CHAPTER 12
Rumor has it that Harry and his friends are holding some sort of meeting in the Hog's Head during our weekend at Hogsmeade, and I simply must know what that is about. Umbridge? Voldemort? It could be anything, which to me means I must be there, but I am missing the one thing Snape said was required to visit Hogsmeade—a permission slip. I mention this again to Draco. "Do you think anyone will notice if I go down to Hogsmeade without permission? I mean, will anyone be looking for a fifth-year student's permission slip, or will they just assume I have it since I'm not a third-year?"
"Filch—the caretaker—can be relentless." He grins at me. "But I anticipated this issue and have already found a remedy." He produces a permission slip from his robes. "I duplicated one from a third-year. Watch this." With a wave of his wand, the third-year's name changes to mine. "Now, whose name should we sign this with?"
A frown comes to my face. There's no one to impersonate, no one whose signature I can forge because there's no one in my life who fills that role. For a few seconds, I consider his question and finally suggest, "Arabella Stoico."
"Who?"
"My guardian from when I lived at the orphanage."
With another wave of his wand, Mrs. Stoico's name appears on the parental signature line. "Keep this on you, and if Filch asks for a slip, give it to him and go straight to Hogsmeade. By the time he checks it with Snape, you'll already be in the village. Though if you walk in a group of fifth-years and above, it's unlikely he'll even question you. He only really knows the problematic students, so he might just assume he's never had any run-ins with you. It'll be fine."
"Are you not going to Hogsmeade?"
"Not this time, but I promise I'll show you around more of Hogsmeade next time."
Though I want to ask what he'll be doing instead, it's a relief that he won't be joining because that means it'll be easier for me to go to the Hog's Head and find out what Harry is up to without worrying about ditching Draco somewhere.
"Don't do anything too interesting without me," he says as I start toward the entrance hall.
"No promises." He grins at me, and I turn the corner and speed up a bit to join a large group of other students ahead of me who appear to be going into Hogsmeade if their general excitement and trajectory toward the exit are indications of their plans.
For the first time in five years, I find myself walking among a large group of people my age—Draco and his posse is too small to consider them as a large group. The last time this happened, I was still at the orphanage, going to a normal Muggle school with other children. It's almost strange how I can be in a group like this for the first time in many years and yet still feel utterly alone. And while that shouldn't bother me considering my desperation for some alone time, I dislike this feeling, like I'm set apart from the students here at Hogwarts—I've been marked for a duty that will ruin my life that will befall me in only a matter of time.
We step into the village, and I start down a street, hoping to stumble across the Hog's Head in time for the meeting. While I could probably ask a resident for directions, that would require speaking to someone about my intention to go there, which is something I'd like to keep to myself. The students I'm following break off to the right, and I continue straight, growing bitter at this feeling of loneliness. I should be allowed to be normal. Hogwarts has been my refuge for nearly a month and a half now, most of which I have spent around other people, but nothing feels right about it. Don't get me wrong—I don't want people around all the time—but when they are around, I would like to not feel "othered."
It'll just take time. Maybe if someone knew the truth about you, it would be easier to not have these walls up. That's not an option.
Three people carrying bags that read "Zonko's" turn onto the street I'm walking down.
It's obvious that I can't tell Draco everything, at least not yet. If he knows I'm marked by Voldemort, it is unlikely that would want to continue or feel comfortable continuing this thing between us. And if that ends, would he even want to remain friendly? As he is the first real friend I've had since I was ten years old, losing him is not something to risk right now, so continuing to lie to him even though doing so will cause issues down the line when he inevitably finds out that I've been lying seems to be the only option at the present time. Hopefully, by the time he learns the truth about me, he will care too much to cut me off.
"We remember you," a voice says to me, causing me to jump. I was too distracted by my thoughts of Draco to realize that Fred and George are now suddenly on either side of me, another person on the far side of the twin on my right. "You've done a bang-up job of avoiding us the past few weeks, but we remember you."
"Which one are you again?" I ask the boy on my left, the one who just spoke.
"It'd be a lie to say that didn't hurt," he says. "How could you not recognize me? I'm Fred, and that's George."
"Why were you following us?" George asks.
"Yeah, why would a Slytherin care where two Gryffindors are going?" Fred interjects.
"After all, you're still dating Malfoy, right?" This comes from George. "Has he told you to follow us?"
"You wouldn't be spying on us for him, would you?" Fred asks.
"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but you stepped out onto the street in front of me while I was going about my business. I would hardly call that following, would you?"
Fred smiles. "Where are you headed?"
"The Hog's Head."
"The Hog's Head?" His smile falters. "That place is a bit dodgy for someone like yourself to go alone, isn't it?" I almost believe he is being sincere. That is, until his brother begins speaking.
"I think you're right, Freddie," George answers for me. Then he looks at me, "Charlotte—that is your name, right? Charlotte something?—why don't you go to the Three Broomsticks? That place is much safer, and there's better butterbeer there. No one makes it better than Madam Rosmerta."
"Is that where you're going?" I ask.
"No," says Fred.
"Then it can't be too good. I'm going to the Hog's Head. You're both free to join me so that I won't be alone." They exchange a glance. "Besides, Harry, Ron, and Hermione aren't meeting at a well-travelled place such as the Three Broomsticks, are they?"
"How do you know about that?" Fred asks abruptly.
I roll my eyes. "Hogwarts isn't exactly a place that keeps secrets that well, is it?"
"But why would a Slytherin want to go against Umbridge? Wasn't she a Slytherin as well?" George says.
So the meeting is an anti-Umbridge thing. Interesting. Are they planning to find a way to oust her from Hogwarts? "Yes, but not everyone is as loyal to the House as they should be. They're just Houses at school, really. I don't understand why it's such a big deal." At that moment, we reach the doors to the Hog's Head, which is already full of students.
"You sure you're a Slytherin?" Fred asks. I enter the Hog's Head without answering.
Fred walks up to the barman who stands frozen, a look of shock on his face as if he's never seen his place so packed, and asks for twenty-five butterbeers while I make my way far away from the bar and take a seat kind of in the back.
"Cheers," I hear Fred say. "Cough up, everyone, I haven't got enough gold for all of these . . ."
I make no move to take a butterbeer or pay Fred. As I have no money, I will simply not be drinking a butterbeer.
Hermione begins speaking. "Er . . . Well—er—hi."
"Well . . . erm . . . well, you know why you're here. Erm . . . well, Harry here had the idea—mean—I had the idea—that it might be good if people who want to study Defense Against the Dark Arts—and I mean, really study, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us"—her voice becomes stronger—"because nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts." One of the Ravenclaws—I think he's Ravenclaw?—shouts out an encouragement, and Hermione becomes braver. "Well, I thought it we be good if we, well, took matters into our own hands."
She pauses and glances at Harry, the continues, "And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just theory but the real spells—"
"You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. too though, I bet?" someone asks.
I'm not sure Harry a hundred percent behind this—he looks rather queasy.
"Of course I do," Hermione answers. "But I want more than that, I want to be properly trained in Defense because . . . because," she takes a deep breath, "because Lord Voldemort's back." Some of the people shriek or make other involuntary movements, some spilling their drinks on themselves, some yelping, some shuddering.
"Well . . . that's the plan anyway," Hermione says. "If you want to join us, we need to decide how we're going to—"
"Where's the proof that You-Know-Who's back?" a blond-headed boy asks.
Hermione tries reasoning, "Well, Dumbledore believes it—"
"You mean, Dumbledore believes him," the boy cuts her off, pointing at Harry.
I can see how most of the people could have doubts. After all, nobody wants to accept the fact that Voldemort is back, but if they come to something like this, they should at least believe the backstory to all of it. If they don't, what is the point of coming? I need the doubters to leave. I need to learn more about Defense Against the Dark Arts, just in case the Death Eaters come for me again and I don't have the chance to distract them and run as I usually try to do. This subject should have been more important to me during my time on the run, but . . . it made things too real if I practiced it.
Now I regret that decision.
"What makes me say You-Know-Who's back?" I hear Harry ask them, which brings me back to the present. "I saw him." I stop listening there. He's seen Voldemort. I can't help but wonder what he looks like. For some reason, I can picture him having long, greasy hair and black eyes, but I soon realize I probably only think he looks like that because Snape does, and I hate Snape and therefore want to compare the two of them.
I've missed an important part of the conversation, because I hear Harry say, "I don't want to talk about Cedric Diggory, all right? So if that's what you're here for, you might as well clear out." Nobody moves.
"So," Hermione says. "So . . . like I was saying . . . if you want to learn some defense, then we need to work out how we're going to do it, how often we're going to meet, and where we're going to—"
"Is it true that you can produce a Patronus?"
"Yeah," Harry answers. I lean a little closer.
"A corporeal Patronus?"
I suddenly find myself jealous of the Boy Who Lived. How did he learn to do that?
Everyone starts asking about what he's done, from killing a basilisk to saving the Sorcerer's Stone (whatever that is) to completing the tasks of the Triwizard Tournament. Harry tries to explain to them that he had help, but no one really wants to hear it. I don't understand why he's being modest, but I can understand him trying to get the limelight off himself. It can't be comfortable.
". . . are we agreed to take lessons from Harry?" Hermione asks.
Input come from all over the room about how the lessons cannot interfere with this or that. Hermione agrees to come up with a time that works for everyone. The group of students goes on to speculate why Umbridge doesn't want them to know Defense Against the Dark Arts, something about Dumbledore laying siege on the Ministry. Honestly, I stop listening. Too many opinions, too many voices, too much going on. The only thing I register from this point forward, despite bickering among some of the prefects and some mild trepidation regarding writing their names on a list of this meeting's attendees, is that the group needs somewhere to meet.
Briefly, I think of the big open room Draco took me to when we skipped Astronomy a few weeks back, but if this is something they want to hide from the likes of Umbridge, I can't recommend a place that Draco knows about, so I keep to myself.
Once my name written is down on the parchment Hermione produced, I move to the side and wait patiently for a chance to speak with the three of them.
I hang around outside the Hog's Head, waiting for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. When they step out, I immediately go to them. "Harry," I say.
"Who are you?" Ron asks me.
"She's the Slytherin I told you about," Hermione answers for me.
A wide smile spreads across the faces of Ron and Harry. "The one who Stunned Snape?" Ron asks me.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "That's me. Charlotte Rodgers."
"You hang around Malfoy, right?" Harry asks.
I feel heat rise in my cheeks. "Yes."
"Why were you in there?" Harry nods to the Hog's Head.
"I want to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts." He doesn't hide his skepticism. "With You-Know-Who back, now's probably a good time to start learning it, yeah? And frankly, I wanted to meet you. I've read about you—not in the Prophet," I add quickly, seeing the expression on his face turn dark. "You survived an encounter—multiple encounters, I guess—with Voldemort. I don't want to keep you, just—"
"Does Malfoy know you're here?" Harry asks.
"No, and I don't intend to tell him. He has nothing good to say about you lot, and I'd rather not deal with a never-ending rant about you should he discover I was here. But I do want to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts, especially from someone who seems to know what they're doing."
"Didn't the professors at Durmstrang teach it well?" Hermione asks.
An uncomfortable laugh escapes me. "Defense is a little different. I didn't appreciate the Dark Arts."
They exchange a look, and before more questions can come my way, I say goodbye and hurry away, going straight back to the castle.
I've been in the Slytherin common room for a couple of hours, trying my hardest to work on either my homework or Conjuration but failing pathetically. I don't want to do this. As much as I love Transfiguration, there are other things that require my attention, and all I want to do is go see to it. And now would probably be my best chance. The Slytherin Quidditch team is practicing, which means Draco is not here to interrupt or stop me and won't be able to do so for nearly half an hour. Without another thought to talk me out of this horrid idea, I stand and leave the common room, glancing down the corridor and debating whether I should proceed.
My curiosity defeats my better judgment, and I start walking through the hallway, stopping when I reach Snape's office door, my better judgment once again trying to convince me that this is a bad idea but losing once more to my curiosity. I knock on the door.
"Enter." I push the door open to find Snape brewing a potion. He turns and pauses when he sees me. "Rodgers?" He's obviously just as confused as my better judgment is…
"Professor," I reply. He watches me closely, and it takes me too long to realize he's waiting for me to say why I came to his office. In truth, I am too. I don't know why I let myself do this. "You said I could come to you if I needed something since you already know about my duty . . ."
"And you refused my help," Snape replies. "Why would you change your mind? I'm sure Mr. Malfoy won't be at practice much longer. You can talk to him then." He turns his back toward me and begins his potion again, silently telling me that the discussion is over.
Apparently, I am not worth the time, and I blindly stampede through the corridor away from his office and accidentally smash into Draco as he leaves the common room. "What's wrong?" he asks me after he steadies himself on his feet again. "I've been looking for you."
"Practice over already?" I ask him, ignoring his question. How long was I in Snape's office?
"Yeah, we finished early."
"How'd it go?" With much difficulty, I keep my voice upbeat and interested.
"Really well," he says excitedly. "I think we'll be able to win the Quidditch Cup this year!" He puts his arm around me. "I have a surprise for you." He leads me away from the Slytherin common room before we even go inside.
We enter an abandoned classroom lit by candles in glass jars floating high in the air the room, giving the ceiling a feeling reminiscent of the night sky. In the middle of the room sits a small table with two chairs, two large bottles of butterbeer, and one candle. "I had to make it up to you that I was unable to go into Hogsmeade with you," he says.
"You didn't have to do this."
"I wanted to." He leads me to the lone table in the middle of the room and motions for me to sit down. "I wanted to give you a nice surprise. Do you like it?"
"It's perfect," I say. "Definitely what I need today."
Draco waves his wand, and a plate of pudding appears. "I guessed you wouldn't be overly hungry considering dinner was a few hours ago, but there's always room for pudding." With another wave of his wand, two forks appear. "It took a lot of preparation."
"Good thing practice ended early." He grins. "This is wonderful," I tell him. This is the happiest I have been in years. He truly cares about me.
But would he if he knew the truth about you?
Or does he already know? Is this just his way to get on Voldemort's good side? Like you wanted to do with Narcissa? I violently push that thought aside. Besides, that wouldn't be the same thing—I want help, and he would want esteem. But that's not what's happening right now anyway, so I need to get a grip.
"I thought you might like it." We eat slowly, in silence.
"Thank you so much."
"This isn't all!" he laughs. "I have a present for you!"
I don't have anything for him.
"You don't have to give me anything," he replies, almost as if he can read my mind. He pulls a package out of his robes. "I write my mother often, and I've told her of you—well, I told her I've been spending time with a lovely girl. She wants to meet you." He hands me the package. "She sent this to me so I could give it to you." She must definitely not know exactly who I am if she's sending him things to give me. The thought makes me feel oddly happy. If he's been writing about you, he's not just playing a part. And if he truly cares about you, perhaps Narcissa will learn to care as well.
I gingerly open the gift. Inside, there is a silver necklace with a beautiful emerald pendant. "It's gorgeous," I say quietly. I don't mention it because it's too pathetic to admit to him, but this is the first real gift I've ever gotten. At the orphanage, we would get old charity toys, but for the past five years, I haven't even had that. Tears fill my eyes. "I don't know how to thank you."
"It's a Malfoy family tradition, according to my mother, to give a gift when . . . you know . . . asking someone to date you. My father did it for her, as his father did for my grandmother." Draco stands and comes toward me, motioning me to turn so he can put the necklace on me. I hand it to him and lift my hair off my shoulders, baring my neck to him. He slips the necklace on me and latches it, his fingers lingering on my skin. I stand and turn toward him. "That is, of course, if you'd actually like to be my girlfriend," he says in a low whisper.
"Of course I do." He quickly fills the gap between us, placing his lips over mine. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer to him, my hands running up his chest and wrapping around his neck. With one hand he swipes everything off the table on which we had just eaten, sending plates and cups and forks clattering to the cold stone floor. He lifts me into the air, sets me down on the table, and moves to stand between my legs. Our kiss deepens, and I tighten my hold on his neck.
The door creaks, but I think nothing of it until someone clears their throat. Abruptly, we stop and pull apart. Draco buries his face into my neck and swears quietly. Then he pulls away and turns toward the door, finally allowing me to see who has interrupted us. It is none other than Severus Snape. "Mr. Malfoy, Miss Rodgers," he says, "come with me."
I slide off the table. Draco reaches for my hand but stops, realizing that might not be the best idea under the current circumstances. We follow Snape to his office, where we both sullenly sit down across from him. He pinches the bridge of his nose as if trying to find a way to start scolding us for our actions. After a few awkward glances between me and Draco and a few awkwardly silent minutes, Snape says, "Very few times in my career at Hogwarts have I ever . . ." He stops and glares at both of us.
"Professor," Draco begins.
"Silence!" Snape commands, cutting him off. "The headmaster has too much to deal with to worry about . . . these sorts of things." He folds his hands together on his desk. "Now, what do you suppose we do about this?" Draco and I both shift in our seats. Why couldn't it have been any other professor? "No suggestions? Well—"
"Professor, wait!" Draco interrupts.
"Yes, Malfoy?" Snape asks, his face full of insincere interest in what Draco has to say.
"Don't punish Charlotte. It was me . . . It was me. It was my fault."
"Your nobility is to be honored," Snape says cooly, just a hint of sarcasm in his tone, "but she is just as much to blame."
"No, Professor," Draco argues, "she isn't!"
Snape frowns. "Mr. Malfoy—"
"Draco," I cut Snape off. "Don't try to take blame for this. I am just as much at fault."
"Detention," Snape announces, "for the both of you. My office. Every night for two weeks." Draco and I stand to leave. "Wait." We turn back. "Tell no one of this. Professor Umbridge might react much differently than I." He looks right at Draco, and I have a feeling Snape just doesn't want the Slytherin Seeker to get suspended from playing Quidditch.