Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

Hermione very much doubted that this was why Rowena had stopped loving Slytherin, if indeed she had, but she kept her mouth shut.

"As she withdrew her love from me, so did my strength ebb, and with it, my desperation grew. I could not bear to be weak; that she should see me as weak was intolerable to me. I did everything —

everything I could — to make myself stronger — "

"You did Dark magic," said Hermione slowly.

"I called upon the powers of hell," said Slytherin. "I resolved that I would no longer rely upon her, that I would strengthen my power, so that I might face Godric without her by my side and she might know that I was powerful in my own right. I called upon the powers of hell and they gave me back what she had taken away from me when she left me for Godric."

"She stopped loving you because you were doing Dark magic, not because of Godric!" snapped Hermione.

"She should have loved me anyway!" he cried in his hoarse, buzzing voice. "As I would have loved her, regardless of anything she might have done!"

Shaken by the fury in his face and voice, Hermione took a step backwards.

"With the power I had gained, I was invincible," Slytherin went on slowly. "I determined to show her that I had become the greatest wizard in the world. I created armies of monsters and the armies of men withered before them. I mastered the lightning and the thunder; I could have cracked the earth in half, had I so chosen. But I would not destroy a world that had her in it. I still loved her, even after all she had done to me. Eventually, I went to find her, to show her what I had made of myself and see her pride in me. But she was with Godric. She no longer loved me. She had chosen Godric over me. She told me to get out and to leave them alone."

Hermione looked at his face, followed his gaze to the tapestry, and suddenly knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, what must have happened.

"You killed him," she said, in a voice that squeaked.

"Of course I killed him."

Hermione winced, not least because in her mind, Godric Gryffindor looked more than a little like Harry.

"She must have hated you," she said savagely, and then, with an indrawn breath, "Or did you kill her, too?"

"I did not kill her," said Slytherin, turning away from the tapestry.

"In the end, I could not take her life, even after all she had taken from me. I could not kill her, and yet my own life meant nothing to me. I went into seclusion, performed difficult and dangerous magics.

Magics that ensured I would rise again, rise when there was another Rowena in the world, another Source to feed my power…"

"I'm not Rowena," said Hermione in a trembling voice. "She died a thousand years ago, so did Godric, and so should you have! You should never have come back!"

Slytherin's dark and empty eyes rested on her for a moment. It almost looked as though he might smile. "But I came back for you," he said.

"Your power went away when Rowena stopped loving you," said Hermione desperately. "So the Source has to be willing."

"That's true," said Slytherin.

"Well, I'm not willing, and nothing you can do can make me willing.

Even if you torture me — "

"Crude and unnecessary," said Slytherin. "And ineffective. It might break you, but it would not make you willing. No. When you become my Source, it will be out of love."

"Love?" echoed Hermione, nearly gagging. "That's just — disgusting — "

Now he did smile. "You are so much like her," he said. "And when I am done with you, you will be her. A better Rowena than ever I had, more constant and more true." He raised his head and called out, suddenly, looking past her, "Wormtail!"

In seconds, Wormtail was at his side, grinning at Hermione, his beady eyes sparkling.

"Is it time, Master?"

"Almost," said Slytherin. "Take her back to the room and lock her in.

Very soon," he said. "Very soon it will be time."

Flying almost entirely by instinct, Harry shot downward, somehow -

miraculously — managing to avoid impaling himself violently on a branch or crashing headfirst into a tree. He broke through the last of the branches, saw the ground careening up to meet him, and pulled up so sharply on his Firebolt that he toppled off, a foot from the ground, the broomstick clattering to the earth next to him.

He was up on his feet in seconds, looking around. He was standing in a small clearing between tall trees. It was nearly dark down here, the dimness pierced only by a few shafts of dusty light filtering down through gaps in the leaves, but Harry's sharp Seeker's eyes immediately picked out Draco's broken broomstick, lying snapped in half in the center of the clearing. And several feet beyond it, a dark huddled shape on the ground.

Harry felt something oddly like panic. Maybe it was panic. He forced his feet to move, half-sprinting across the clearing towards Draco's crumpled form. As he got closer, he saw that the other boy was lying on his back, and for a moment, as he dropped down next to him and saw that his eyes were open, he was quite sure that Draco was dead.

Then the gray eyes flicked sideways towards him, and with a funny hitching breath, Draco said, "Hey, Potter."

Relief raced over Harry like a wave. "Malfoy — you're all right?"

"Wind knocked out of me," said Draco. He started to lift himself up on his elbows and winced. "Oh. And my leg's broken."

"Broken? Are you sure? Does it hurt?" said Harry, feeling that he sounded like a worried grandmother, but unable to help it.

Draco shot him a look. "No, it feels great," he drawled. "I was hoping you'd snap the other femur for me. Double the fun."

He really makes it difficult to feel sorry for him, thought Harry irritably. Then again, maybe that was the point.

"I heard it break," added Draco, with a shudder. "It sounded like a broomstick snapping in half."

"Speaking of which," said Harry. "Your broomstick's snapped in half."

Draco looked at him with an expression of complete and utter horror.

"It's not that bad," said Harry quickly. "You can share with one of us until we-"

"Potter," said Draco in a strangled voice. He had gone the grayish color of unfired clay. "Look behind you."

Harry turned. And froze.

They were still quite a distance away, on the far side of the clearing.

But there was no mistaking what they were, twenty or thirty dark-robed, dark-hooded creatures, twelve feet tall, trickling like slow venom out of the gaps between the trees and into the clearing.

Coming closer.

Harry felt his heart turn over.

Dementors.

Draco made a choked sort of noise. Harry whipped around and saw that he had clamped both his hands over his face and was jerking and twitching like a fish on the end of a line.

"Malfoy?" said Harry, in wonder and horror, and then the first wave of cold hit him, nearly knocking him over and into Draco. He sucked in air, trying to clear the gray fog rising in his brain, and struggled to his feet, turning, facing the oncoming Dementors, trying not to stagger in the face of the wall of freezing cold they drove before them like an iceberg.

Harry was vaguely aware of Draco, still making strangled noises behind him, as he reached for his wand with fingers that felt like a bunch of numb twigs tied to his wrist. The Dementors were halfway across the clearing now, moving towards him like a steady tide of poisoned water. That they were so silent as they moved only added to Harry's sense of being trapped in a nightmare.

He attempted to steady his wand hand, which was shaking violently.

Harry had never felt less able to summon up a happy memory than he did right now. He hadn't conjured a Patronus since his third year, and the happy memories that had served him then — Quidditch matches and House Cup victories — suddenly seemed very small and silly. He cast his mind desperately back — and thought of course of Hermione, Hermione telling him she loved him, only right now that caused him more pain than anything else. He forced his mind away from memories of rain and mirrors and Hermione kissing him, and thought suddenly of standing by the lake at school, holding Sirius' letter in his hand and watching Hermione and Draco laughing. And remembered that their laughter had been so infectious that he had laughed himself, especially at Hermione, who laughed often enough, but rarely like that — rarely so hard that she had to sit down, rarely with such bright and uncontrollable happiness. He felt his mouth twitch into a smile as he remembered how she had pulled him down next to her and buried her face in his shoulder, still laughing.