CHAPTER 3

Dobby appears in the Slytherin Dungeon with a loud crack! "It's wonderful to see you, Dobby," I greet him.

"Dobby has brought food," he announces as he places a roast sandwich and a glass of water on the nearest table.

"Thank you so much."

The little house-elf vanishes again.

I take a seat in front of the food and begin eating, flipping through my earliest Transfiguration books at the same time to see if I skipped over Gamp's Law or if I simply stole the wrong books. After closing my second book, I decide to give up for the time being because it doesn't matter if the books fail to mention Gamp's Law—all that matters is that I know it now.

Part of me wishes I would have thought to ask Dobby where the kitchens are. If all the house-elves are as agreeable as he is, spending time with them could be fairly pleasan. Unfortunately, I fear the kitchens are off-limits to students, and regardless of how much I hate it, I am a student.

I pull my wand from my robes and admire it. Cherry, dragon heartstring, ten inches. During my first entrance to Diagon Alley, when I was ten, the wand chose me. Of course, I had no way of paying for it, so I bolted with it. Ollivander didn't follow me, probably because there were a lot of people in the shop, which would have made it a waste of his time to hunt me down. I can't be entirely sure if that's the reason he didn't follow me, but I guess it doesn't matter much anymore. After a few months, when I had gotten enough to pay for the wand, I took it back to Ollivander and left it on the counter with a note that read "For the wand I stole a few months ago" and left, never to return. No one's put out a Wanted poster for me, so it's a safe assumption that it no longer matters.

I lift the wand and attempt to Conjure a chair. Nothing. Growing up on the run forced me to learn how to transfigure objects, and I've been able to do that fairly easily for a while now. Conjuring up something from nothing is a skill that I have yet to learn. Only twice before have I ever managed to Conjure something, but as doing so on will is a major goal of mine, I try again now. Nothing. And again, which leads to more nothing. It's not until my seventh time trying that I manage to Conjure the chair—regrettably, it would be perfect for a creature half the size of Dobby, so I Vanish it. Now frustrated even more at my failures, I turn my attention and effort to something I can most certainly accomplish.

And it just so happens that this spell will offer me a bit of entertainment for the next few minutes. Pointing my wand at the chair beneath me, I shout, "Wingardium Leviosa!" The chair lifts me into the air shakily, so shakily that I have to grab the seat of the chair to stabilize myself. I climb higher, trying to reach the ceiling, trying to write a message on it.

Balancing as much as possible, I release my hand from the seat and plunge into my robes. As I dip the quill in the ink, someone hisses, "What are you doing?" so loudly that I lose my concentration—accidentally releasing the spell—and freefall to the floor, bracing myself for the pain of striking the stone with my body. To add insult to injury, the ink spills from the bottle directly onto my face—I yelp—and then the chair and I crash onto the floor. A jolt of pain rushes through me, starting at my hip and consuming my whole being. The chair's broken leg has punctured into my hip, and I am acutely aware of the trickle of blood running down my leg.

Though none of my bones appear to be broken, a whimper of pain escapes me as I turn my head to look at Snape, who appears utterly sickened by me. "I'll ask you again, Rodgers. What are you doing?" Of all the people who could have caught me . . . I almost think I would give my left leg to have it be anyone other than Snape who walked in on me trying to write on the ceiling.

"Well," I cough, trying to catch my breath as I stand, viciously pressing my palm into my hip to keep back the burning pain, "I am trying to entertain myself, considering I'm trapped in this hellhole called Hogwarts."

"You should consider it a privilege to be here at Hogwarts," Snape replies coldly. "Professor Dumbledore has made it the best school of witchcraft and wizardry in—"

"Yeah, all of Britain. I believe you've already succeeded in giving me this spiel," I interject. I finally release my hip, ignoring its throbbing ache, trying to act as if I am in no pain because I do not want Snape to find joy in the fact that I am hurt because he startled me. I look down at my palm and see blood that has soaked through my clothes. Just excellent. "What do you want?"

"What were you doing before I walked in? Trying to deface school property?"

"Precisely, and I would have finished had you not interrupted," I snap at him, closing my eyes against the pain in my hip. "What do you want?"

"The headmaster has returned and has ordered a meeting between you and the professors. And for obvious reasons, you are expected to be there. It starts in ten minutes. Go to the headmaster's office."

I open my eyes and give him a thumbs up, unable to speak because he might hear the pain in my voice, and that would simply be too embarrassing.

"Don't just stand there; come on."

"Coming," I say airily, then take a deep breath in and try putting weight on my leg. Another whimper escapes me.

His eyes move from my hand to the bloodied and broken chair leg and then to my hip where I was pressing so viciously a moment ago. "Are you injured?" There's a slightly pleased sound in his voice, and I scowl at him. "I'll take that as a yes. Do you require assistance?"

"From you?" I snap. "You're the reason I'm here in the first place, you're the reason—"

"Very well." Snape spins around and leaves, his robes billowing behind him.

I swallow thickly and call after him, "Professor! Wait. Please."

He stops instantly and turns back to me. "Yes?"

"Just help me."

"Am I to assume you learned no manners at the orphanage?"

What an arse. Clenching my teeth, I grind out, "Help me please. Sir."

Snape walks closer, bends down, and quietly says an incantation while waving his wand over my injury. My stomach roils at the sensation of blood seeping back into the wound, but thankfully it is over quickly. "Let's not keep the headmaster waiting."

"How did you do that?"

He does not answer. Instead, he spins on his heel and starts out of the common room. After a moment of slight hesitation, I follow him.

I stay to Snape's right side, far enough so I personally do not feel uncomfortable but close enough that I suspect he will dislike it. With every step he takes, he gets a little farther away from me and closer to the edge of the corridor, but I follow his lead and try to get closer. This goes on long enough for him to be almost completely shoved against the wall by the time we reach Dumbledore's office. Snape says, "Acid Pops," to the gargoyle, which opens so we can walk up the stairs to Dumbledore's office.

Rather than Dumbledore being alone in his office as he was the first time I entered it, Professor McGonagall is in there too. Beside her stands an extremely short man with a mustache, and beside him stands another woman with a tall hat. On the other side of the room are a few other people—one with yellow eyes, one with multiple scarves that are surely unnecessary, and a couple more I don't have time to look at for very long before my attention goes to Dumbledore—who are probably professors here as well. I look at Dumbledore. "Miss Rodgers," he greets me.

"Professor."

"Please," he says, "have a seat." I walk to the chair and sit down, suddenly conscious that everyone else in the room is standing. Intense vulnerability pushes down on me, though I don't know why. These people would not hurt me—or, at least, that's the way they present themselves. I can't imagine that the "best school of witchcraft and wizardry in all of Britain" would allow the professors to harm the students. Dumbledore turns his attention back to the professors in his office. "This is Charlotte Rodgers," he begins. "She is a student from Durmstrang Institute." He glances at me, clearly telling me not to oppose this. What is a "Durmstrang Institute"? I steal a look at McGonagall, who does not seem taken by surprise, which means Dumbledore has likely told her at least some of the truth. "With Igor Karkaroff missing, her guardians believed she would be safer here."

I look down, twiddling my thumbs, feeling increasingly uncomfortable and fidgety, but don't speak. I don't even think I could speak if I wanted to.

"She has been Sorted into Slytherin. She is a fifth-year," he adds.

"Will she be expected to take the O.W.L.s?" McGonagall asks.

"Yes," Dumbledore says. "She will be here indefinitely. She will need to accomplish that which is required of all other fifth-year Hogwarts students."

"Excuse me," I say quietly, shifting uncomfortable. Though I've already posed this question to Snape, my gut tells me to ask it here as well because I don't want anyone know that I have asked Snape any questions outside of directions to the common room. While I'm sure it won't matter that he and I have had conversations, something in me doesn't want anyone to know, as if somehow that'll expose the fact that he brought me here from imprisonment in Malfoy Manor. All the eyes in this room turning to look at me makes heat rise in my cheeks. "What are O.W.L.s?"

"Ordinary Wizarding Levels," Dumbledore answers kindly. "It tests what you know and provides a decent idea of what career you should go into."

And if I don't want to go into a career? If I want to stay a thief my whole life? Because, let's face it, when Voldemort takes over, none of those careers will matter anyways. These questions catch in my throat, and I resolve just to nod.

"These will be your professors this year," Dumbledore tells me. I give a shy smile and a noncommittal glance to each side of the room. Most of them return my feeble attempt at being cordial. Is that a ghost? Is that ghost a professor? What is this place? Dumbledore doesn't introduce all of them but rather sends them all out of the office, leaving me alone with him. I remain quiet, and he breaks the silence a few heartbeats after the door closes. "I have some questions, and I need you to answer them to the best of your ability."

I nod silently.

"You may speak," he says cheerfully.

"Yes, sir." No part of me wants to be here right now—surprisingly, I just want to go hide in the Slytherin common room because regardless of my feelings about being in the dungeon, at least there I am out of sight. I am alone, and no one can question me.

"I need you to tell me all you know about your family."

I shift in my seat, suddenly itchy all over and unnerved by this whole arrangement. This was not what I had expected him to ask. "Well," I say, "my great-uncle took me in when I was just a baby. He kept me for a year then sent me to an orphanage. I've never met my parents." I know a pathetic amount about my family and am ashamed each time I have to talk about them.

"Do you know where they are now?"

"They're both dead. My mother was sent to Azkaban and died in there. I believe my father left us. Both of them thought I died when I was close to a year old."

"How do you know that?"

"My uncle. His name was Al or something, maybe Alfred. I just knew him as 'Al.' That was also the only name he gave the orphanage when he left me there." Probably because he didn't want me to know who he actually is. "He gave the orphanage a letter for me." And somehow his name had been smudged, which only confirmed my theory that he didn't want me to know who he was. "In it, he told me everything he felt I need to know. Mrs. Stoico, the woman who ran the orphanage, gave it to me when I turned ten. When I found out what I am, I left."

"And you just walked out the front door? No one tried stopping you?"

Though part of me recognizes that I should tell him about being a Metamorphmagus, I can't bring myself to do it because that particular part of me feels too personal to share with someone I hardly know. "I did it in the night," I lie. "No one knew about it until the next morning, but by that time, I was already gone."

Dumbledore's gaze seems to be piercing into me as if reading my face for signs of dishonesty. Can he tell I'm lying? I almost want to get up immediately and leave his office. "What did the letter from your uncle say?"

"He told me that I was a witch. He said my mother was in Azkaban. He didn't really mention my father. Er—he told me that both of my parents believe I am dead. They didn't know he was raising me. He had been disowned by the family for reasons he didn't care to share. Uh—he told me that after a few months with me, he—um—lost the will to care for me. So he got rid of me." Try as I might, there is no hiding the resentment creeping into voice. After taking a deep breath to calm myself, I push on, "I went looking for him after I left the orphanage, but he was already dead; he died in 'eighty-five." I clear my throat and wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs. "His house was abandoned. I found another letter addressed to me. In it, he told me that my mother was dead, that she died in Azkaban. He told me what he knew of Voldemort's plan for me." I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. "He told me that Lord Voldemort's followers would come looking for me, and to ensure my safety I would need to go to Diagon Alley to get a wand and some books to teach myself how to defend myself using magic."

"So you've been to Diagon Alley more than just with Professor Snape," he says quietly. It's not a question or an accusation, just a general statement, but heat still rises in my cheeks again.

"Yes, Professor. Al left me some gold, not much, but enough. He told me to use it sparingly because it's all I would have for quite a few years. I didn't know how to manage money. I used it all up books and resorted to stealing everything else I needed." Dumbledore gives me a disapproving glance, and I quickly add, "I would come back and leave payment as I came by it, always trying to make up for what I had taken," though that isn't entirely true because sometimes I simply wanted the money for myself and most of that money was stolen anyway.

"Do you know if your father was a Muggle or a wizard?"

"I . . . I don't know. I honestly don't think Rodgers is my real last name, so there's no way for me to know if he was a wizard or not. I like to think he was . . . but I'm not sure." I look away from him.

"When were you born?"

"The twenty-first of November, nineteen seventy-nine." Dumbledore gets up and goes to one of his shelves and pulls out a rather large book. Why does he have so many books and what are they? After opening the book in his hand and examining it for a moment, he takes out his wand and gives it a wave. He then makes a surprised noise, his eyebrows raised; he tries it again and, after a moment, puts the book back on the shelf. "What was that?"

"It records the day that any magical child is born, the child's name, and to whom they are born," he says, making his way back to his desk. "You were no longer in there."

"Does that mean I'm not supposed to be a witch?"

Dumbledore shakes his head. "You were in there at one point, Miss Rodgers, but you've been blotted out, magically." He looks straight at me with his piercing blue eyes. "Someone didn't want the Wizarding World to know that you exist."

My breath catches in my throat, and I say quietly, "The only person I can think of would be Voldemort." Dumbledore doesn't respond, seemingly deep in concentration. I slowly get up and back out of the room, but he makes no attempt to stop me.

Why did I think being here would change anything? That I would learn anything about myself? That I could be anything more than an orphan with no history and no family? I'm pathetic. I'm a nobody. I'm just some girl who was hidden from existence. Because it's easier to manipulate someone's life, to make them your puppet, your slave, if they have no connections, no roots, no family, to get in your way. Voldemort has been controlling my life since my infancy. A hot rage rises in my chest, warming my whole body. My heart aches. Even here, surrounded by witches and wizards, no one can help me. No one can tell me anything more about who I am and why I was chosen.

I storm down to the Slytherin Dungeon. Once inside, without thinking, I pull out my wand and begin throwing everything around the room, not caring what I break or how much noise it makes. Destroying everything and hearing it crack and break makes me feel better, like something else is experiencing the same destruction that I am.

For some reason, even though I dreaded coming here, I thought that being at Hogwarts was going to answer some of my questions. But no, it only gave me more. Who was my father? Who was my mother? Why was my name blotted out? Why didn't my great-uncle answer these questions? He must have known I would have them! The large black sofa flies upward, smashing against the chandeliers, both crashing down to the floor. What did my mother do to get locked up in Azkaban? Why did my father leave us? Why did Voldemort choose me ? I'm nothing special. One of the tables splits in half.

My legs give up, just like the rest of me has, and I collapse to my hands and knees in the middle of the room, sobbing. After all I've been through, after everything I've done, I want peace, but it doesn't seem like I'll ever get that. I flip over onto my back and stare up at the stone ceiling. My life will always be in shambles. I cover my face with my hands and screech. This isn't fair.

"What have you done? I heard a noise but didn't think you'd be destroying Hogwarts!"

I sit up, and through my watery eyes I can see the unmistakable form of Severus Snape standing in the entrance, obviously enraged. Before realizing what I'm doing, I draw my wand and shout, "STUPEFY!"The spell hits Snape, who was too angry and too distracted to see it coming, square in the chest and knocks him backward. I jump to my feet and turn to the room and shout "Reparo!" The contents of the room fly back together, making it seem as though I had never ruined it. I turn back to Snape. What have I done? What will Voldemort do to me for attacking Snape?

Unable to see his wand, I can't steal it, and with nothing left to do, I run. I run in fear of punishment and the idea of pain. And if the house-elves' food is always as good as that which Dobby brought me, then I'm going to regret being expelled, so I run for the food as well. I've just reached the top of the stairs when I hear, "RODGERS!" coming from the dungeon. I run faster, cursing myself for not having been able to Stun him for longer than just a few short moments.

I don't care what it takes, I will not be caught by Severus Snape. I will not be punished before the school year even starts.

I glance back to see the light of the torches casting Snape's shadow on the stone walls. Before I have a chance to dart into a room or down a corridor, Snape shouts, "Impedimenta!" My body slams onto the floor and slides a few feet before stopping, my wand slipping from my hand and hurtling nearly six feet in front of me. I try moving forward to reach it, but every move I make is in slow motion. Snape grabs me by the robes at the back of my neck, not caring that he is also painfully yanking my hair, and pulls me to my feet, only to slam me into the wall, his wand in my face, his forearm pressing on my throat. "And just WHAT—" He closes his eyes for a second, then continues, his voice much calmer than I thought it would have been, given the scenario. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Well," I croak, trying to pull my neck away from his arm so I can breathe and speak properly. "At the moment . . . I'm trying . . . not to die . . . by asphyxiation." Snape relaxes his arm just a bit so I can breathe more easily. "Now I'm trying to figure out why you were chasing me and threatening me." If only I could get my wand and change his memories.

"Don't get cheeky with me, Rodgers," he warns. "It's not in your best interest."

"Oh, so now you're worried about my best interest? I thought you'd be more focused on the Dark Lord's best interest!"

Snape takes a step back, releasing me, but leaves his wand pointed at me, his eyes full of nothing but hatred. "Professor Snape!" I hear a familiar voice shout through the hall. I look over and see McGonagall approaching us, clearly shocked. "What are you doing to this student?"

"Teaching her a lesson," Snape says, "about how to respect authority."

"We don't punish that way, Severus. You know this." McGonagall doesn't sound angry but rather completely awestruck to find a professor threatening a student at wandpoint. "What could she have possibly done?"

"Stunned me," he says bitterly, lowering his wand.

Now McGonagall angrily turns to me, expecting me to offer a reason for why I would have done such a thing, and I have to think quickly. "Well," I choke, forcing myself to begin crying, "I-I blacked out—I-I thought I was back in the—in the forest . . . where I've been living for a while, and when Professor Snape came in—he-he startled me . . ." Tears start down my face. "And I-I reacted—I thought he was the man who-who's been trying—trying to kill me for the past few years. It was a mistake . . ." I burst into sobs, "I . . . I'm so sorry!" For good measure, I push against the wall and sink to the floor, then bury my face into my knees, still sobbing.

It's only a few short moments before a kind hand takes me by the elbow and pulls me to my feet. "Why would someone be trying to kill you?" McGonagall asks quietly. I shake my head to tell her I have no answer. "Why don't you come with me to my office?" I nod, giving her a shaky smile. When she bends down to pick my wand up for me, I give Snape a wide grin, which quickly leaves my face when McGonagall hands me my wand. She leads me out of the corridor, leaving Snape scowling in our wake.