Кассандра Клэр: Draco Dormiens

"Dean, I didn´t see anything," said Hermione. "I swear. I just ran up to get something for Harry. Give me five minutes and you can go right back to being naked in peace."

She opened Harryś trunk and tore through it, grabbing Jamesínvisibility cloak, the Marauderś Map, and some sweaters in case it got cold. She looked around for something to stuff everything in and caught sight of Harryś school bag lying under the bed. She pulled it towards her slowly.

She had bought that bag for Harry their fifth year at school. It was an ordinary enough bag, but she´d put all sorts of spells on it: a spell so it would never tear, a spell so Harry could lock it, a spell so he could find it if he left it lying around, which he often did. She´d also sewed words onto it-not magicked them there, actually sewed them by hand: HARRY POTTER GRYFFINDOR SEEKER.

The sight of the bag recollected Harry so sharply to her memory that she choked, and a little sob escaped her before she could bite it back. She´d been running on autopilot, not thinking about Harry, because if she thought about him in danger she would fall apart completely and then she would be no use at all…

"Aw, Hermione…" Dean scuttled towards her across the floor, alarmed by the sound of her tears. Hermione wasn't a girl who cried often. "Don´t cry…"

"Thanks, Dean," said Hermione, putting up one hand to ward him off, "and I, uh, appreciate the thought. You might want to put some pants on, thatś all I´m saying, but I appreciate the thought just the same."

Hermioneś dark mood did not lift when she returned to the common room and found Draco sitting in one of the overstuffed armchairs, apparently quite asleep.

She stalked up to him and glared. "WAKE UP," she said.

He opened his green eyes and looked at her, "I am awake," he said.

"Fine," she said, feeling stupid. "I´m going after Harry," she went on. "I thought about taking his Firebolt, but I´m pretty sure you can´t fly a broomstick off Hogwarts grounds like that. So I´m walking to Hogsmeade. Thereś a train at midnight that goes to Platform 9 3/4 at Kingś Cross Station-" But Draco was on his feet. "You are not going without me," he said, softly but firmly. "You´ll never find Malfoy Manor, it's unplottable, just like Hogwarts. And even if you found it by some miracle, there are seventeen hexes on the front door alone, and each one requires a specific Disarming spell — " "Malfoy," said Hermione, "I was not even thinking of going without you, so you can shut up. In fact, I was going to threaten you with the Veritas curse if you didn´t agree to help me get into your horrible house."

Now it was Dracoś turn to feel stupid and not let on. "Hermione, you can´t do the Veritas spell," he snapped. "There's more to doing Dark magic than just saying the words."

"I wouldn't be so show-offy about my knowledge of Dark magic if I were you," Hermione said shortly. She swung Harry's bag over her shoulder and stalked toward the portrait hole. Draco hurried after her. He loathed the way she always had the last word.

Harry was sitting on the end of Draco Malfoy's bed, rubbing his eyes. He'd fallen asleep for a few moments and had a strange dream that he was half-walking, half-running down a dark road with Hermione. It had been a very vivid dream, as if he were right there beside her, and when he woke up he missed her with an ache that was nearly physical. Of course, he told himself, he missed everything about Hogwarts, not just Hermione.

He forced himself to get up and go over to the wardrobe, where he searched for the "Malfoy family dress robes." This was difficult. It appeared that Draco had a lot of clothes, from long velvet cloaks in every color of the rainbow to extremely expensive-looking Dolce and Gabbana linen shirts. His parents must have spent an absolute fortune on this lot, thought Harry, gawking. Draco's collection of designer sunglasses alone would have run about six hundred pounds. And they were not proper wizarding wear either, but apparently the Malfoy family's disgust for all things Muggle did not extend to Armani jackets.

"Draco!"

Harry jumped. Narcissa's voice was echoing from somewhere above his head.

"Are you ready yet? Your father's friends are already here!"

"Uh…" said Harry. "I can't find my dress robes!"

"Well, then just wear black!" she snapped.

"Okay!" he yelled, then stopped to wonder if he had to yell or if she could hear him just fine anyway. He felt immeasurably stupid. He reached into the wardrobe and was about to pull out a pair of black trousers when Narcissa's voice crackled overhead again: "And Draco? No Muggle clothes!"

"Aaargh," said Harry, but very softly, hoping Narcissa wouldn't hear him.

"And I'm sending Anton to fetch you," she snapped, and there was a loud snap, like a switch being thrown. Harry assumed she had switched off the spell that allowed her to converse with him in his room, and began cursing quietly to himself. Who was Anton? Was he some relative that Harry would be expected to know? Still swearing to himself, he selected a black pair of satin trousers, a long ruffled shirt, and a pair of high black boots from Draco's closet and put them on.

They were the most magic-y looking clothes in Draco's closet, but he felt deeply silly in them.

There was a knock on the door and Harry went to open it with a sense of deep foreboding. A tall man stood outside his door, wearing an immaculate butler's uniform and carrying what looked like a black and silver velvet cloak. He was also quite transparent.

Ah, thought Harry. A ghost servant. This was fine. Harry was used to ghosts.

"Your mother wanted me to bring you this," said Anton-the-ghost, handing Harry the cloak. It was long and looked expensive, with a big silver clasp at the throat in the shape of a snake. Harry thought he would be happy if he never saw another snake-shaped ornament in his whole life after this. "You left it in the drawing room last time you were here."

Harry stopped stock-still in the act of pulling on the cloak. What the ghost had just said had set off something like a firecracker in the back of his mind. The drawing-room. There was something significant about that phrase, something huge. What was it about the drawing-room that was important?

"I suggest, young Master Malfoy," said the ghost, "that you fasten that clasp in front of the mirror. It is complicated."

If he thought Harry's struggles with the cloak were either amusing or suspicious, he didn't show it.

Harry went over to the mirror, still pondering the question of the Malfoy drawing-room, and made a disgusted noise. If Harry had been a girl, he would have thought the reflection staring back at him was alluring and sophisticated, the white-silver of Draco's hair contrasting beautifully with the black of his cloak and the silver embroidery bringing out the gray in his eyes. But Harry was not a girl, and he merely thought that he looked like a transvestite. Ruffles! Satin! Buckled shoes! Yech!

They were sitting on the platform at Hogsmeade station, waiting for the train, when Draco began to laugh. Hermione twisted around to look at him. "What's funny?" she asked, frowning.

"Harry," said Draco. "He's wearing my clothes and he hates it…Hey!" he added, irritably, "I like that shirt. It is not effeminate!"

Hermione was staring at him. "Malfoy, please stop channeling Harry," she said. "It makes me sickeningly nervous." She fiddled with the strap on her bag. "Can he see what you're doing?' she asked finally.

"He can, a little," said Draco, "but he thinks he's just dreaming it."

"Why?"

"Harry's got a stronger will than me," said Draco neutrally. "He projects more."

"Does he…" said Hermione, now fiddling with the strap harder than ever, "does he think about me?"