(Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince—Chapter 15: The Unbreakable Vow)

Verity leaned out the Owlery window, fingers splayed across the stone sill. The icy December air rushed into her lungs and stung her nose. She shivered as the breeze cut through her nightgown, but the chill wasn't entirely unpleasant. She wanted to wake up; her dormitory was unbearably stuffy. Owls hooted softly as they swooped in from their night's hunting and settled on their perches in the rafters. The musty smell of bird mixed with crisp morning air permeated the round tower room.

Even the colors outside spoke of the change. It made her uneasy.

She didn't know what she expected to see as she gazed on the iron-grey sky. Fred and George hadn't owled since the school year started. It wasn't safe to write anymore, and she knew that. Still, most mornings she crept to the Owlery and scanned the skies until the sun rose.

She wondered where they were. Had they already begun their day, or were they still in bed, like the school below? How were they managing without her? She imagined them setting up without her redoing everything behind them. She imagined the state of their laundry basket. She imagined them by the fire, Fred on the hearth and George in his chair, laughing over hot butterbeer, without her laughing with them. Their warm smiles that put her at ease in an instant, the smell of Fred's robes, the brightly colored boxes shining on the shelves.

Footsteps behind her snapped her back to reality, and she found her face wet with tears. She shook herself, brushed them off with her sleeve, and turned around with a blank face.

"Draco?"

"Verity?"

The moment couldn't have been more awkward if they'd tried. They had scarcely spoken, much less been alone together, since he had called her names, slapped her, and thrown her out of Malfoy Manor. She had never more wished to be invisible. His face too was the blank mask Verity's was, but she would die before asking if he'd been crying.

"What are you doing here?" he said, but his voice cracked.

She didn't answer, preoccupied with perfect Draco's disheveled appearance. His usually sleek white-blond hair stuck up on one side, the top of his shirt unbuttoned, his tie crooked. He looked like he'd hurried out of bed, assuming no one would see him. She blinked. What was the question?

"I came up for air. You?"

"You weren't expecting him to write?"

Verity made a split-second decision. "Not anymore." She discarded the blank expression and allowed him to see her unhappiness. She traced a circle on the inside of her arm. "He was a mistake. He only wanted me if I'd spy on you. I'm sorry." His eyes were still narrowed, but he seemed to buy it, so she played it even stronger. "When you caught me in August," she said, letting her tears fall, "he treated me horribly, shouted at me about how I'm useless, he didn't want to see me again. I'm sorry. He was an awful, awful mistake." She wiped her eyes, sniffling for effect.

When she dared sneak a glance at Draco, he uncrossed his arms, and his expression was more condescending than suspicious. "I predicted that," he said. "Worthless slackers, both of them. Unfortunately, I no longer require your assistance. I've outgrown you."

"Of course."

"At least you're on the right side again. I hope for your sake you aren't lying to me," he said. "Everyone on that side will pay, and after Mudbloods, blood traitors are first to go." He turned on his heel and left the Owlery without sending anything. She realized he didn't count her among Mudbloods. His mother must have told him.

(Chapter 30: The White Tomb)

It was Thursday night. As usual, Verity collected her potion kit and made the familiar journey to Professor Snape's office. She knocked twice, then cautiously pushed the door open. She sat on the edge of the hard stool across from his desk like always. Everything looked the same. Row upon row of jars filled with potions and ingredients lined the walls, the dark desk still impeccably clean after so many years; nothing had changed.

That, of course, was a lie. If she waited for Professor Snape to arrive, she would wait forever. As far as anyone knew, he was not coming back. He left Hogwarts after killing Professor Dumbledore.

It didn't make sense. No one could kill Professor Dumbledore, least of all Professor Snape. If he had been a murderer, surely she would have known, wouldn't she?

Every week for six years, she sat on this stool and learned from him. He taught her so much; she counted him among her friends. Who noticed her from the start and treated her like more than Draco's shadow? When Mrs. Malfoy told her about her parents, who was the first person, besides Fred and George, to hear it? In whose charge, for the first time since MacLaren died, did she feel cared for? Apparently, a murderer's. She rubbed her arm until it hurt.

Her thoughts turned to Professor Dumbledore. How could such a good man be dead, regardless of who killed him? She remembered showing him her memories in his Pensieve three years before. He must have had more important tasks. Professor Snape told him she lived with the Malfoys; she realized he wanted to check on her. His heart must have been bigger than the average man's to care for one unimportant student the way he did. Now, that heart was stopped.

Fury coursed through her, and she leapt to her feet and snatched a tall, thin jar from the shelf. She was about to throw it to the floor and shatter it when something stayed her hand. To destroy her teacher's property would be to admit he no longer had her respect.

She returned the jar and backed away, gathered her things and rushed from the room before it forced her to think anymore.