A Memory Of Shadows

4- A Dragon not breathing fire

Draco needed a moment to collect himself. He bent down and picked up the book she had dropped to the floor. The last time he had seen Verin Yaxley had been at the Battle of Hogwarts. Of course, her face and name had been in the Daily Prophet a couple of times afterwards. Mostly footnotes in articles about her father and his trials, though. Apparently, she had not been interesting enough to need an article on her own. He was certain of it; he had read them all. It could have been his fate, too. Azkaban.
Draco tried to recreate the memory in his head while he flicked through the book. "Corban Yaxley has been convicted to a life-sentence in Azkaban. His daughter, Verin, due to her age and the lesser severity of her crimes, has only been given five years."
Five years. By Merlin's beard, she had barely been twenty years old.

According to his father's source, she had only been sitting there, staring at her hands, answering all their questions, denying nothing, giving them everything they wanted to hear. Verin had spoken so low, he had said, the entire room had been so quiet one would have heard a pin drop. When they had announced her sentence, Verin had nodded. "Thank you," she had apparently said, as if they had done her a favor. Azkaban was no favor for a 20-year-old that broken. Any 20-year-old even. Five years could have easily killed her.

In fact, Draco had not expected to ever see her again. He had wanted to go to the trials with mother, but father had forbidden it. It would have given a wrong impression about their new status and their change of heart. Their growth. Draco snorted when he remembered his father's words. Like Lucius would ever outgrow anything. Let alone he himself.

"Lucius," his mother had tried, "She has no one left." "No," replied Lucius, his tone final, "she does not." Prick. If only Draco had ever had the nerve to stand up to his father. He knew he should have.

His sudden anger took a rush forward then, the page under his fingers crumpling and ripping.  "Young man!", the old shop assistant came rushing towards him. He scoffed and closed the book, thrashing it into her hands. "Please, "he said scornfully, "Don't make a scene. Just put it on the bill" His eyes caught the sight of Verin's pile of books. "Those, too. Wrap them up separately to the ones on my list." He handed her the list and left her standing, uninterested in her babbling. Waiting for his orders to be done, Draco wandered to the Potions Section, grabbing a book he practically knew by heart so he could dive into his thoughts without anyone noticing.

1996, 7 years earlier, Malfoy Manor

It was a dark, dark night. Then again, every night back then had seemed dark, even the days. Summer had taken a sadder turn, the heat pressing underneath the heavy clouds, even the wind of the upcoming storm did not bring any relief. The Dark Lord sat upon the most beautiful carved armchair the Manor had, the fine carvings of the dark reaching high above his head. The long table had no empty seat left, everyone of the innermost circle of the Death Eaters had been present, while the lesser ones guarded the Manor and grounds below them. Unbearable silence. Unbearable waiting time. No one dared speak or move. His mother's nails dug deep into the wood of her own chair next to him, her face white as a sheet. They had not expected him to demand such a thing. He wasn't even of age. Verin, yes, but him...Mother had tried to say as much, starred at father pleadingly. The answer of her disobedience had been the Cruciatus Curse, a quick, quiet one, like the Dark Lord had simply swatted away a fly. The terror he felt was indescribable. 7 years on, Draco would still wake up in the middle of the night, the terror having ripped through his nightmares like they had only happened yesterday.

  "Who wants to be first?", the Dark Lord asked, as if handing out dessert. "Verin!", Corban blurted out. That pathetic leech. He had been waiting for an opportunity to smooth out the disappointment he had been to the Dark Lord.
Corban had apparently come up empty handed when looking at his own talents for a solution. His daughter had been an easy bargain, pureblooded and talented and clever enough to ease the Dark Lord's mood for a while. Obedient enough to not make a fuss. A burden enough to not be utterly missed if a dangerous mission went wrong and she died.