Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

"I told you before," said Narcissa, moving down the hall and zapping another portrait. "The Malfoy estate is worth a great deal, but most of its worth is bound up in objects. Paintings, furniture, gold…I want to have some liquid capital for Draco to use."

"When does he come into possession of all this?" asked Sirius, looking around curiously.

"Half when he's eighteen, the rest when he's twenty-one."

"Eighteen?" Sirius whistled. "That's young to be worth-"

"Seventy-five million galleons," said Narcissa.

Sirius choked. "Seventy-five million?"

"That's counting the worth of the estates in Romania and Turkmenistan as well, of course," she said calmly.

"Good Lord," said Sirius, and leaned back against the wall. "Do you think there's anything we can do to keep him from becoming a complete and utter pill?"

Narcissa put her hands on her hips. "My son is not a pill," she said.

"Not yet," said Sirius. "But all that money and power-"

"Doesn't even begin to make up for all the things he hasn't had!"

said Narcissa, her expression stormy.

"You're feeling guilty," said Sirius.

Narcissa looked at him for a moment, then sighed and ran the back of her hand across her forehead. "I know I am."

"It's all right," said Sirius. "I feel just as guilty about all the things Harry hasn't had."

"But you were in prison-"

"So were you," said Sirius.

Narcissa sighed. "I suppose that's true."

"They're both," said Sirius slowly, "really exceptional boys. And if we can keep them from getting themselves killed-"

"Or killing each other," put in Narcissa.

"Then they'll practically raise themselves."

They looked at each other. Sirius was the first to smile, and Narcissa smiled back. "We're in big trouble, aren't we?" he said.

"Yes," she agreed. "When are they coming home?"

"Tomorrow morning. And they're with their friends. The Weasley boy, his sister, and Hermione, of course. That won't be a problem, will it?"

"This house has thirty-seven bedrooms," said Narcissa. "It's no problem at all."

Ginny eventually found Draco lying sprawled on top of a large, flat rock some way from the tents. He was lying on his stomach and appeared to be calmly perusing her copy of Teen Witch Weekly. She knew that he saw her, although how she knew that she couldn't have said.

She climbed up on top of the rock and sat down next to him, looking down at the top of his silvery-blond head, which was resting on his folded hands.

"So," she said. "Learn anything from the magazine?"

"Not to wear horizontal stripes," he said. "They'll make me look chubby."

"Please, you could never look chubby. You're — oh, never mind, you weren't serious, were you?"

"No, but I'm very serious about taking this Personality Quiz. This week's topic: 'Are You Too Forward When It Comes To Meeting Boys?'"

Ginny grinned. "So? Are you?"

"Apparently," said Draco, "which is rather bewildering, but never let it be said that I do not answer magazine poll questions honestly."

"Let me see that," Ginny said, taking the magazine away from him.

She giggled. "According to the quiz, you should learn to stop fixating on the pretty boys and appreciate the less flashy but potentially more stable blokes all around you. 'Because after all, that nice shy boy who sits behind you in Potions might just be your soulmate.'"

"Harry sits behind me in Potions," said Draco darkly.

"Aw, how cute," said Ginny. "You hate him, he hates you, all those years…then, suddenly, love blossoms."

"Indeed," said Draco, leaning back on his elbows. "So, do you think he'd prefer candy or flowers? Or just a nice romantic dinner out?

Although his table manners are atrocious. Have you seen him eat soup?"

Ginny giggled despite herself.

"See," Draco said. "I told you if I ever tried to be funny around you, you'd be rolling on the ground laughing."

"I am not rolling," said Ginny, trying to compose herself.

"And I'm not really trying," said Draco, and sat up, stretching his legs out in front of him. He looked over at her, and, even though he didn't change expression, she felt suddenly sober.

"Ron was being a right git before," she said. "I'm sorry."

Draco didn't reply. She looked over at him and saw that he was staring blankly off at the darkening line of trees in the distance.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"I was pondering the immortal words of Julius Caesar when he said

"Brutus! You stabbed me in the back, you bastard.'"

"I don't think I remember that from my edition of Shakespeare," said Ginny, stifling a smile.

"I'm paraphrasing."

"Harry doesn't think you did anything wrong," said Ginny. "Don't let Ron talk you into feeling guilty."

"I don't feel guilty," said Draco, in a rather muffled voice.

"I have six older brothers," said Ginny, with asperity. "I know what boys are like when they're feeling guilty. They crawl away and curl themselves up into miserable little balls and insist they want to be left alone — which is what you're doing."

"I didn't tell you to leave me alone," Draco said.

Ginny looked at him sideways. Empirically speaking, he was better-looking than Harry was, she thought, although his face lacked the heartbreaking transparency of Harry's — it was impossible to tell what Draco was thinking, impossible to tell whether he was amused, bored, or hurt. Or maybe it was just that his face was new to her, while she had memorized Harry's. Comparisons are silly, she told herself sternly. Stop that.

"You look tired," she said.

"Yeah," he said. "I am tired."

"Are you still having nightmares?" she asked, in a small voice.

When he spoke again, it was in a flat tone, and she knew immediately that he was lying. "Just your run-of-the-mill bad dreams," he said. "Academic failure. Falling off my broomstick.

Suddenly realizing I'm wearing tweed out of season."

Ginny laughed. Draco looked at her sidelong, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "You have a nice laugh," he said. "Sorry, by the way, to whinge all over you."

"That's all right," said Ginny, feeling a sudden fluttering in the pit of her stomach. She smiled at him. "Don't you have any pithy sayings or useful quotes from your father that would be helpful right now?"

"For some reason, the only one of my father's sayings that seems to be sticking in my head right now is when he told me 'There's always a light at the end of the tunnel. Of course, it's usually an oncoming express train.'"

"That's not very encouraging," said Ginny dubiously.

"No," Draco agreed. "No, it really isn't."

Hermione walked into the tent she was to share with Ginny, and looked around wearily. Inside, it was a cozy little room with two small beds, and a desk in one corner with a cracked but clean round mirror hanging over it. Moving slowly, ever bone in her body aching with tiredness, she walked over to the desk and sat down. She could see her reflection in the mirror, although not very well. A long crack down the middle of the mirror split her face into two uneven parts.

That's me, she thought grimly. Split in half.

She pulled out one of the drawers of the desk, and found what she was looking for: a parchment, ink bottle, and quills. She laid them out on the desk and stared at them. Somehow, the sight was comforting; it always helped her to have something concrete to occupy her hands and mind. She picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink bottle and started to write.

She was on her third sheet of parchment when the door of the tent opened and she turned slowly, expecting to see Ginny.

It was Harry.

She stared at him, really seeing him, she thought, for the first time that day. When she had first seen him, she had been too overwhelmed by the shock of seeing him again to really take in anything about him, and in Charlie's tent she had been concentrating too hard on not looking at Draco. But Draco wasn't here now; no one was here now, and for the first time in three weeks, she was alone with Harry.