Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

The demon's eyes rested on Harry. "You know," it hissed.

"Why is it," said Harry, in an unpleasantly calm voice, "that demons never have anything good to say? It's all 'Soon you will die' and 'Hell is coming' and 'Beware your doom.' Never just, 'Seasons Greetings from the Underworld!'"

The demon stared at them.

"No sense of humor," said Ron, shaking his head.

All at once, the demon lunged at Ron, its hands outstretched. Ron ducked aside, and the demon landed on all fours, turned and faced them. "Harry Potter — "

"Shut up!" yelled Harry, stepping between the creature and Ron. He felt a surge of rage — every ounce of rage that he'd been feeling for the past few hours crystallizing into a sharp icy blade that twisted itself violently inside his chest. He felt something break free -

something inside him coming unmoored, something important. He threw his wand aside, his hand pointing itself at the creature that was threatening him — and then whatever it was inside him that had been rising tore free — he felt it rip through his blood and his veins and his hand and shoot from his fingers like a bolt of white lightning.

The bolt of light struck the demon in the chest. It gave a startled whining cry as it flew backward and slammed hard into the wall with an unpleasant squelching noise. Limply, it crumpled to the ground and lay there like a heap of rags.

But Harry wasn't done. He could still feel the white light burning in his veins and he wanted to do something — something destructive, something violent, something -

His eyes lit on the wardrobe. The wardrobe, in fact, in which he had once found Hermione kissing Draco. Huge, heavy, made of oak, at least eight feet tall.

He turned and directed his hand at it, and it lifted a few inches off the ground. He felt the dragging pull of the weight of it somewhere inside himself, as if he were yanking on a pulley.

Go, he thought at it. Go.

With a groaning creak that he could feel inside, it flew into the air, and now it was out of his control, as if he had launched it from a catapult — it shot across the room, crashed into the far wall, flipped over, and landed on top of the demon's immobile body with a rending crash.

"Harry!" he heard Ron yelling, as if from a long way away. "Enough!"

He felt Ron's hands on his shoulders, shaking him, and lowered his hands. He suddenly couldn't seem to get enough air, and staggered backward, nearly crashing into the bed.

"Harry-" Ron stared at his friend, who looked white and drained, his hair and clothes drenched in sweat, as if he'd just run a marathon.

He was breathing in great gasps of air, bending forward, his hands on his knees. Vaguely aware that someone was pounding on the bedroom door, leaned down to look at Harry's face. "Harry, are you okay?"

Harry nodded without looking up.

"Breathe," Ron instructed him, and then wondered if this was good advice. Harry didn't seem to be having trouble breathing, in fact he seemed to be breathing too much — hyperventilating. "Come on, just calm down, Harry," he said. The pounding on the door was getting louder. "Are you going to pass out?"

At that moment, the door, which had been shaking on its hinges, burst open with a sound like crackling gunfire.

Sirius, Narcissa and Lupin burst in, Hermione behind them. She paused in the doorway, a hand over her mouth, as the adults raced over to Harry and Ron.

"What the hell happened?" demanded Sirius, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"There was something in that wardrobe — some kind of thing — " said Ron. "It attacked me."

"I hit it," said Harry shortly, still trying to catch his breath.

"With what?" said Sirius, staring round-eyed at the wreckage.

"With the wall," said Harry.

"And then with the wardrobe," said Ron, helpfully. "It was really cool!" he added, then, catching Sirius' quelling glance, added hastily, "in a bad, destructive, and probably illegal sort of way."

"It was a demon," said Harry, still sounding choked and breathless.

They all glanced over towards the demon's body. Only a leathery gray arm was visible, protruding beneath the wreckage of the half-destroyed wardrobe.

"Well, I think you killed it dead," said Ron. "Good on you, Harry!"

"No, he didn't," said Sirius. "Its fingers are moving."

Several things happened at once.

Narcissa spun around. Lupin, looking suddenly anxious, reached for his wand. Ron turned to gaze at the wardrobe in astonishment. And Harry suddenly straightened up, stared at the wreckage of the wardrobe and the demon's twitching arm, felt a wave of dizziness spreading over him, and announced:

"I'm going to faint, I think."

Sirius, jumping backward, was just in time to catch him as he fell.

Draco landed in the garden, just inside the gate emblazoned with its design of serpents and M's. He dismounted his broomstick, propped it against the wall, and glanced around.

It hard started to rain: not hard, but a fine, thin drizzle. The grounds of Malfoy Mansion were silvery-black in the cloudy moonlight. Even in the darkness Draco could see the black score marks along the earth where poisonous, magical plants had been ripped up, and where heavy objects had been dragged away. It was odd to be on the grounds and not have to remember how to circumvent the dozens of jinxes, hexes and nasty surprise death spells that had once enclosed the place like an invisible magical fence. Without them, the place seemed alien. Strange.

I don't belong here, either.

Leaving his broomstick leaning against the wall, he walked towards the house, ducking under the wet branches of the trees (at least they haven't torn those down). He passed the clearing where there had once been a family of giant spiders, crossed the dragon-shaped bridge that had once been rigged with Explosive Hexes, turned the corner of the house, and nearly yelled out loud as a hand reached out of the darkness and grabbed at his sleeve.

Years of fencing practice and Quidditch had given him fast reflexes.

He whipped around, seized hold of the arm, and used it to flip the intruder — who admittedly put up very little resistance — onto the ground.

The intruder landed in the mud with an indignant, muffled cry. The hood fell back, revealing a pale face surrounded by a tinselly cloud of silver hair, tilted, dark-blue eyes, and a familiar, scowling mouth.

"Fleur?" Draco said, in disbelief. As the adrenaline drained out of his body, his legs started to shake, and he leaned back against the wet stone wall. "You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," he added, sternly. "You should stamp your feet, or yodel, or something."

Fleur continued to scowl. "You knocked me down," she said. "That wasn't very nice."

"I didn't know it was you," he pointed out. "You start hanging about in other people's gardens, wearing a hooded robe and looking mysterious, your motives will get misinterpreted. It's just one of those things."

Now she smiled at him. Raindrops trammeled her fine silvery hair and beaded the edges of her lashes. It was a rather fetching effect.

She held out one hand for him to take. Even though she was sitting on the ground in a mud puddle, she managed to look imperious.

"Help me up," she commanded.

He grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. She looked down at her muddy silver robes, scowled, and ran her right hand down them. "Abstergo!" he heard her mutter, and in a moment, her robes were sparkling clean.

"Nicely done," he said, with genuine admiration. "But why are you here?"

She looked up at him and smiled. "I think you know," she said.

He shook his head. "No, I really don't."

"I think you do. Remember?" she added suggestively. "You and me…in my room…there were butterflies in pretty colors…"