It was because she knew who he was. How could she not? There were statues of him, portraits of him, all over Hogwarts. And yet it was impossible.
Dark magic, she thought. This is very dark magic. He is dead. Dead for a thousand years. And to raise the dead was necromancy, the worst kind of black magic there was.
He took a few steps toward her, and she stared at his feet, encased in thick black boots, because she couldn't bring herself to look back up that awful, scarred, marked face again. As he neared her, she he realized that a powerful smell was wafting off his robes — a smell like burning brandy.
There was a heavy thuck-thuck noise as he dropped to his knees next to her. 'Look at me,' he said. His voice buzzed as if his skeletal throat had been stuffed with flies or locusts. 'Look at me.'
Hermione looked up, although she didn't want to. She tried to clear her throat, couldn't, and said in a tiny voice that sounded as if it were being sucked through a straw, 'Who are you?'
'Don't you know me, Rowena?' said the buzzing voice. 'I know I no longer look as I did. But you should still know your own Salazar.'
'Veritas!'
Krum gasped as the Truth spell took hold of him. Draco knew how he felt; knew the agonizing pain of it, the feeling of being ripped open and exposed, but had neither the time nor the inclination to feel sorry for Viktor Krum.
'Where is Hermione?' he demanded.
'I — don't- know,' Viktor bit out between gritted teeth.
'Malfoy — ' said Ron, in a hissing whisper, 'It's illegal to use the Veritas curse — you could get Azkaban time for this.'
'I don't care,' said Draco, not looking at Ron, but at Harry, who looked back at him with much the same expression he was sure he wore himself — grim resolution. It was the same expression Harry wore when he played Quidditch and was utterly determined to get the Snitch. When they had played against each other, that look on Harry's face had made Draco nervous. Now he found it oddly reassuring.
'Go ahead, Malfoy,' Harry said.
'Please,' Viktor interrupted unexpectedly. 'I–I want to know the truth as well. Please ask me whatever you must.'
Draco looked back at Krum uncertainly. Krum was pale and was biting his lip with pain, but seemed sincere. 'All right,' said Draco, still holding the wand steady. 'Viktor,' he said. 'Tell us what you remember from yesterday.'
Krum spoke, slowly and with effort. 'In the morning, we play against Romania,' he grunted. 'We lose, and I am very angry because of it. I am also angry because they have not secured the tents for the players. When I return to my tent there is a man there and I have to chase him out.'
'What kind of man?' said Harry, in a very tight voice.
'A very ordinary man,' said Viktor. 'You must understand, we have people in our tents all the time — fans, and other such, they break in. This one, he wanted to give me a bottle of Bulgarian wine. So I drank some, and he went off. I walked back to my rooms and — '
Viktor looked down. 'I fell asleep, I think. I remember nothing more.'
'Viktor,' said Draco steadily, 'What happened when you got back to your room. You didn't go to sleep. What did you do?'
Krum was pale and sweating. 'I don't remember.'
Draco was gripping the wand so tightly now that his knuckles turned white. 'What did you do?'
Krum shook his head, clutching his chest as if it pained him. 'I don't remember!'
'He's lying,' said Harry flatly.
'You can't lie under the Veritas curse,' said Draco in a low voice, turning his head to look at Harry. 'I should know.'
'It's a memory charm, then,' whispered Ron. 'He's telling the truth as he thinks it is.'
'You can break a memory charm,' said Harry, in the same flat, determined voice. 'Malfoy. Give me your hand.'
'Why?' said Draco, warily. The last time Harry had asked Draco to give him his hand, he'd sliced his palm open with a penknife.
'Because,' said Harry, under his breath. 'If we both hold the wand, and do the spell, it might be strong enough to break through the Memory charm.'
'It might,' Draco conceded. 'It also might be strong enough to reduce Bulgaria's best Quidditch player to a gibbering loon with the brainpower of a four-month-old child.'
'I don't think so,' said Harry. 'Not if we concentrate.'
'This is what I mean about letting Gryffindors plan things,' snapped Draco. He and Harry were standing so close together, he could see himself reflected in Harry's glasses. He looked anxious and cross.
'What kind of plan is 'concentrate''?
'Harry,' interrupted Ron, anxiously. He couldn't quite hear what they were saying from where he stood, but Harry's expression was making him nervous. 'Harry, I don't think-'
Ignoring him, Harry reached out and grabbed Draco's left hand (did you ever doubt Draco was a lefty?), interlocking their fingers around the wand. As he did so, the scar on his palm brushed the scar on Draco's, and Draco felt a jolt of freezing cold lance through his skin.
He saw Harry's eyes flick up to his nervously. He had felt it, too.
