Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

"Too bad Fleur isn't here to help you," said Sirius and gave Lupin a huge, obnoxious smile.

"Giantish, Greek — shut up, Sirius — and something that looks a lot like mirror writing. Not, perhaps his best effort…"

Sirius, meanwhile, was staring cross-eyed at one of the pieces of parchment that had a spell in Mermish copied onto it. "'Enliven the fearsome sex weevil '? That can't be right."

"Sirius…" Hermione made a face at him, reached forward, and took the parchment out of his hand. "It says fallax proefini…imago moli…it's Latin, not a spell I know, but it means something about projecting images…" She looked at Lupin. "Is this the Magid one?"

"What Magid one?" demanded Harry.

Lupin sighed. "There's a spell Slytherin claimed allowed him to find his Source…that would be Rowena…wherever she was, and project himself there."

"But Draco's not my Source," said Harry flatly.

"No, but the mental link you have is very much like what might exist if he were. It's worth a try anyway," said Sirius, raising his head. "I'll put a Locator Charm on you, and once we send you through to where Draco is, I'll follow right after you."

Hermione glanced up quickly. "Is this going to be dangerous for Harry?"

"No," said Lupin, a little absently, and put down the book he was holding. "He'll be fine, especially because-"

"But we don't even know if the mental link is working," Harry interrupted, shaking a lock of dark hair impatiently out of his eyes.

"It's not like I know where he is…"

Lupin reached into his pocket and took his wand out. "Give me your hand, Harry — your right hand." Harry held his hand out and Lupin turned it over, palm-up, and laid the tip of his wand against the jagged scar that ran diagonally across Harry's palm. Harry shuddered, as if this pained him, and his eyes met Hermione's across the desk. "This scar connects you two," said Lupin, "just as the scar on your forehead connects you to Voldemort."

Harry nodded. "I know."

"Hold still," Lupin said.

Draco wished he could sleep, but the Wakefulness potion didn't allow it. He had been grateful at first for the alert and burning energy it gave him, but now he felt weary of it. Not that he wanted to sleep and dream — he certainly didn't want that. But he was bored.

Snape had gone into his workroom to play with his potions, and Draco had been kicking aimlessly around the house. He'd discovered very little, except that Snape had peculiar musical taste and that, if what was folded on top of the washing machine was any indication to go by, he slept in blue flannel pajamas decorated with little red hearts. Yikes, Draco thought.

He thought again of the Daily Prophet with its article on his father's death, and determined to go ask Snape if he could have another look at it. He trudged down the hall to the Potions' master's workroom, and pushed the door open.

The cauldrons were still bubbling merrily away, but Snape, seated at his desk, appeared to be asleep, his head down on his arms, a quill drooping from his fingers. Seeing the Daily Prophet folded up on the edge of the desk, he reached out for it, and paused. A pad of paper lay about five inches from Snape's hand, and on it he saw written his own name.

It's a rare person who can see their own name written down by someone else, and not want to investigate. Moving quietly, Draco dragged the pad a little towards him across the desk, and turned it around to read what was written there in Snape's cramped handwriting… I gave the potion to the Malfoy boy and it did not hurt him, so he is not as far gone as I might have feared. Still, he has that look on him already, the presage of violent death. I am not sure how much I can or should tell him about the potion: that as with many drugs, with use its effects are dulled, becoming almost insignificant within a matter of months. If it had not been for the defeat of the Dark Lord, the potion could not have saved me….I wish that Dumbledore were here to advise me…

Draco pushed the pad away from him, turning away from the desk, a sick feeling in his stomach. He walked out of the room into the hall, turned blindly to the right, opened the door there and found himself standing on the porch in bright sunlight. The light stabbed at his eyes like knives and he sat down rather suddenly, his back against the wall of the house, drawing his knees up to his chest.

So the potion was just a stopgap, if that. Snape had sounded as if he wasn't sure at all how long it would continue to work. It was certainly working now, Draco could feel it, had felt it kick in not long ago. The change had been immediate. It was as if someone had dropped a heavy iron portcullis between him and the surge and clamor of the demands that had been his constant companions. The waking dreams were gone, the cloudy vision, the feeling that his ears were always ringing. He hadn't realized how quiet the world was, how still and how peaceful.

But gone, too, was the exhilaration, the knowledge that with the sword, he could do things he knew he would never otherwise have been able to do, even if he was a Magid. Inside the dragon pen, he had known he had the power inside him to hold all those dragons back and he had done it, raising his hands to ward them off as if they were no more than shadows, and he had felt powerful. The power drew on him like fire drawing oxygen, leaving only ashes behind. And it was a dark and exquisite pleasure to use it. So exquisite it hurt, and so dark that it was frightening.

When he closed his eyes, he could see the shadow of his dreams printed against his inner lids. What you want, his father had said, what you can have, and what could be. His father's explanation of his own birth and purpose had made some sense to him. If nothing else, it explained the yearning he felt when he held the sword in his hand, the nameless internal stretching towards something just out of reach. It's your destiny. It has you.

He had been offered more than power, more than whatever else it was he thought he might have wanted: Hermione and her love, glory, a place in the world. He had been offered something that Harry had that he had always envied: a purpose, a reason for living, a destiny. And the pull of it was strong; the pull of it was…intoxicating. No wonder Charlie had thought he was drugged.

"To have resisted this far you must have a strong will," Snape had said. "You were meant to give in. And you haven't given in."

But I know the truth, he thought bitterly. I'm not strong. If there is anything in me, in my mind or my soul, that fights the sword and its promises and the black dreams it brings, it isn't my own strength.

It's Harry. Whatever little bit of Harry he had managed to hold on to, whatever the Polyjuice Potion had left him, that speaking voice in the back of his brain that said this isn't right. Harry, who could fight the Imperius Curse — I could never do that. Harry, who was good without trying.

Harry, who he was supposed to kill.

And would, if he got the chance.

Draco reached out and took hold of the sword, his thin fingers wrapping themselves around the smooth, familiar, slightly dented hilt. He drew it towards him and onto his lap, the green jewels in the hilt winking at him like knowing eyes. The pattern on the hilt was of snakes, the emeralds their eyes; one of the jewels, Draco saw, turning the sword over, was missing…he wondered why he had never noticed that before. The sword was heavy in his hand. I'm going to die, he had told Ginny. At least it's more warning than most people get.

He glanced up. It was late afternoon, the sky a hot metallic blue. He stood up quickly and decidedly, gripping the sword, and went back into the house, heading for the closet where he had left Charlie's clothes and his Firebolt.