(Summer 1996—between Order of the Phoenix and the Half-Blood Prince)
When they made it back to Malfoy Manor, Draco hissed at Verity, "Upstairs. Now." Lugging both trunks, Caesar's cage, the Nimbus 2001, and all Draco had accumulated over the school year, Verity trudged up the front stairs, trying not to let the trunks scrape the marble. Two flights, down the third floor corridor, left, right; Draco stopped in front of a dark mahogany door. He thrust it open. "I want a word."
She laid Draco's belongings on his four-poster bed, pretending nothing dangerous gleamed in his pale eyes, and as though the slammed door didn't mean trouble. After she'd straightened the green bedspread and straightened it again, she had to face him.
"I'd like to discuss things with you," he said, his arms crossed. "Specifically, that letter."
Verity's heart stopped. "I was spying on them for you."
"You never told me anything."
"They never told me anything."
"That's what I thought." He examined his perfect fingernails. "Let's see if I can strike closer to the truth. He's so handsome you couldn't think straight. He's the one for you. You've never felt this way and you're pretty sure he feels the same." He laughed at her face, mistaking it for abashed rather than confused. "Pathetic, but predictable. Parkinson told me Tracey Davis said the same about me last year. Of course, the next week Davis told me Parkinson said it about me too."
Apparently he didn't know about her and the D.A.
"He's a mistake, I'm warning you," Draco said, bored. "Worst flirt in Gryffindor. And a nasty temper. Remember how Montague disappeared last term? I talked to him in the hospital wing once his memory came back. Not saying much; he's still a dunce, but he did remember those Weasley twins did whatever it was. It appears they pushed him into that Vanishing Cabinet on the first floor." Draco yawned. "We could keep chatting about your true love's behavior issues, but surprisingly, I do have better things to do. I'll make it quick. You're spending the summer in the attic, and if you lift your wand, I'll have you hauled in front of the Ministry. Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, you know?"
Without another word, Draco took Verity by the arm and led her to the attic. "Remember, one little spell and I'll get you expelled before you know what's happened," he said. "Mother and I will be out all night, so don't cry wolf. We won't come. Good night, Miss MacLaren." He slammed the door and locked it.
Verity stared dejectedly at the door, formulating escape plans that would never work. How many days were left before the school year started? The next few hours she wandered the attic in circles. Hopelessly, mindlessly, she shambled from her bed to the door to the tiny, barred window and back again.
Finally, she froze at the window, watching a grey speck in the blinding clouds. The speck grew and sprouted tiny wings. As it neared, it grew increasingly owlish. Without realizing, she was begging the owl to come to her even if it brought an advertisement.
With a flup of wings, the barn owl—for it was an owl, not a speck—landed on her windowsill and attempted to stuff a large letter through the bars. Shaken out of her apathy, Verity leapt to the window and took the letter from the owl's beak. It hooted officially and took off, and she watched it until it was again nothing more than a grey speck against the clouds. Hungrily, she tore open the envelope and extracted the letter. A dusting of silver powder clung to the paper; a good inch of the same powder filled the bottom of the envelope.
Dear Verity, the letter began in a handwriting she didn't recognize, I ought to apologize, first off, for not being Fred. He was a stupid sod and broke his hand. We'd rather avoid St. Mungo's as they'd ask how he got this injury (and that's a delicate matter). So his hand is in a cast and he's dictating. He didn't dictate the stupid sod part, but we all know that's true. At any rate, this letter is a collaboration between George and Fred.
Fred would like me to cordially request your presence at our flat as soon as you're near a fireplace. Anyway, whenever you can get away from those (his choice word has been censored for the intended recipient) known as the Malfoys, please use the Floo powder we stuffed in the envelope to come visit.
Fred also says those (again censored) probably never let you use Floo powder, so he told me to explain in case. Throw the powder into the fire and it'll turn green, you say Diagon Alley and step in. Keep your elbows in till you stop spinning, and that ought to let you out in the Leaky Cauldron, and find the building that looks like us. See you soon. Sincerely, George (and Love, Fred).
Verity put the letter down. This should thrill her; hadn't she been waiting for them to rescue her since they had escaped themselves? For some reason, she was just empty, and hurt too. Something rubbed her the wrong way, and she couldn't understand what. She read it again. The letter itself was inoffensive, and Draco, what did he say that had to do with it?
...it appears they pushed him into the Vanishing Cabinet on the first floor... Montague. She crumpled the letter in her hands. There it was. She'd long since grown used to their pranks, but this had gone too far. Slytherin House had been ready to hold a funeral, and the twins would have caused it!
She turned back to the door. Yes, she would visit them. Someone had to talk sense to them. Her kingdom for a fireplace! Her eyes landed on the door. Mrs. Malfoy and Draco were out. She could force it, or...
It vexed her, using a trick they taught her when she was supposed to be mad at them, but needs must. She tugged a pin from her hair and stuck it in the lock. Three minutes of twisting and turning, and she finally heard a click. With grim satisfaction, she thrust the door open and stalked downstairs, envelope in hand.
"Diagon Alley!" Verity said to the emerald-green flames in the dining-room fireplace. With a deep breath, she stepped into the fire. She yelled as it whisked her into the darkness, but she got a mouthful of soot and spent the rest of the ride coughing her lungs out.
By the time she fell out of the Leaky Cauldron fire, the ordeal had almost made her forget why she was upset. Almost, but not quite. She blew past the bar, ignoring Tom's greeting, and whisked into the July heat.
She marched most of the way down the street before realizing she didn't know the boys' address, but it didn't matter. She'd have to be blind and deaf to miss it. Their window exploded against the other storefronts, orange and purple, stuffed with things that bounced, popped, flashed, spun, and declared at the top of their lungs that Fred and George put them there.
The door flew open. "Fred? George?" Verity shouted. She wove between crates, stands, and shelves.
"Upstairs!" Following the voice, she came to stairs in the back of the store, and at the top, the twins' flat. It too looked like them, in a different way from the storefront. It was a bit of a mess (well, more than a bit), and a smell of gunpowder and burnt bread lingered.
Fred swung out of the kitchen, grinning. "You made it!" he said. Verity noticed heavy bandages on one of his hands. His grin faltered, but he recovered fast. "Come on in."
"Is that Verity?" George called from around the corner.
"'Tis indeed," Fred said. "Except...see for yourself." The living room was a bright, comfortable apartment, well-used and well-loved. George stood by the fireplace, rearranging the family photos on the mantel. The photo of Percy grimaced, trying to wipe off the mustache and horns that had been added in ink. The charming title "World's Biggest Prat" also adorned the top of the photograph.
After inspecting her, George said, "You're right, Fred old chap. Verity doesn't look like this unless Malfoy is lurking about. You remembered to shut the door, didn't you? We don't want scum like that in our house."
"Oh, shut up," she said.
"Scuse me?" George coughed, surprised.
"I'm glad you wrote me," she said. "I've been wanting to talk to you for a while." Half an hour was a stretch for "a while," but she wanted it to be obvious how serious she was.
"This isn't about Filch and the Everlasting Ink, is it?" Fred said. "Because it was that lousy Zabini's fault—"
"Not even close."
"Then what?" he asked.
"It's nothing important, Freddie darling. I just want to see if you remember a name. Montague." She waited a moment. "Sound familiar? Or has it—vanished?" George tried to sneak toward the door. Verity pointed her wand at him. "Stay where you are, George Weasley. I'm talking to you, too." He dropped back into his favorite chair by the fire, scratching at the scorch mark on the blue plaid upholstery guiltily.
Fred had managed to keep a straight face. "Sure I remember him. Big ugly fellow, Slytherin Quidditch captain, former member of the Inquisitorial Squad."
"And he got pushed into a Vanishing Cabinet last term, didn't he?" Verity said. "You don't know who did that, do you?"
"Could have sworn we told you." Fred smiled as though recalling a particularly pleasant memory. "Shouldn't have tried to take points from Gryffindor. 'Course, Lee helped. He held the door open while George and I shoved the moose in. What, did he turn up?"
"Yes, he turned up." There was murder in her voice. "He turned up in a toilet, with no idea where he was. He had to Apparate to get out, though he's never got his license. He almost died; he spent the rest of the year in the hospital wing."
The twins laughed. "Serves him right," Fred smirked. "Slimy Ministry-loving git. Shame we can't get Percy near a Vanishing Cabinet."
"Fred." Verity's tone suggested he'd better change his mind quick, but he either didn't catch it or ignored it. "Do you care at all if people get hurt in your tricks?"
"I do if they don't deserve what they got," he said.
"Who decides if they deserved it? Is it House? Or how funny the joke was? Or if they're in your way?"
"Hey, now! You know that's not how we work."
"Do I?" Verity snapped. "Do I really? Some days your sense of humor is cruel. It reminds me of Draco." The boys called that shot way below the belt; George leapt to his feet and Fred looked mutinous.
"That's not fair!" he began, but she cut him off.
"Isn't it? I know better than anyone what his humor is like." Her voice shook. "If you do the least thing to bother him, he's horrible and thinks it's hilarious. It doesn't matter how petty, if he gets a laugh, it's fine. I know," she forestalled him, "you're never that mean, you know when you've crossed the line, you only prank people who won't take it the wrong way or bothered you first. I know. Why can't you see you went too far? We thought he would die, you almost killed him to keep ten points for Gryffindor. I wish—I don't know..." She lowered herself back into her seat.
Fred sat as well. "If you're curious who else is like Malfoy, find a mirror."
Verity whirled to face him. "How dare you!"
"Easy," he replied. "You know how many times you've said nasty things about teachers and the rest of your House—and every other person who crosses you? Those insults, I've heard Malfoy say them all. He says it to their faces, but you're too scared, so you grouse at me about how much you hate them, they're so ugly, so stupid. Did you say that to your Slytherins about George and I before we were friends?"
"Fred, you know I'd never—"
"Do I?" he mocked her. "Do I really?"
George leaned back in his chair, pointed his wand toward the kitchen, and Summoned three butterbeers. "So," he said in the tense silence, "am I drinking these myself, or will you give up the staring contest?"
Verity glared at Fred as she addressed his brother. "Unless you've got something stronger, I'll pass."
Fred's brow furrowed. "What, you want a drink?"
Verity struggled to explain. "I want to get mad enough to hurt you, and stupid enough to try Muggle fighting. I want to punch your lights out, and aside from being drunk, that won't happen." She gave up and took his hand. "I'm sorry, Freddie," she whispered. "I was wrong."
Fred put his other hand on top of hers. "Everybody blows up sometimes." They sat in silence for a moment, but there was no hostility in the air. He picked up her hand. "Verity, what in the name of Merlin's pants is this?"
She pulled it away, rubbing the raised white lines . "Umbridge, that is, Pansy caught me writing to you—she gave me detention, and I had to write I must not speak to blood traitors. But I thought I ought to mean it." She offered Fred a half-smile.
He returned it. "I like it. I'll send an owl and thank her. Or maybe a dementor."
"That won't work," Verity murmured. "She's too much like a dementor for it to hurt her." She smiled shyly, glancing sideways at him as she did when she wasn't sure whether she'd been funny. George snickered. Fred burst out laughing, then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. Verity started and blushed again, but she was beaming.
"I'm sorry if that was too forward, Miss MacLaren," Fred said, but he too smiled. She shook her head forcefully and leaned over and kissed him back.
With a groan, George left the room.
"Of course I want to work for you," Verity said a few hours later. "I've hoped since you left that you'd get me out. When can I start?" George snorted into his butterbeer. "What's so funny?" she asked.
"I'm just comparing your view on our offer when you got here to now you've had your share of romance. Seems like a better deal with kissing thrown in, doesn't it?" he smirked. Verity stuck out her tongue at him, and Fred hissed and threw a pillow at his head.
"It has nothing to do with that," she said loftily, though her cheeks were pink. "I had to let out my distress before it erupted. You ought to consider yourself lucky."
"I'm sure I do," Fred said, failing to stop the corners of his mouth twitching.
"But how can this work?" She deflated. "If I disappear...Draco knows I'm friends with you, there are only so many places I could be..."
"Well, we have to do something," George said.
"Because we won't leave you in the attic without even writing," Fred added.
"You can't send me owls, though," said Verity. "No one owls me."
Fred sat and thought, and thought and thought. "What about Floo powder?" he asked. "You couldn't sneak out every day to use the drawing room or whichever you used today, but...there isn't a fireplace near your attic by any chance, is there?"
"No. Nothing."
"Even if there was, do we know it'd be connected to the Floo Network?" asked George.
"No," said Fred. "Maybe if she built one, Dad could get someone to connect it—"
"—if he called in a favor, but they'd have to be willing to go over Malfoy's head—"
"—if they could. We could cut a deal with the blokes on the Knight Bus—"
"—but she'd still have to get out of the house—"
"—and Draco won't ignore a giant purple bus showing up every morning—"
"I don't care!" Verity's words burst from her. "I can't bank on a crackpot plan, I can't stay another day in that house. I'll go mad! I don't care," she repeated. "I will get up at five, at four, I don't care how early and use the dining room fire. I can pick the attic lock, I'm fine. I'm fine," she finished with uncharacteristic firmness.
Fred and George exchanged glances. "Time to go shopping?" Fred said.
"It is," George replied.
"Come along then," they said together to Verity.
An hour and a half later, Fred, George, and Verity returned from their excursion, Verity equipped with a large supply of Floo powder, and the twins with chocolate and mint sundaes that called their names most beseechingly when they passed Florean Fortescue's. Verity had already finished hers.
"So here's the plan," George said as they walked through the front door of the flat.
"You've told me the plan twice," Verity groaned through a stolen bite of Fred's sundae.
"You go home and pretend nothing's up," he continued as though he hadn't heard her.
"And act all depressed because he locked you in that musty old attic," Fred cut in, flicking dust off his dragon-skin jacket.
"But tomorrow morning, you'll come back," George said.
"And begin your tenure as an employee of Weasley and Weasley, Incorporated," said Fred, pride in his voice at the name of his very own company. "Of course, we have to set ground rules." He put on a serious expression. "Rule number one. You may not call me 'Freddie darling' in front of the customers. It will damage my ego."
Verity giggled, and George added, "And you can't address me as 'you, boy.' I know you're used to bossing people around where you come from—"
"—but you must get used to not being in charge for once," Fred finished. Verity accidentally gave an unladylike snort, which made the three of them laugh even harder.
Hiccuping a little, she said, "I'll bear that in mind. " She glanced out the window at the darkened sky over the rooftops. "Oh, bother, I ought to get back." She didn't know what Draco would say if she slid out of the dining room fire in the middle of dinner, but she suspected the largest portion of it would be words she wasn't comfortable repeating, with a few death threats for variety.
She said goodbye to the boys and, taking a pinch of her new Floo powder, stepped to their fireplace. As she threw it into the orange flames, they burned emerald. "Malfoy Manor!" she shouted.
She had one final glimpse of Fred and George and their wonderful flat before a sooty cloud whirled her away, and all was darkness. Occasionally light flashed from other fireplaces, then she stopped spinning and fell from the Malfoys' fireplace.
The warm firelight and wild colors of the boys' flat were replaced with the dismal greys of the manor. She shivered beneath her cardigan; it was also noticeably colder. The Malfoys weren't home, but she didn't have much time, so she headed for the kitchen door and the attic stairs.
As she passed the tall, age-spotted mirror that stretched from floor to high ceiling, she stopped and looked herself over for the first time in a while. Her hair trailed below her elbows, dirtier than ever. She twisted her finger through it, and her nose wrinkled in distaste.
The next morning, she awoke with excitement she never had that early. She sprang from bed, dressed in a matter of seconds, brushed her teeth and hair and washed her face in a minute total, and dove under the bed for her Floo powder less than three minutes after her eyes opened.
"Diagon Alley!" she said jubilantly, and left the manor behind.
"Morning, Freddie! Morning, George!" she called as she pushed open the door to ninety-three, Diagon Alley.
Fred pushed aside the curtain from the back room. "Morning, Verity. We've been—Holy Merlin!" He leapt back. "What did you do?"
She laughed. "Guess."
He walked across the shop until he stood barely a foot from her and circled her. He pointed to her hair. "That's not right."
"I'm glad you're so observant, Freddie," Verity said. "I cut it."
"When?"
"Last night."
"Oh." He paused for a moment and inspected it again. Her hair swung above her shoulders, shining golden in the blocks of light from the front door. "I like it, but what if dear old Draco sees you?"
"Then I just had to pass the time in that attic somehow." She grinned, then noticed a magenta bundle he held behind his back. "What's that?" she asked. He didn't reply. "Is it for me?" she asked again.
"Maybe," he said, holding it above his head so it dangled out of her reach.
"It's for me, isn't it?" She leapt for it, but he was still taller.
"Shame you can't use a Summoning Charm, isn't it, little one?" he teased. Verity didn't respond. Her shoulders slumped, and she sniffled. Fred sighed. "Okay," he relented, and he tossed the bundle at her. Her sadness instantly vanished. "Oh, nice. You Slytherin," he said.
"Thank you, Freddie." Verity blithely ignored him and unfolded the bundle, which turned out to be violently pink robes. "Is this my uniform?" she asked, pulling her arms through the sleeves.
"You bet."
"Are you going to train me?"
"What? Oh, yeah, suppose we ought to do that. Hey George?"
George thundered downstairs. "What's up?"
"What did I say Verity would do besides help mind the store?"
"She'll help us brew potions because God knows we need help with that."
Verity laughed and rolled up her sleeves. That sounded close to a direct quotation. "Show me to a cauldron."