; knew the agonizing pain of it, the feeling of being ripped open and exposed, but had neither the time nor the inclination to feel sorry for Viktor Krum.

"Where is Hermione?" he demanded.

"I — don't- know," Viktor bit out between gritted teeth.

"Malfoy — " said Ron, in a hissing whisper, "It's illegal to use the Veritas curse — you could get Azkaban time for this."

"I don't care," said Draco, not looking at Ron, but at Harry, who looked back at him with much the same expression he was sure he wore himself — grim resolution. It was the same expression Harry wore when he played Quidditch and was utterly determined to get the Snitch. When they had played against each other, that look on Harry's face had made Draco nervous. Now he found it oddly reassuring.

"Go ahead, Malfoy," Harry said.

"Please," Viktor interrupted unexpectedly. "I–I want to know the truth as well. Please ask me whatever you must."

Draco looked back at Krum uncertainly. Krum was pale and was biting his lip with pain, but seemed sincere. "All right," said Draco, still holding the wand steady. "Viktor," he said. "Tell us what you remember from yesterday."

Krum spoke, slowly and with effort. "In the morning, we play against Romania," he grunted. "We lose, and I am very angry because of it. I am also angry because they have not secured the tents for the players. When I return to my tent there is a man there and I have to chase him out."

"What kind of man?" said Harry, in a very tight voice.

"A very ordinary man," said Viktor. "You must understand, we have people in our tents all the time — fans, and other such, they break in. This one, he wanted to give me a bottle of Bulgarian wine. So I drank some, and he went off. I walked back to my rooms and — "

Viktor looked down. "I fell asleep, I think. I remember nothing more."

"Viktor," said Draco steadily, "What happened when you got back to your room. You didn't go to sleep. What did you do?"

Krum was pale and sweating. "I don't remember."

Draco was gripping the wand so tightly now that his knuckles turned white. "What did you do?"

Krum shook his head, clutching his chest as if it pained him. "I don't remember!"

"He's lying," said Harry flatly.

"You can't lie under the Veritas curse," said Draco in a low voice, turning his head to look at Harry. "I should know."

"It's a memory charm, then," whispered Ron. "He's telling the truth as he thinks it is."

"You can break a memory charm," said Harry, in the same flat, determined voice. "Malfoy. Give me your hand."

"Why?" said Draco, warily. The last time Harry had asked Draco to give him his hand, he'd sliced his palm open with a penknife.

"Because," said Harry, under his breath. "If we both hold the wand, and do the spell, it might be strong enough to break through the Memory charm."

"It might," Draco conceded. "It also might be strong enough to reduce Bulgaria's best Quidditch player to a gibbering loon with the brainpower of a four-month-old child."