Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

He let his hand trail down to the scabbard that Harry had given him.

The scabbard that was supposed to prevent the spilling of his blood.

And that it might do; but it would never protect him against his father. Nothing could.

A noise at the door snapped him out of his trance. He looked up, dazed, and saw his mother standing in the doorway, the firelight catching the colorful beading along the front of her gown. She was looking at him, her eyes filled with concern.

"Draco," she said. "You're missing the party. Are you all right?"

"I'm quite well, Mother," he said tonelessly, and, releasing his hold on the sword, followed her out of the room and down the stairs.

The party was in full sway, and he moved through it like someone in a dream. Faces, strange and familiar, loomed up out of the crowds, which had begun to remind him a little of the masses crowding the opposite side of the dark river in the afterworld. He paused here and there catching snatches of drifting conversation. Leaning against an alcove, drinks in hand, Sirius and Arthur Weasley were talking.

"Arthur, I never congratulated you on your appointment as Minister. It couldn't have gone to a more deserving man."

Arthur Weasley's voice was troubled as he replied. "I'm not so sure, Sirius. At first I was flattered, but lately it seems to me that many of the Ministry officials I've spoken to felt somehow afraid NOT to vote for me. It's almost the way it was back when — "

"Arthur, you're being paranoid."

"No, Sirius. I don't think I am. I was actually wondering if perhaps —

well, with your Auror training — "

Their voices faded as Draco moved on through the crowd. He passed Ginny, standing with her back to him beside Aidan Lynch, among a cluster of Weasleys, identifiable by their flame-bright hair. Ginny turned as he passed, her bright curls brushing her cheek, and cut her dark eyes sideways towards him, but he didn't look back at her.

He passed Fleur, looking ridiculously beautiful, her arm through Bill Weasley's arm as she chatted animatedly with Mad-Eye Moody, whose scarred face was pulled down into a sour scowl. He was gazing angrily over at the small karaoke stage that had been set up over by the canape table. where Severus Snape (who, Draco recalled from his brief stay with the professor, had a very pleasant baritone) was belting out his favorite songs with a quartet of house-elves for backup.

Moody growled. "If there's one thing I hate," he snarled, "itś a Death Eater who knows all the words to 'Brandy, You´re A Fine Girl.´"

Fleur laughed; so did Bill, and Draco walked on past them without stopping. He passed Pansy Parkinson, dancing an awkward two-step with Ron, who looked irritable as she landed on his toes; there were Lavender and Parvati, giggling as usual; Hagrid, beaming and showing everyone he could buttonhole the photographs of his and Madam Maxime's young son, Rubeus Jr. He passed his mother in animated conversation with Molly Weasley, and then Dumbledore, who appeared to be engaged in trying to convince a slightly champagne-tipsy Charlie to take the position of Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts for the next year, since Hagrid was taking time to be with his family. Although he kept his eyes open for black hair and a swirl of scarlet skirts, Draco did not see Rhysenn Malfoy anywhere, a fact which dismayed but did not surprise him.

After delivering such a message, he doubted there was much likelihood she'd stay around.

He came out of the thickest part of the crowd, and paused for a moment to catch his breath. He looked back at the laughing, shouting, (and it Snape's case, singing) throng, and it all suddenly seemed like too much — the noise, the pressure of the people around him, his own exhaustion and the confusion buzzing in his head. He turned blindly and fumbled for the handle to the French doors behind him. They opened and he slipped through.

He found himself standing on the wide stone balcony that ran around the outside of the Manor. Cold silvery moonlight spilled like a pile of coins over the cool flagstones, glittering on the moat water below. The evening was perfectly still, the silver-blue horizon motionless and steady, the silence unbroken —

Until he heard a sound. A laugh, punctuated by a soft and indrawn breath. He turned and saw two figures standing in a shadowed alcove: the two people, in fact, that he had been looking for. Harry and Hermione, standing so close together there was almost no light visible between them, their hands interlinked, her face raised up to his. The moonlight turned them to a study in contrasts, Harry's black hair and white skin, the outline of her hand against his cheek, her bare white shoulders rising out of the darkness of her dress, the shadowy curls that lay along her neck. He knew them as he would have known them anywhere, but in the dimness it was hard to tell where he ended and she began, whether they were man and woman or boy and girl together, whether they were real or ghosts. They could have been Harry's own parents. They could have been any two people in love.

Draco turned away, realizing as perhaps he should have known all along, that he couldn't go to them with this either — not tonight, not on Harryś birthday, not when-

The touch of a hand on his shoulder almost made him jump out of his skin. Reflexively, his hand flew outward — but his enchanted sword was, of course, gone. He turned quickly, and saw, standing before him with a serious look in his blue eyes, Albus Dumbledore.

"Mister Malfoy," said Dumbledore quietly. "I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time."

Still in a haze, Draco followed Dumbledore down the hall and into the drawing-room, which was empty of other guests, and lit with a myriad of hovering colored lights. A faint fire sputtered in the grate.

He could see himself in the mirror over the fireplace mantel: he looked tense, cold and tired. Over his shoulder, he could see the reflection of Dumbledore, standing behind him, looking remote and a little severe, the usual twinkle gone from his eyes.

This wasn´t the first time he had seen the Headmaster since the end of term. Dumbledore had come to the Manor a few days after Draco and Harry had returned, and had spoken with all of them — Harry and Draco, Sirius and Narcissa — separately and together. He knew as much as anyone could about the events that had transpired, down to the last details. He had even commented with some wry amusement that there were no discrepancies in the stories Draco and Harry told, none at all — "Usually, unless people have agreed on a story beforehand, some details differ in the remembrance. But not yours."

Harry had shrugged. "Maybe we just see things similarly."

Dumbledore had shaken his head. "No. I don´t think thatś it," he´d said, but had refused to elaborate further.

"So," said Dumbledore, now. Draco could feel his gaze on the back of his head. "Draco. You don´t seem to be enjoying the party."

"I´m just tired, Professor."

"Yes. One would imagine you might be." Dumbledore came to stand near the fire; Draco edged away to give him room. He heard Dumbledore sigh. "So. Who was that girl and what was in the message she gave you?"

Draco turned swiftly and saw the Headmasterś sharp blue eyes on him. "You saw her?"

Dumbledore nodded. "One of the Singapore Malfoys, if I´m not mistaken. I recognize the gold poppies."

"How did you know she gave me a message?"

"It was obvious she was at the party merely because of you. She sought you out across the dance floor, and as soon as she had…danced with you, she vanished."

"Girls seek me out all the time," Draco felt compelled to point out.

"It hardly makes this a red-letter day."

"Itś refreshing to see that your vanity is intact, Draco. I´m sure girls do seek you out, as you say, but…girls who bear the Dark Mark?"