(Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban—Chapter 7: The Boggart in the Wardrobe)
Verity twisted her hands in her lap and avoided eye contact with Professor Dumbledore, braced for a scolding.
"Miss MacLaren," he said, "allow me to reassure you that you are not in trouble. I've heard a great deal about you from Professor Snape. I am merely curious how you came to live at the Malfoys and, if I may say so, a sort of personal assistant to Mr. Draco Malfoy." She glanced at him through her hair, afraid. He was smiling.
"Can we…may we use the Pensieve, sir?" she asked, rubbing her arm. Dumbledore seemed amused, perhaps that a third year knew the purpose of the stone basin on his desk, but he agreed. She pressed her wand to her forehead and withdrew a long silver thread, which she deposited in the Pensieve. Four, five, six threads followed it, and the silvery-white in the basin swirled faster and faster.
"After you," he said. Verity took a deep breath and plunged her face in. Her feet left the ground and the world went black.
She and Professor Dumbledore landed on the grounds of Malfoy Manor at night. Sheets of rain clouded the moon, pounded the paths into swamp, and beat a wild dance on the roof of the manor. She shivered.
A wispy figure clutched the gate with white hands, golden hair stringy and limp, wrapped in a threadbare cloak much too big. A plaintive cry echoed across the grounds. "Can anybody hear me? Please let me in."
Professor Dumbledore's expression was halfway between interest and pity. "I can't remember my parents," she said. "Everything I remember before this is vague. Never having enough. Being cold and tired and hungry. Then I found this place. I couldn't imagine anything better than a day in that gorgeous house."
The tiny girl, chilled blue, tried to squeeze through the bars. Finding them too close-set for even her slight frame, she stepped back in despair. She swayed on her feet, then slipped to the ground, unconscious. The memory faded.
The room that appeared next differed startlingly from the storm-ravaged grounds. The furniture was plain but comfortable. Rosy morning sunlight streamed through a high window. The young Verity lay curled in the sturdy bed, a patchwork quilt over her face.
She stirred and sat with a tremendous yawn. Observing the room curiously, her eyes widened. She gasped at the sight of a little boy at the door. His pale face and white-blond hair sharply contrasted his neat black cloak. He gazed at her, intrigued.
"What's your name?" he said. She didn't answer. "I'm Draco. I live here. Do you live here? I didn't hear about it. Are you a Mudblood? Mother and Father hate them. I don't know what they are, but I hate them too. I'm going to Hogwarts in six years, and I'll play Quidditch and be a prefect and Head Boy and be important like Father. Will you go to Hogwarts? You won't if you aren't a witch. If you aren't a witch, Father won't let you stay. How did you get here?"
Before he could continue barraging her with questions, a stout, middle-aged witch, dressed as practically as the room was furnished, bustled into the room. She stopped short when she saw the boy. "Master Draco? What are you doing here?"
"The door was open, and I saw her." He pointed to the girl. She gave an embarrassed wave.
The woman rushed past Draco to Verity's bedside, ignoring his demands to know how this girl had come to be in his house. "Oh my dear, did you sleep well? Are you feeling well? Such a fright you gave me, came out in the morning and found you drenched through, poor dear. Can I get you anything?" Verity smiled as the woman fussed over her. Draco left in a huff.
"He hasn't changed," Verity said under her breath, and Dumbledore chuckled.
In a minute, the door flew open, and Narcissa Malfoy swept in followed by Draco, who looked insufferably pleased with himself. "MacLaren!" Verity slipped under the covers until only her brown eyes showed. "My Draco told me—what is that?" she said of the child huddled in bed.
"Most likely what Master Draco was tellin' you about, ma'am," the witch MacLaren said, curtsying.
"Why is it in my house?"
"You see ma'am, I saw her outside the gate and I didn't suppose it'd be right human to leave her in the wet and cold, so I brought her in. I thought, maybe, she could stay and I could take care of her. I'd train her up, and she'd likely be right useful. If you and the master approved, of course," MacLaren faltered.
Mrs. Malfoy stepped closer to Verity to inspect her. The girl sat up ever so slightly, so the quilt slipped away, and offered Mrs. Malfoy a shy, awkward smile. As if she'd seen a ghost instead of an orphan, recognition—and shock—broke over Mrs. Malfoy's stern face. She regained her composure and strode to the door, saying, "She stays. Come, Draco." The boy grasped his mother's hand, staring over his shoulder as they left Verity and MacLaren alone.
MacLaren smiled encouragingly and sat on the edge of the bed. "What's your name, then, dearie?"
"Don't know," she replied in a low voice.
"You don't know? Have you got a name at all?" She shook her head. "We'll find a good name for you, sweetheart." MacLaren's brow furrowed as her brain worked. "I thought if I had a little girl of my own, I might call her Verity. It's such a pretty name, truth it means. And you look like a proper Verity, don't you think?" The little girl didn't respond, but a faint light came into her eyes. "You'll need a last name too, just in case. The Malfoys wouldn't take kindly to me giving you theirs, but you don't want to be one of them anyway, so I suppose mine's the most convenient. Verity MacLaren. How's that sound, darlin'?"
"MacLaren became like a mother," said the grown-up Verity. "I followed her around and learned right away how to keep house. The Malfoys didn't keep me out of the goodness of their hearts." She ran her fingers through her hair. "A few months later, she became very sick, and...and then I was alone again." Her memory swirled away.
They next arrived in the magnificent drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Long, black velvet curtains were pulled shut against pale winter sunbeams. Wall-mounted candles reflected on the chandelier, casting strange patterns of flecked light and shadow across the three figures in the room.
Verity, now eight or nine, stood against the wall, hands behind her back. Draco lounged in a winged armchair. His neatly fitted robes looked even more expensive compared to Verity's too-large, stained dress and bare feet. A nasty purple bruise bloomed spectacularly on his face and swelled one eye shut. He could have been a picture of a martyred saint, except when he sneaked devilish, smirky glances at Verity. Lucius Malfoy, one gloved hand resting on the marble mantelpiece, turned away from the children.
"I am disappointed." His voice was quiet, but in the silent room, it echoed. "After we gave you a home under our very roof, this is how you repay us? Why did you curse my son?" She bit her lip and stared at the floor. He strode over to her and lifted her chin so she had to make eye contact. "I repeat," he said, "why did you curse my son?"
"I-I didn't," Verity murmured. "I'm sorry, sir."
Lucius's lip curled in disgust. "Don't lie to me." He whisked his black-and-silver wand out of his robes. "I find my wand where I did not leave it, a curse the last spell it performed, and my son is injured."
Verity's face was white. "It wasn't me!" she whispered.
He leaned in. "Child, if you touch my wand again you'll be on the streets before an hour has passed. Now go to your room. Draco," his son resumed his air of martyrdom as he turned around, "make sure she gets there."
Draco followed Verity out of the room with a spring in his step, Dumbledore and the older Verity close behind. "Now I'm not so mad that spell backfired," he said. "If I know Father—which I do—you'll be there a month at least. That's worth an old bruise any day."
Down one corridor and another they marched as Draco cheerfully rattled off ways to kill her if she bothered him again.
"...or I'll push you off the roof, or get you eaten by a giant snake, or make you drink that bottle in the dining room cabinet..."
Up a dark, narrow staircase, and into the attic where Verity lived.
"Have fun with the spiders, Mudblood." He sneered and slammed the door. As she sank onto the broken mattress in the corner, the room darkened and disappeared.
"I got my letter! I got my letter!" They were still in the attic, but several years had passed since they last saw her. More refuse was piled about, and she had improved the corner that served as her bedroom. Next to the old mattress sat a squashy grey armchair with a tear in the seat and no legs.
"I got my letter!" Verity, eleven years old, danced in and out of the scarlet rays of sunset. She clutched a parchment envelope, and the address, written in green ink, was just visible when she stopped spinning:
Miss Verity MacLaren
The Attic
Malfoy Manor
Wiltshire
"What's this noise?" Draco burst into the attic, holding his own letter. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Verity happy. "What is this?"
She danced over to him and held out the letter. "I'm going to Hogwarts!" she cried. "I came in and there was a great big owl outside my window, so I let it in, and it gave me this. I'm going to Hogwarts!" She stopped dancing but her eyes shone.
Draco glared at her. "There's been a mistake. They can't let you go. You're a Mudblood."
She stopped short, deflated. "You don't know that," she said, but her face clouded.
"They let in the riff-raff, but they shouldn't. Father says it's a disgrace, all the nobodies who get in these days. Even if you get in, you'll be in a bad House. You'll probably be in Hufflepuff. Where the useless wizards go. Or maybe it was a mistake." He looked more hopeful. "Maybe I won't have to go to school with you after all."
Verity sat cross-legged on her bed and opened the letter. "It has my name on." She read it aloud. "Dear Miss MacLaren, we are pleased to inform you...accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And on and on. I don't think it was a mistake."
"Fine, then." Draco gave up that point, but hit on another, better one. "But see those books and things you'll need. How will you buy them, hm? I hope you don't think Mother and Father will pay for you."
As she read the supply list again, she realized how long it was. She dove under her chair and resurfaced with a dusty jar. She dumped a small pile of Knuts and one lone Sickle onto the table. Draco snorted.
"You expect to buy your things with that? So much for Hogwarts." He left the attic with a laugh.
Verity looked at her meager savings, crestfallen. She counted it a few different ways, biting her lip, as though she had miscounted and there really was enough somewhere. The memory went black again, and they landed in the next morning.
Little Verity stretched in bed. Rubbing her eyes, she caught sight of a small trunk with battered corners on the table, the lid open. She leapt out of bed and flew to it, stretching on her toes to see in. With a gasp, she tugged it onto the floor to retrieve the contents. As she piled it on the bed, she discovered nearly everything she needed for the first year at Hogwarts. Though second-hand, any supplies were infinitely better than nothing. She rummaged through books, black robes, a cauldron and set of scales, and in the very bottom found a small bag of Galleons and a note.
The real Verity moved behind her younger self and read the note for Dumbledore. "Ask the man at the Apothecary for basic potion ingredients, then go to Ollivander's for a wand. You will do well at Hogwarts." She turned away from the ecstatic girl. "Unsigned. Draco wasn't happy when he found my new things, but he didn't do anything. I slipped away in Diagon Alley to buy the rest of my supplies, and I was off." Again, her memory faded into black.
A line of first years stood in varying states of nervousness, facing the four House tables, waiting to be Sorted. Little Verity stood rigidly near the end of line, between Draco and one of the Patil twins. Verity was struck by how unobtrusive she appeared. Scanning the line of first years, her eyes slid over her younger self as though she wasn't even there.
Professor McGonagall stepped to the front, carrying a three-legged stool and an old, dirty hat, which she placed on top of the stool. Young Verity's face twisted in confusion. "I thought we might have to wash it," Verity said, and Dumbledore chuckled. "It was all I could think of."
At last, "MacLaren, Verity!" Professor McGonagall's voice rang out, and she stepped to the stool with shaking hands. Draco watched her intently, his pale eyes narrowed. Verity and Dumbledore heard Marcus Flint grunt to one of his trollish friends, "A Sickle says Hufflepuff."
As Professor McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on the little girl's head, Verity remembered her surprise to hear a voice in her ears. She still knew every word as though only a day had passed.
"More to you than first appears, eh? Clever girl, a perfectionist. You want to know who you are, but you want to find yourself someone of worth. You're well practiced in looking out for yourself," the hat chuckled, "and tricky when it serves you best. The only House you belong in is..."
"SLYTHERIN!"
Little Verity sat at the nearest table, beaming. Loud applause greeted her, though Marcus Flint handed his friend a Sickle under the table with a grimace.
"Malfoy, Draco!" said Professor McGonagall. Draco swaggered to the stool, a picture of confidence (the opposite of Verity). The Sorting Hat touched his head and shouted "SLYTHERIN!" It didn't have a hard time seeing all there was to Draco. He sat next to Verity to a round of cheers.
"You made it into a good House after all, Miss MacLaren," he said with a smirk, lowering his voice. "Father says Salazar Slytherin was awfully particular about who he let into his House. I'm surprised a Mudblood made the cut. Of course, now I can't be rid of you, I shall have to make use of you. You can carry my books between classes," he said decidedly. "Maybe more later, we'll see. And if you complain, I'll send an owl to Mother and Father and you'll get in trouble." He turned his back to talk to his friends Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, who were a few seats lower. The older Verity's feet left the ground as she and Dumbledore traveled to one last memory.
They landed in the Potions classroom, at the end of an early lesson first year. The students left the classroom in twos and threes. Verity left last, as she was packing not only her own, but Draco's supplies. She finally headed for the door, her own books in her bag and Draco's in her arms, when Professor Snape stopped her.
"Miss MacLaren, I want to see you in my office."
"Yes, sir." She followed him, still clinging to Draco's books. He gestured at a hard stool in front of his desk, and she sat on the edge, running her fingers over a mark on the inside of her forearm.
"I wonder if you have some idea why you're here," he said slowly.
Verity said nothing, racking her brains for what she might have done to get in trouble, or maybe trying not to cry.
"You've been doing Mr. Malfoy's homework." It wasn't a question.
Little Verity rubbed her arm harder. "Only—only the bits he couldn't do, sir," she said.
"In the classroom, your work consistently surpasses his, but his essays score higher. I became...suspicious."
"I swear I won't ever again."
"I should hope not. You understand this means five points from Slytherin." She deflated. "And I expect to see you in my office eight o'clock Thursday night."
"Am I in detention, sir?" she asked, her voice wavering.
"You are beginning private lessons," he said shortly. His words took a moment to land, but when she understood it seemed her birthday and Christmas had come all at once. "Yes sir," she said, "thank you sir." Her eyes shone as she leapt to her feet, collecting her books. "I won't be late, sir. Good night, Professor Snape." She skipped out of the dungeon, unable to contain her excitement.
The instant young Verity passed under the classroom door, a great splash and a squeal. A now-empty bucket of water hit the flagstones with a thud, the levitation spell holding it over the door gone. She whipped around, and a spray of water flew from her hair. Voices. She crept toward them.
"You idiot, you said this would work!"
"Who are you calling an idiot? It did work!"
"Did it hit Snape?"
"It hit somebody!"
"Did that look anything like Snape?"
Catching sight of Verity with a puddle under her feet, the boys cut their argument short. They were a few years older than her, with flaming red hair and Gryffindor robes, identical to the sheepish expressions on their freckled faces. One of them leaned to the other and whispered, "I said that wasn't Snape, troll-brain." The other shrugged as if to say oh well, bit late to change it.
Wrinkling her nose, little Verity turned her back on the crazy twins. The corridor swirled in a blur of color, and Verity was dragged upward and away from her memories.
She and Dumbledore landed back in his office. Nothing had changed in the...how long since she had come in, terrified she would be expelled? The sun had barely changed its position outside the window.
"Most interesting," Dumbledore said, more to himself than Verity. "Miss MacLaren, thank you for allowing me your time and your memories."
"Good night, Professor," she said. Before she made it to the door, she stopped. "Professor Dumbledore? How close is the Ministry to catching Sirius Black?"
"I do not think," he said, "they are as close as the Daily Prophet would have you believe."
"Oh."
"Why do you ask?"
"I—I don't like the dementors, sir. I know no one does," she added, "but when they get near me I hear a woman...laughing. Are they laughing? No one else hears her."
Professor Dumbledore's gaze fixed on her. "The dementors force us to relive our worst memories. That voice must be from your past. I cannot, however, say exactly whose it is."
"Professor, could it be my mother?" She couldn't imagine her mother having the cruel, wild laugh that sent shivers up her spine, but it sounded like neither Mrs. Malfoy nor MacLaren, and she remembered no other women.
"I'm afraid I cannot say."
"Thanks anyway," Verity said. "Good night, Professor Dumbledore."