Кассандра Клэр - Draco Sinister

"Yes. Does that mean something to you?"

"Not yet, it doesn't. Well, maybe. I don't know what the other Keys are, but I suspect the Lycanthe is one. I need to finish that book about the Founders, and I'll get Sirius to bring me Slytherin's diary.

Somewhere, there's an explanation."

In the face of Hermione's energy and enthusiasm, Draco suddenly felt unutterably tired. He yawned, sliding down under the covers.

"Are you meant to stay with me while I'm sleeping, as well?"

"I will if you like. Although I think it's about time for Ron's turn."

"Ron? Doesn't having saved my life exempt him from sickbed duty?"

Hermione smiled. "Technically, yes, but we thought it would be a good idea for the two of you to talk."

Draco groaned and pulled the covers over his head. "This is a setup."

"Maybe," said Hermione severely. "But if we're all going to work together, and I think we have to, then it's best if we all get along."

"Maybe Weasley and I are perfectly happy hating each other."

Hermione looked at him severely. "Ron is not a hateful person," she said. "He does not want to hate you, or anybody. He's basically the sweetest person you could ever hope to meet."

At that moment, Ron's voice in the corridor became audible. "Why do I have to sit with the malingering bastard?" he was demanding loudly of an unseen companion, probably Harry. "You know I hate his miserable pureblooded guts."

"He's not malingering," came another voice-Harry's- sounding amused.

"Well, if he's really ill a visit from me might push him right over the edge. I suppose that's something to hope for."

"Come on, Ron, don't you want your apology?"

"He's not going to apologize to me!"

"Bet he will."

"Bet he won't."

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. "We can hear everything you're saying!" she shouted at the top of her lungs.

There was a short silence. Then the door opened, and an unseen hand (Harry's) shoved Ron into the room, and slammed the door behind him. Ron, his hair wildly messy, glared at Draco and Hermione with the jumpy expression of a cat set loose in a room full of rocking chairs. "What?" he demanded, somewhat belligerently.

Hermione looked at him composedly. "Ron, nobody said anything."

"Good," said Ron.

Hermione turned to Draco. "Don't you have something to say to Ron?"

There was a short silence. Draco took a deep breath, and said, "Come here, Weasley."

Ron inched reluctantly across the room until he stood about a foot from the end of Draco's bed.

"Weasley," said Draco, looking as if ever word was being dragged out of him with a fishhook, "I, uh, I know that I haven't always been the easiest guy to get along with. And I know that in an ideal world, you would never have chosen me for a friend, or me you, for that matter. But given what you've done for me, and everything we've been through lately, I just wanted to say that I've come to regard you as someone…as someone…someone that I've met."

Ron looked at him. "That's your apology?"

Draco had the grace to look embarrassed. "I can't help it. Malfoys don't apologize. In the olden days, my ancestors would just cut off a limb and mail it off to whoever they'd offended, or commit ritual suicide."

"That sounds promising."

"It's not my fault," said Draco, sounding aggrieved. "It's the just the personality I've got."

"Oh, yeah? Well, if it was my personality, I'd ask for a transplant."

"That is ENOUGH!" Hermione thundered. She stood up, glaring at the boys with deep displeasure. "You are both idiots," she said firmly, snatched up her notebook, and stalked out of the room.

Ron glared at Draco. "So," he said. "It's The Boy Who Died."

Draco looked bored. "I was wondering how long it was going to be before somebody made that lame joke."

Ron shook his head. "You really are an unbelievable git."

"What, just because you saved my life I have to laugh at your jokes?

That's asking a bit of a lot, given their general overall quality."

Ron threw up his hands. "You know what, Malfoy? I don't even care.

I don't want anything from you — not an apology, not your gratitude, not anything. I didn't save your life because I thought your life was worth saving. You might as well know that."

There was a short silence. Then Draco said, "That doesn't change things."

"What things?"

"You saved my life. There are rules in the Malfoy Family Code of Conduct about this sort of thing. I owe you my life. That means I have to stick around and wait for a chance to save your life, or-"

"I told you, I don't want-"

"That doesn't matter. The protocols have to be observed." Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed, tested them, and stood up slowly. He was shorter than Percy, so had to be careful not to trip over his pajama bottoms. He reached out, picked up the pocket knife Harry had left on the bedside table, and flicked it open. Then he tossed it to Ron. "Weasley. Catch."

Ron caught the knife and looked at him questioningly. "Malfoy, what…?"

In lieu of a response, Draco started unbuttoning his pajama top.

Ron backpedaled so fast that he actually tripped over the edge of the rug and sat down hard on the floor, from which position he regarded Draco with eyes like dinner plates. "What are you doing?"

"Just a second." Draco calmly finished undoing the top three buttons of his pajamas, and pulled the collar away from his throat.

"Get up," he said to Ron.

And Ron, looking as if he had just walked in on Professor McGonagall taking a bath, did it. "Fine, but keep your clothes on, Malfoy."

Draco grinned. "It's all part of the protocol. But all right. If you like."

He stood up straight, his shoulders back, and looked directly at Ron.

"You saved my life," he said. "The Malfoy Family Code of Conduct rule #613 clearly states that now, I owe you a debt in blood. That means you get one try at me with that knife."

Ron now looked as if he had walked in on Professor McGonagall taking a bath with Snape. "Oh yeah? Well the Weasley Family Code of Conduct rule #1 just as clearly states 'No chance, you psycho loon.'"

"Come on. One try at me. My ancestors used to do this sort of thing all the time. Just throw the knife at me. You know, see if it sticks.

You don't have to aim at the vital areas or anything. Then all debts between us are discharged and I'll never bother you again."

Ron looked faintly green. "What about one try at you with, say, my wand instead of a whacking great knife?"

Draco shook his head. "It has to be blood."

Ron stared at him. Then the faintest grin curled the left side of his mouth. "Do I have to throw it? Couldn't I just walk up and stick the knife in your throat if I wanted to?"

Draco didn't bat an eye. "If you like. But you miss the intended courtesy of the gesture if you do."

"You're mental," said Ron, flatly. "You do know that."

"I'm a Malfoy."

Ron glanced down at the knife, sighed, and fitted the handle into his hand. "Well," he said. "If it's tradition…."

Draco felt a very slight twitch of anxiety. Ron seemed to be holding the knife with a certain degree of…intention. Surely he couldn't have misjudged Weasley quite that much.

Looking resigned, Ron turned the knife around, took it by the point, and aimed it towards Draco.

Draco's stomach did a slow, rolling flip. Surely not…

Ron threw the knife.

It whipped past Draco's head, missing him by several feet, and embedded itself in the wall behind him, point-first (dead center in Percy's display of old Prefect badges, as a matter of fact.) Draco looked at Ron.

Ron looked back.

"I seem to have missed," Ron said.

"Well," said Draco, kindly, "it was a very good try."

"Mmm," said Ron thoughtfully, and scratched his ear. "Could I maybe try one more-"