Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

Then, Harry cut in over her. Let me tell you something, Malfoy, thereś no such thing as what you are. You want to believe it because it means you don´t have to make any choices. But there are always choices. Every second of your life you´re choosing to be one thing or the other. And thatś what makes you who you are. So who are you, Malfoy?

Draco spoke out loud, and heard his voice come out in a whisper. "I don´t know."

Hermione sounded accusatory, no longer comfortable, no longer easy. You don´t know? Well, you better figure it out.

You can´t just give up. Harryś voice was harsh with desperation and with anger. I thought better of you than this. Even when you weren´t my friend, you were at least a worthy enemy. And now what? You´re just going to let him control you and break you and not even try to fight it off? Whatś happened to you? When did you get to be such a coward?

Dracoś eyes flew open, and he stared down the narrowing tunnel of light and darkness. Something inside him swelled unbearably. He couldn´t put a finger on what it was exactly, but heard his own breath in his ears, ragged with effort — felt his heart racing inside his chest —

I´m not a coward, he said.

Aren´t you? If it was me, I´d fight. But I guess thatś just me. I´ve always had to fight for everything. I´m not some spoiled little rich boy whoś had everything handed to him on a plate. You never had to get by on any merit of your own. I guess thatś why you´re so spineless.

This was so monstrously unfair that it actually broke through the gray fog in Dracoś brain. Spoiled? He could hear the rage in his own mental voice. You goddamn know better than that, Potter. If you said that to my face, you know I´d break your fingers.

Would you? There was half-suppressed laughter in Harryś voice.

Trust Harry to be laughing at a time like this. You always did talk a good game, Malfoy.

Go to Hell, Potter, he said, furious.

And funnily enough, thatś exactly where I´m headed in about five minutes if you don´t break through this thing. And you´ll be the one who sends me there. Howś that for irony?

Draco felt his stomach clench, and he saw through the darkness — as if through a crack in glass — the room he had just left, the wizard standing above the pentagram, Hermione and Ginny tied to their posts, and himself in front of Harry, undoing the last ropes that held Harryś right hand to the post behind him. Hermioneś face was full of desperate concern as she looked at Draco, and so was Ginnyś, her eyes huge and dark and searching, and he knew they were hearing every word he and Harry were saying. And Harry had his face tilted up, his eyes flicking back and forth as if he could somehow find Draco, wherever he was, and there was anger in his face, and a sort of desperation, and everything Draco himself was feeling as if he looked into a mirror.

Draco closed his eyes, the faces of his friends printed blindingly against his inner lids, and the something that had been growing inside him blazed up suddenly behind his eyes like a white pillar of fire. It was fury. Fury at Slytherin for imagining, for presuming, that he could control him through his own guilt, his all-too-human pain.

He was Draco Malfoy and he would not be controlled, he would not be owned, and he would not be trapped against his will.

There was a shattering noise. The invisible puppet strings that had controlled him snapped, and he felt himself falling, hurtling really, through a great empty inner space. Something struck him, hard, and he opened his eyes. He realized knew that what he had felt was his soul hurtling back into his body. He was standing directly in front of Harry, who was looking at him out of steady, dark green eyes. There was no fear in them at all, and as Draco returned to himself he heard Harryś voice in his head, clear and strong:

Welcome back, Malfoy. I knew you could do it.

Hermione and Ginny on either side of Harry were looking at him as well, and there was equal satisfaction in their faces. He felt the emotion that surged forward from all three of them, amplified by the power of the Keys, all four of them together, the Heirs, as they had always been meant to be. And he understood that that, coupled with his own anger, was what had torn him free of the spell that bound him, and understood as well exactly what he now needed to do.

He spun around, and reached out his hand. He felt the power of the other three pour into him, racing through the conduit of the Keys like electricity through wires. He saw Slytherin start in amazement, a look of disbelief spreading across his poison-pale face. Draco laughed, and as Slytherin took one incredulous step forward, Draco whispered, "Accio" and watched with delight as his fingers, obviously against his will, pried themselves one by one off the hilt of the sword. Draco reached out, and the sword, released from Slytherinś grasp, flew into his own. Exultation running through his veins, Draco stepped toward the Snake Lord, carrying the sword in front of him like a wave of brilliant green fire.

Slytherin staggered back, a look of horror convulsing his features. It was the first human look Draco had ever seen there. An inarticulate cry tore from his throat and he thrust out his hands as if to ward Draco off. “No!”

Draco brought the sword down, a wave of brilliant green fire. The blade struck against the Snake Lordś wrist, neatly severing his hand. He shrieked aloud as fire poured from his wounded arm, an indescribable shriek of rage and horror, and his severed hand tumbled at Dracoś feet. Beyond disgust, beyond anything but a terrible sort of euphoria, Draco seized the mutilated hand of the Snake Lord, clamped the fingers tong-like around the hilt of his sword, and flung them together into the pentagram inked on the floor.

He threw his head back then, and, his voice furious and carrying, shouted at the invisible forces of Hell. "There you go! Your half of the bargain! Given to you by his own hand, the hand of the Snake Lord himself! Take it, damn you, and use it!"

There was a dreadful silence. The Snake Lord had fallen to his knees, clutching the stump of his hand, from which little tongues of flame flickered between his fingers. There was no blood.

And then.

A sharp noise erupted, and the walls around them suddenly split and fissured, long black cracks forking through the walls like the tracks of lightning. Draco spun around, and saw the others standing behind him, wide-eyed, free from the entangling ropes. Their bonds had simply withered away. They were all staring, and for good reason. From the middle of the inked pentagram, several dark shapes had appeared, crouching, and then rising. Draco heard Slytherin yelling in furious terror, but only at the very periphery of his consciousness. He was too busy staring. The shapes were not the demons he expected, but huge creatures, much taller than human men, with eyes like burning coals and black wings shot through with gold.

They were both horrible and beautiful as they stepped out of the circle and closed in around Slytherin, who was crouching on the floor. Draco saw him raise his silvery head as they closed in, and he howled out something unintelligible…. though it could have been a name…

Draco never knew what it was. He would have liked to have thought that in his last moments, the sorcerer might have had a momentary flash of humanity, and cried out for Rowena. But most likely he was howling out one final malicious spell.

Draco felt the floor surge under his feet. The castle was coming apart. Something caught at his arm. Harry, probably. Darkness was pouring up from the center of the pentagram like fog. It poured over Slytherin, over the demons who stood above him, exulting, over the flagstone floor, and then it was upon them. The last thing Draco heard as darkness took him was the sound of the Snake Lord’s screams.