Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

"Wands out," hissed Ron, getting to his feet and fumbling in his robes. Harry followed him, taking his own wand out and holding it in front of him.

Moving as silently as they could, they edged across the room, Ron just slightly ahead of Harry, and paused in front of the wardrobe.

Ron, standing in front of it, reached out a hand for one of the doors.

He glanced sideways at Harry, who nodded.

Ron threw the doors open.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then something exploded out of the wardrobe with the force of a cannonball, and careened into Ron, knocking him to the ground. His wand went skittering out of his hand and he yelled out loud in pain, throwing his arms up to protect his face from the intruder — which, Harry saw, had grayish, leathery skin and whirling red eyes, and long, spatulated fingers that it wrapped around Ron's throat.

It was a demon.

Scowling, Ginny stalked down the corridor, found the stairs, and stomped down them, making as much noise as she possible could scuffing her shoes on the stone. Not that there was anyone around to hear her. Useless, she thought. They all think I'm useless. Even Ron, shutting the door in my face; Sirius and Lupin, telling me to get lost…

Then there was the fact that Harry had asked her out. Well, all right, she had to admit, it hadn't been a sincere offer. More like a tragic cry for help. Not that she minded — she was surprised to find that in fact, she didn't care at all, one way or the other.

She crossed the large, empty drawing room, walking (without knowing it) over the trapdoor that led to the dungeons. She had no particular goal in mind, she knew; at least, not a material goal. She was simply hoping to see Draco, hoping that if she turned another corner, he might be standing there, looking tall and pale and irritable but perhaps, open to be apologized to? Because she very much wanted to apologize to him now for having kicked him in the ribs. What if had been me, a year ago, she thought, and it had been Harry who'd taken the love potion and showed up at my door suddenly. Would I have been able to send him away out of friendship for Hermione?

She very much doubted it.

As she left the drawing room, the sound of voices arrested her attention. She was in the corridor outside the dining room, and turning her head, she could see Hermione and Narcissa sitting at the enormous table, underneath the tapestry of the Malfoy family crest.

Hermione was anxiously playing with a cup of tea, and Narcissa was looking at her with detached sympathy.

'I'm just really, really, sorry," Hermione was saying, in a muffled voice. "I should have told Harry the truth right off. I just thought I could handle it myself. I feel terrible about what he must be thinking now. And Draco…" She looked up at Narcissa worriedly. "It can't have been pleasant for him, either."

Oh, well spotted, thought Ginny, irritably.

"He must care about you a great deal," said Narcissa, "to have given you that."

And she pointed at the Epicyclical Charm around Hermione's throat.

Hermione looked wretched. And Ginny, feeling equally wretched now, turned away and walked off down the corridor.

Draco flew like he had never flown before, racing his broom through gathering clouds, against a sky slowly darkening to the color of ink.

If Harry could have seen him, he would have been amazed, impressed even — it wasn't just that he flew fast, but recklessly and with precision, grazing the tops of trees, skimming the surface of ponds, whipping his broom sideways, turning upside down because he could. Until he slowed finally, and plunged towards the ground, skidding to a halt.

He was on the grounds of Malfoy Mansion again, at the edge of the Bottomless Pit. The sky was iron-colored, streaked with faint charcoal markings like the markings inside a seashell, and the Pit stretched out in front of him, deep and black and endless. He walked to the edge, knelt down, and was violently and rather unexpectedly sick over the side. When his stomach had stopped convulsing, he sat back, and reached without thinking for the sword behind his shoulder.

He'd put a spell on it, to keep it invisible — it seemed unlikely to him that even a Malfoy would be allowed to walk uninvited into a mental institution carrying a whacking great sword — and now, without thinking, he ran his left hand over it, taking the glamour off. The sword sprang into life under his hand, bright silver under the gray twilight, the gems in the hilt glittering like eyes.

You wanted it the moment you saw it, touched it, you know what it is: it's your future, and you can't walk away from it.

Draco sat up and looked at it for a moment without moving. He slid his grip up over the hilt, on to the blade, and squeezed hard, feeling the whisper-sharp edges of the sword slicing into his skin, and the blood starting to flow. It hurt only a very little bit, but enough to get him to his feet.

He walked to the edge of the pit, looked down, saw only blackness.

He lifted the sword in his left hand and held it out in front of him -

Visions of what has been, what is now, what will be if you want it -

— And threw it.

There was of course, no noise as it disappeared into the darkness, flipping end over end, gleaming and turning and vanishing, eaten up by the Pit.

Feeling extremely weary, he turned his back on the Pit and walked to his broomstick. As he bent to pick it up, he saw something glitter in the grass.

No.

It was the sword, gleaming and bright and perfect. Draco had been holding out his hand for his Firebolt — now the sword hummed and trembled and leapt into his grip, resting there. As if it belonged.

You can't walk away from it.

It's what you are.

"Ron!" yelled Harry, and tried to race over to his friend, but he slipped on broken glass and feathers and fell forward onto his hands. A sharp pain shot through his hands as they made contact with the glass-strewn floor. His wand skidded out of his grip, clattering across the flagstones. I don't need it anyway, he thought, getting swiftly to his feet.

Ron was putting up a good fight — he had rolled over on his back with the demon on top of him, and was kicking at it with his feet.

His hands were at his throat, trying to loosen its grip on his windpipe. He had dropped his wand, Harry saw -

Without thinking, Harry lifted his right hand and pointed it at the demon. "Impedimenta!" he shouted.

White light shot from his fingers and struck the demon in the chest, knocking it backwards. Ron immediately threw himself to the side, breaking its grip on his throat, and leaped to his feet, backing towards Harry. One of his hands was at his throat, which was necklaced with livid red marks.

Harry looks sideways at him. "You all right?"

Ron nodded, sucking in gasps of air.

Harry turned and stared at the demon, which was kneeling on the floor, glaring at them out of whirling red eyes. He knew immediately that it wasn't the same demon that had broken into his and Draco's bedroom at school — how Harry knew that, he couldn't have said. But it was certainly one of the same breed. It had the familiar long, spatulated fingers, each tipped with a wickedly sharp pointed nail, and the same red eyes.

"Harry Potter," it said, and its voice was like the other demon's voice, a crackling bonfire sound.

Harry eyes narrowed. "You know who I am?"

The demon made a hissing sound. "Soon you will die," it announced.

Harry's eyes widened.

Ron looked indignant. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded in a croaky voice, massaging his throat.