Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

Draco turned, saw what had happened, and raised his sword, the bright blade glinting like moonlight seen in a mirror. Wormtail made a strangled sound of terror; he was gripping his right wrist with his left hand, pulling hard, but to no avail.

Draco looked up at Harry and Harry saw that he was very white in the dim light. His eyes asked a question, and Harry answered it, keeping his gaze steady:

Finish him.

Harry could sense Draco's uneasiness when he replied: You mean kill him?

Yes.

I've never killed anyone before.

You haven't?

A bright flash of Draco's irritation popped like a flashbulb behind Harry's eyes. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Potter. No, I've never killed anyone!

Sorry…

Draco raised the sword again, and Wormtail screamed out loud.

Harry saw Draco wince and step back a little, and Wormtail, seeing his movement, jerked hard on his caught arm — and with a rending sound, it freed itself. Released, Wormtail stumbled backward, throwing out his hands-Malfoy, watch out! Harry thought sharply — but it was too late, one of Wormtail's flailing hands caught Draco in the stomach. With a surprised "ooph," he stumbled backward — and lost his footing on the edge of the rock.

Paralyzed with shock and horror, Harry saw Draco's eyes widen in surprise, his hands flying up, the sword tumbling out of his hand as he fell backwards and out of view.

A moment later, Harry heard the splash as he struck the water.

He heard Draco's voice in his head. I can't swim, for starters.

Harry began to run. He was barely conscious of Wormtail, his face contorted with horror at what he had done, Disapparating; was utterly unconscious that there were footsteps behind him, someone running nearly as fast as he was. He was conscious only of the steady light in the back of his head, which was no longer steady but had begun to flicker like a blown candleflame.

This can't be happening.

He reached the edge of the quarry, flung himself down, and gazed down at the still and unmoving black water. There was no sign of anything, of any life, not even a ripple on the surface.

"Malfoy!" he yelled, knowing it was useless, hearing only silence.

"Malfoy!" He tipped his head back despairingly, looked up at the stars — "Sirius, where are you?"

In the bedroom back at Malfoy Mansion, Hermione suddenly felt Harry's hand tighten convulsively on hers, his fingers gripping her wrist so tightly it was agony. "Harry," she whispered, leaning towards him, "Harry — "

His muscles tensed abruptly, his back arcing up off the bed, his hand tearing out of hers. Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Harry — what's going on — ? " She dropped down next to him, tried to take him by the shoulders, but he wrenched away from her, flailing out with his arms. She caught at one of his hands, clutching it tightly, and reached out with her other hand to push the sweaty black hair out of his eyes. Where is he? What's happening to him?

"It's all right, Harry," she whispered. "You're fine, nothing can hurt you — "

Harry wrenched his head to the side, and shouted — the first sound she had heard him make since he'd been put him under the spell -

"Sirius, where are you?"

Hermione looked around wildly. Sirius- I have to get Sirius, she thought. But I don't want to leave Harry- She got to her feet, letting go of Harry's hand reluctantly, and backed away from the bed, her eyes fixed on Harry. He was still twitching as if he were having a nightmare. Oh, God, is he all right? Nothing can hurt him; Lupin said nothing could hurt him -

She hesitated, staring at him — and then she felt it vanish.

It. That feeling in the pit of her stomach, the cold anchor that had lodged itself there, that feeling that had been there every second of every minute of every day since she had swallowed the potion Wormtail had given her.

It was gone.

Gone.

Hermione clutched at her stomach for a moment, not daring to believe it. It's gone, she thought wildly, the spell's off me. And then, more slowly. It's gone. The spell's off me.

Draco….

She bolted towards the bedroom door, flinging it open with such force that she heard the hinges creak, and tore out into the hallway, screaming at the top of her lungs, screaming for Sirius, even though she knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that if the spell was off her, it was already too late.

References:

1) "Yeah," he interrupted her, with a faint smile, "you know, I'm just going by 'Draco' now." Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

2) A beat, a feint in quarte, a feint in sixte, and a lunge veering off into an attack on the opponent's sword hand. This is very famously Prince Corwin's classic diarming move in Nine Princes in Amber.

3) A smug scholar is only a fool, but a smug swordsman is a dead man. I haven't the faintest. It seems to be a saying. If you know its origin, let me know.

4) Durendal, Greyswandir, Dyrnwyn — Durendal is the sword of Roland in the Chanson de Roland, Greyswandir, again, belongs to Nine Princes in Amber, and Dyrnwyn was one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain collected by Merlin.

The corridor was stone, lit with the light of smokeless torches at uneven intervals, their sconces carved in the shapes of serpents. The blue-eyed woman paid them no attention as she hurried down the hall, her feet making no noise on the bare stone floor.

She paused in front of a door, rapped on it once. It was opened by a red-headed woman with tired eyes which lit with a dark blue glow when she saw who had knocked. "Rowena," she said. "You came…he's been asking for you."

"Is he dying, Helga?"

"I don't know. One of those snakes he's endlessly playing with, using in his experiments…it bit him on the arm. I've tried antivenom spells, but nothing seems to be working."

"I want to see him."

Helga sighed. "Go on in."

Inside the room, Rowena stood for a long time, looking at the young man in the bed. His eyes were closed, shadows like black half-moons under his eyes, his head propped up on pillows. She could see the dark mark of the bite on the inside of his forearm, black and venomous-looking. She didn't move, not sure if he was asleep or not.

At last he opened his eyes and looked at her. "You can come near me," he said. "It's snake venom, I'm not contagious."

"I didn't know if you'd want me to come near you," she said, and went to sit on the stool next to his bed. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. His silver hair was plastered to his head with sweat, his gray eyes bright with fever. Sickness had made him look younger, somehow undefended.

"Who would have sent for you, if not me?" he asked.

"Nobody sent me for me. I heard you were ill-"

"Very commendable of you to take pity on me. What does Godric have to say about this?"

She expelled a breath. "Godric doesn't know. How's your wife?"

He glared at her. "She's not my wife. I told you that."

"No, just another of these creatures you've created. What did you call her…?"

"A veela," said the man in the bed impatiently. "She's not my wife but she's obedient, she's loving, she's all the things you aren't. And she's giving me an heir."

"Yes, and when you get her angry, she grows an enormous beak and tries to poke out your eyes."

"No experiment is perfect," he said, almost sounding amused, and tried to straighten up on the pillows. "The wolf-men, though, I'm especially proud of what I've done with them."

"You don't think it's cruel? Creating these races of creatures that aren't men, aren't animals, but are something else instead? What is going to happen to them, after you're gone?"

"I'm not planning on ever being gone."