(Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban—Chapter 7: The Boggart in the Wardrobe)
The wardrobe stood before her, dark wood gleaming, perfectly ordinary—except it rattled ominously. A boggart waited inside to show everyone their worst fear, and by some cruel trick, there she stood at the front of the line.
"Verity, right?" asked Professor Lupin. She nodded. Her sweaty hand slipped on her wand. "Well, Verity, what would you say you're most afraid of?"
She tried to pick just one. She hated the sight of her own blood, she didn't like the dark, and if it lived in the Forbidden Forest it scared her, but most afraid of?
"Mr. Malfoy—sir." The class laughed. Even Professor Lupin chuckled.
"Sounds about right," she heard him say under his breath. She wondered through her nerves how Professor Lupin knew Mr. Malfoy, but his next words gave her more to worry about.
"Now, when that boggart comes out of the wardrobe, it will take the form of Mr. Malfoy. Your job is to force it into a shape you find comical. Can you do that?" She nodded again, hardly hearing his words. As he moved to the wardrobe, she realized what she'd agreed to. His hand closed on the doorknob of the rattling wardrobe.
Lucius Malfoy stepped out of the dark interior of the wardrobe. His thin mouth narrowed maliciously as he advanced on Verity. Draco's eyes burned holes in her back. Raising her wand, she said in as calm a voice as she could muster, "Riddikulus!"
Boggart-Lucius staggered, and the room erupted with laughter. His pristine black robes became a pink pinafore dress. His sleek blond hair tied into two pigtails and topped with a pink bow. Professor Lupin turned away, but his shoulders shook with laughter.
Verity backed away to make room for Theodore Nott. She giggled uncontrollably, and as the others smiled, she harbored a faint hope; perhaps she'd be liked if she was funny. Then she saw Draco's face. He was not laughing. The smile disappeared from her face. She would pay for that.
The rest of the lesson passed in a blur. She didn't even notice the laughter for the braces on the teeth of Tracey Davis's boggart-vampire, or the fact Goyle's boggart was the giant squid.
"Good work," Professor Lupin said as the bell rang. "Five points to Slytherin for everyone who tackled the boggart, and ten to Mr. Malfoy for answering my questions at the start of class." The rest of the third years left in a state of excitement, chatting about the lesson and one another's boggarts. Draco, however, thrust his books into Verity's arms so hard she staggered, and, glowering, swept out of the staffroom.
He accosted her again once she walked through the common room door. "I've owled Father," he said. "He'll be very interested to hear about our Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson."
Without a word, she slumped into the armchair farthest from the fireplace and tugged her Charms homework out of her bag.
At breakfast two days later, a gloating Draco informed her that his father had told him to tell her that when they got home, she would be scrubbing the entire kitchen—without magic. And when she finished, she could dust every piece of furniture in the drawing room. And that she had gotten off easy. Lucky me, she thought.
(Chapter 13: Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw)
Verity sat on the edge of the leather armchair, far from the fireplace around which the other Slytherins whispered. With hair tucked behind her ears and a book balanced on her lap, she chewed on her ragged quill and tried to remember an eighth use for essence of belladonna in potion-making. The essay required five (and she happened to know Crabbe had two, both incorrect and horribly misspelled), but Professor Snape expected more from her.
Pansy Parkinson's hyena laugh cut through the haze of muttering. Verity didn't move. Pansy shouldn't have bothered straining her voice so. She already knew they were talking about her.
The door hit the wall with a bang, and Draco stormed in, Crabbe and Goyle trotting to keep up with him. Pansy ran to Draco's side for a nasty tale about Harry Potter; Draco had that look.
As they passed Verity, Draco waved his hand lazily, and Crabbe slapped her ink off the arm of the chair. It splattered all over her legs, her Potions book, and what had been an almost-completed essay. "Oh, no!" Verity tried to mop the ink off her book with the ruined parchment. As she reached to her bag, Goyle snatched it and, with a snigger, drop-kicked it into the circle of firelight. Her books fell everywhere, and she groaned again.
"For God's sake, clean up your mess, MacLaren." Draco collapsed into Pansy's vacated chair. Pansy giggled appreciatively and rested her head on his knee. Forcing deep breaths, Verity braved the center of attention to gather her scattered books.
"Draco," Pansy said, "what's the matter? What happened?"
Disgust came over Draco's face, and Verity took advantage of his diverted attentions to escape the circle and return to her chair. "Potter happened. As usual," he spat. "I hate him. Hate him!"
"Was he still gloating about Quidditch?" she said in her most sympathetic voice. With a sigh worthy of tragic theatre, he launched into his tale of woe.
Verity had priorities before listening to another of Draco's tirades. All but the top ten inches of her essay was lost in a black puddle. Crying with frustration, she tugged out her wand, erased two feet of parchment, and started over. Uric the Oddball believed essence of belladonna could be used...
"And that Weasley," Draco drawled, "putting on airs like he's Head Boy, but I swear, the only person at this school poorer than him is MacLaren." ...could be used with gillyweed stalks as a cure for several illnesses, including...
Pansy's grating voice forced its way into her thoughts as she scribbled down illnesses. "She has what, three Knuts?"
Draco sounded insufferably pleased with himself. "Only because I lent them to her." Laughter echoed off the walls. Verity, biting the inside of her cheek, (you must be so proud, clever boy, did you think of that yourself?) made a valiant effort to finish her sentence. ...but in a disastrous experiment, he disproved this theory. Luckily, a timely intervention by a Healer removed both his gills and the violet spots on his tongue. She paused to remember what she had said next, tracing a circle on her forearm.
Millicent Bulstrode spoke now. "What's the freak do with her arm?"
"She's always done it," said Draco. "It's a tick. Like the Muggles in insane asylums." More laughter, more turning to check her response. ...removed both his gills and the...
Verity gave up in despair. One could only explain so many uses for belladonna essence under such circumstances. She rolled up her parchment, and headed for the third year dormitory.
She didn't see the person in the way until she walked into him.
"Watch it, kid." Marcus Flint stood over her, all six feet and several hundred pounds of him.
She shrank back. "Sorry," she muttered.
Flint chuckled. "Done a good job on her, Draco," he called. "Knows her place."
"Yeah." Draco smirked at her. "She does."
Verity moved to pass Flint, but he held his arm out. "Hey," he said. "Wash these before the next match." He shoved a tangle of Quidditch robes into her arms.
"The laundry..." she said faintly.
"Won't take as much care with them as I'm sure you will." Flint smiled. He tossed a couple brooms on top of the pile, and she staggered. "Polish the handles while you're at it." As she passed him, he pulled her hair, and her eyes watered. The last thing she heard before she shut the dormitory door was Draco applauding.
She dumped the robes and broomsticks on her bed, glaring at them as if they had done her a personal wrong. Then she collapsed onto the bed beside them, swearing a blue streak into her blankets that would have surprised even Draco.
Five minutes passed before she realized she'd rubbed her arm until it chafed under her robes. She tugged up her sleeve. Still visible through the redness was the odd mark she'd puzzled over as long as she could remember.
She might have thought someone drew on her arm in ink, then tried to rub it off before it dried. It was the same washed-out grey, but didn't come off in the usual ways, and who would draw such an arbitrary shape? She couldn't remember where she'd seen it.
She rolled over and kicked the Quidditch things to the floor. Perhaps she could finish her essay before the other girls came in. Or maybe her time would be better spent ensuring that Pansy drank undiluted belladonna essence. Madam Pomfrey might not agree that Hogwarts benefited from a poisoned Pansy, but incapacitating her for a week would be lovely.