A Memory Of Shadows

11 - Meeting In The Dark

Verin stood in front her closet, indecisive. It was past five, they had been at the Ministry for another couple of hours. Harry (apparently, they were on a first name basis now) had asked her the usual questions: How did you get on the last month? What did you do? Why did you do it?

He was a lot more interested in her answers than anyone before him, often asking follow-up questions about herself and her mental health. She was reluctant at first, Draco assuring her she did not have to answer this or that, but she had answered anyway.

"It says here you have not met a single person other than your house elves and the assigned Aurors. How did this happen?" He gestured with his quill to Draco, who raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?" Draco replied, no doubt ready to blow up again. "Whatever you are referring to, I assure you it is none of your business, Potter." Verin looked at Draco enquiringly.

"That is a wonderful question, Harry. I have absolutely no idea. He appeared at Flourish & Blott's, I ran off like a mad woman, he followed me home, we had dinner and now we are here. However that occurred, I am clueless. Maybe Draco can shed some light on it."

He had not. But he was standing in her bedroom now, watching her pack clothes into an overnight bag. "Why are you here, Draco?" she asked again, carefully folding simple, dark blue silk nightgown into the bag.

She took her sweet time packing her bag, she did not want to go to his home. In all honesty, Verin had thought – hoped - she never had to set foot into Malfoy Manor ever again. To her dismay, Harry and Draco had been hard to fight on the topic. Heddon Hill, how Yaxley Manor was called long before a Yaxley ever purchased it all those hundreds of years ago, did not yet have the best security. The Aurors would swarm the place tomorrow, tearing down old magical wards and curses and lifting new, stronger ones. The choice had been between some safe house of Harry's in London or Malfoy Manor.

Draco leaned in the doorway, with his hands in his trouser pockets. "It's not safe for you to be alone right now," he stated calmly, watching her pack some clothes for tomorrow. "That is not what I mean." He sighed and pushed himself off the frame.

"I know," he moved to sit onto the bed. "No, actually I don't. I never expected to see you again. I never expected to see so many people. When the trials went through, I -," he stopped himself, tripping over his words. "We have been part of something truly unspeakable, Verin. And we had to say goodbye to many, many people because of it." Verin sat down next to him. "I am a convicted criminal fresh out of Azkaban, Draco. You chose right, once. You turned around. I didn't. Why would you destroy the trust given to you by Harry Potter and his likes?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Why did you agree to let them use you as bait? You owe them nothing."

"I owe them everything I can, Draco. If there were a price to pay my dept, I'd do it. But there isn't. But this, I can do. If I die, I do not die innocent like so many others."

"You are, though. Innocent. Partially, at least. And we both know it," he raised his voice, laced with an anger he had kept deep inside him for so long, carrying it everywhere he went. Verin folded her hands into her lap, eyes on the floor. She hoped he would not say what she thought he would. That he did not know. That he did not notice. But he had.

"Do you think no one noticed what a weirdly timed bad witch you were? How you never failed a single spell or did not miss a target on every normal day. But the moment someone else came to train you or you are on a mission, you miss by several feet? Every single time?"

Draco had jumped up, pacing the room as the questions hit her, hurting her like he had physically slapped her. Tears roll down her cheeks as she grips her hands tightly, not looking at him. She had tried. Had tried so hard to appear useless, so they would not send her out on missions anymore. Every time she had sent an unforgivable, it had missed by several feet. Every time someone had told her to destroy something, she had tried to do the worse job without attracting attention. It had not worked Her father had punished her, tortured her, trained her- and had sent her out again. And again. And again. Until there was nothing left of her resistance. Nothing left of her.