CHAPTER 22

Bellatrix watches me for only a second before turning her full attention to her nephew. "Draco!" she gasps, rushing toward him, effectively ending the conversation for the time being, "my beautiful nephew!" She takes him into her arms. Then she puts her hands on either side of his face. "Oh, how you've grown!"

"Aunt Bella," he replies, smiling.

"Cissy!" Bellatrix says accusingly, keeping her hands on Draco's face but turning her head to look at her sister. "You didn't tell me how handsome he's become!" She smiles back at Draco. "Last time I saw you, you were hardly over a year old! I was so pleased when Cissy told me you were coming home for the holidays." The Azkaban escapee wraps him up in a tight hug again, seemingly genuinely happy to see him, then notices me watching and releases him. "Who is this?"

"Oh, this is Charlotte Rodgers," Draco says, "my—"

Bellatrix pushes past him and steps toward me, her eyes soaking in my face. I stand and take a step away from her, but she doesn't seem to notice. "The Charlotte Rodgers?" she breathes, reaching out to take my bandaged hand in both of hers and shrink the gap between us. Standing over a head taller than I am, she looks down at me in awe. "What an honor to have you here in our home. I've heard much about you, Charlotte. The Dark Lord speaks of you."

Draco makes a strangled, confused noise, but I ignore him, almost trembling at the fact that she has not released my hand. "Really?" I ask airily, unsure whether her knowing about me is a good or bad thing. A voice in the back of my head warns me quietly that if she knows a great deal about me, the chance of other Death Eaters knowing about me increases, and that makes my heart flutter with fear.

"Oh, yes. All of the Death Eaters know who you are, Miss Rodgers. You've killed or injured a number of our rank." I swallow thickly. Would she Cruciate me if she knows what I am supposed to do? Would she risk that? "Though, from what I hear, the Dark Lord believes it was not done with malice."

Excuse me? Not done with malice? Of course it was! I do not voice this, instead focusing on tampering down the wave of nausea rolling through me. The Death Eaters know who I am. I glance at Draco who has gone white. "Really?" I squeak.

Bellatrix gives my hand an enthusiastic squeeze—I fight back the wince—then walks around the table and sits across from me. "I have been so looking forward to meet you. How long are you to be here?"

"For—for the Christmas holidays," I breathe.

Bellatrix rounds on her sister. "Cissy, how could you keep this from me! You did not tell me Charlotte Rodgers was to be here for Christmas!" She looks at me once more. "I will make sure to find a gift for you—anyone important to the Dark Lord is important to me."

Draco makes a sound in the back of his throat like a puppy being hit. His hand finds mine under the table and holds it tightly. He looks between Bellatrix and me. "How do you know about Charlotte?"

"Oh, my dear Draco!" Bellatrix exclaims. "Every Death Eater knows who she is!"

I squeeze Draco's hand, trying to tell him to stop asking questions, but he doesn't get the message. "Why would Death Eaters care about sixteen-year-old witch?"

"How long have you known each other?" Bellatrix says.

"Four months," he says. "Since the start of term."

Bellatrix looks to Lucius and Narcissa. "You've not told him? Why does he think she's here?" Then she turns her head to Draco and watches him intently. "Why do you think she's here?"

Draco's brow furrows. "Because I invited her."

Bellatrix's mouth opens briefly but closes, her eyes trailing over Draco, then me, then to our arms that disappear under the table. After a moment, she looks back at Narcissa. "Am I to understand that you and Lucius knew Charlotte was at Hogwarts and did not extend an invitation yourselves?"

"Someone tell me what's going on," Draco says suddenly. "Why do the Death Eaters know about Charlotte? Why would my parents invite her here?"

"Draco, please," I whisper.

"No, I demand to know!"

Bellatrix looks back at us, realization dawning in her eyes. Then her face flares red with fury, and she flies to her feet, her hand slamming on the table and rattling the cups and plates. "You've not told him!" she hisses, her voice sending fear through my veins. "You've all been keeping this from him!"

"Somebody answer me! Now! What is going on?"

Bellatrix's dark eyes fall on me, no longer full of appreciation but rather an anger that pierces through me and sends a shiver through my bones. Then she turns her attention to Draco. "Your dear girlfriend"—she spits the word as if it is a curse—"is to bear the Dark Lord a child!"

Draco releases my hand and looks at me, sorrow and betrayal etched into his features. "You what?" he croaks. "Why haven't you told me?"

"Draco, please." I should have told him when I had the chance, should not have just let that opportunity slip away. I had the perfect moment to confess, and I squandered it. Look where that got me. "It's not—it's not like that. I don't want to have Voldemort's child! I would rather die!"

"You dare speak the Dark Lord's name?" Bellatrix hisses, her face crazed, her mouth curved into a sneer.

My breathing quickens, and try as I might to catch Narcissa's eye, searching for any help she might provide, she is too focused on the pocket watch, pale-faced and wide-eyed, to look up at the scene in front of her. I glance back at Draco, unable to blame him for not looking at me as the disgust on his face grows deeper.

"You've been given the privilege of a lifetime, yet you sit there and act as if it's nothing?"

This snaps me back to Bellatrix. "It's not a 'privilege'! It's a curse!"

"How dare you disrespect the gift you've been given!"

Narcissa's voice floats into the conversation, almost unheard, "Charlotte, you said you got this from your uncle . . . What was his name?" The hand holding the pocket watch trembles slightly, her eyes unblinking as she stares at it.

"YOU FILTHY LITTLE BITCH!"

Bellatrix's fury and the potential consequences of that are my main priority now, so I don't bother to consider what Narcissa is saying. I jump up from my seat, unwilling to let her look down upon me that severely. "If you want the role so badly, you can have it! The last thing I've ever wanted in this life is to have Voldemort's—"

"DO NOT DEFILE HIS NAME WITH YOUR UNGRATEFUL TONGUE!"

"I CAN CALL VOLDEMORT OR WHATEVER I SEE FIT TO CALL HIM! HE IS NOTHING TO ME!" Blood pounds in my ears. My rage grows in my chest such that I can hardly see properly anymore. My chest heaves up and down as the adrenaline coursing through me prepares me for a fight I know I will lose terribly.

"Bella . . ."

"DO NOT DISRESPECT THE DARK LORD!" Bellatrix's face is blood-red, as mine is no doubt, and she already has her wand in her hand, prepared to hurt me.

Regardless of how dangerous this is, I can't bring myself to stop shouting at her, and I find myself reaching for my wand as well. "I COULDN'T CARE LESS ABOUT DISRESPECTING VOLDEMORT!"

She raises her wand. "CRU—"

Narcissa grabs her sister's arm and pulls it down so that the wand is no longer aimed at me. "BELLA, WAIT!" Bellatrix and I both round on her. She trembles, her face an odd shade of pale green, and I have a feeling only Narcissa could have stopped Bellatrix from using the Cruciatus Curse like she did.

"What?"

Narcissa stands and hands Bellatrix the pocket watch, still shaking violently. "Look at the crest . . ."

"Cissy, this his hardly—"

"Look at it!"

Bellatrix snatches the item and glares at it, and a brief moment later, her face drops. "This was hers?" she asks Narcissa, who nods. Her infuriated eyes find me once more. "Where did you get this?" Very slowly she begins to come around the table, and, unable to stop myself, I begin cowering away, pulling chairs in front of me as I walk backward quickly away from her, trying to put as much distance and as many obstacles between us as possible, sticking my hand straight out as if that'll actually stop her from advancing toward me.

"My . . . my gr-great-uncle. Al—Al something, I don't know . . ."

She and Narcissa, who is still across from me, exchange a quick glance. Then Narcissa asks, "Are you sure that was his name?"

"No," I answer honestly, taking the risk to remove my eyes from Bellatrix to glance at Narcissa. Bellatrix keeps advancing toward me, moving slowly but moving the obstacles out of her way with unnecessary force. "The letter was smudged. Why?"

Narcissa swallows, looking between Draco, Bellatrix, and me. "When was your mother sent to Azkaban?"

"How do you—"

"When, Charlotte?" she says shortly.

"In—in 'eighty-one."

"And you were born when?" Bellatrix asks me.

"'Seventy-nine."

"What was your uncle's real name?" I flinch away from Bellatrix, glancing over my shoulder at the exit and wondering what the chances are that I can get out of here without her following. They're not looking so good. "WHAT WAS HIS NAME?"

I raise my wand at her. "I don't know!"

In a swift motion, Bellatrix sends the chairs away with her wand and grabs my shoulders—I am too stunned to react in time, but my wand presses into her gut as her eyes hungrily, greedily wander over my face. I inhale sharply, closing my eyes to brace for pain that never comes. After a moment, I open them again and look into Bellatrix's eyes. Her hands move from my shoulders to my face and turns my head more toward her. I tremble pathetically, my whole body quaking with fear because there's no escape from this—she's literally holding my face in her hands.

"Charlotte," Narcissa's calming voice reaches me, pulling my attention from Bellatrix to her. I turn my eyes toward her but can't move my head because of Bellatrix's tight grip. "What do you know of him?"

"Only that he was disowned from his family."

Narcissa and Bellatrix exchange an uneasy look, and I swallow, unsure if trying to bolt away from her will result in a Cruciatus Curse. "Was"—Narcissa's voice is weak, uncertain—"was his real name Alphard?"

Realization strikes me. The name had been so smudged and worn—but yes, that has to be what it said. It wasn't Alfred; it was Alphard. "I—I can't be certain but—"

"Was it Alphard Black?" Narcissa whispers.

"It-it sounds f-familiar . . . d-did you know him?"

Bellatrix moves her hand from my face and places it on the back of my head. I make to fire off a spell but am frozen when I see that she isn't trying to strangle me—she's pulled me against her, placed my forehead on her shoulder, cradling the back of my head as if I were a baby. Unsure what to do with my arms, I let them drop to my side and in doing so remove my wand from Bellatrix's abdomen. This opens the door for her to pull me closer. "My Aurelia . . . you're supposed to be dead . . ."

Being held by Bellatrix rather than attacked is not what I had prepared for, and I'm too confused to know what to do, to know how to react. Someone please help me. Suddenly, the Death Eater tenses and jerks away from me. "The Dark Lord chose . . . you?" she asks quietly, wrath once again growing in her eyes, whatever she had felt moments ago now gone. "YOU?"

"Bella, please calm down," Narcissa tries.

"Calm down? Calm down?" The high-pitched rage in her voice forces me to flinch, and I take a step back from her. "I alone am his most loyal—his most—and he chose Aurelia—Aurelia!"

"Bella—"

"I went to Azkaban for him! I—his most loyal, his most devoted—I went to Azkaban for him! And he chose my daughter and not me!"

My breath catches. "Your what?"

"And you were rewarded for you sacrifice," Narcissa says calmly.

"Re-REWARDED?" she screams. "BY HIS CHOOSING TO HAVE A CHILD THROUGH MY DAUGHTER AND NOT ME?"

"Your WHAT?" I shout over her.

Narcissa takes a step around the table and toward me. "Charlotte," she whispers, "you're not who you think you are."

"Yes, believe it or not, I've managed to work that out!"

"Your Great-Uncle Alphard is our"—she motions to herself and Bellatrix—"uncle."

"You're my daughter," Bellatrix interjects. "But you're supposed to be dead."

"I'm supposed to be dead? No, you're supposed to be dead! Al told me in his letter that my mother died in Azkaban!"

"I didn't," Bellatrix says. "And apparently you didn't die either." There is no masking the disdain and disappointment in her trembling voice, and I don't understand. I don't understand.

Draco, now a sickly shade of green, paces uneasily. "Draco," I whisper.

"So . . ." he addresses his mother, "so that means . . . we're"—he waves his hand between himself and me—"we're . . . we're cousins?"

Narcissa nods. "Yes."

Draco pukes right there on the floor.

"Draco," I whisper, not trusting my voice enough right now to put any real sound in it.

A hand rests on my shoulder, and I turn to see Bellatrix—my newfound, very much alive mother—staring at me. "There's no hope for the two of you," she says. "You're first-cousins. You should have died when you were supposed to." Why does she seem so angry to find me alive? Why are her eyes glistening? "We should never have trusted Alphard. Sixteen years later, your life has been ruined." She smirks at me, her grip on my shoulder tightening. "Does it hurt, my dear Aurelia? Does your heart hurt, little one? Is it broken?" She is taking too much joy in my pain, and none of this makes sense.

"I'm not Aurelia."

"Oh, but you are," she says, the heat of her breath warm against my ear as she inches closer. "You are Aurelia Lestrange, daughter of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange. There's no denying it."

"I'm not," I whisper, choking back my tears, refusing to give her the satisfaction.

"Yes, you are," she whispers back at me. "I bet now you're wishing you would have taken the Cruciatus Curse before all this news broke free. Now you're wishing you'd never came here, aren't you, little one?" She leans in closer to me and lowers her voice even more. "The Cruciatus Curse is still an option. I can send you to St. Mungo's for good, like I did to those Aurors, the Longbottoms. It'll be quick and easy. You'll never have to deal with any of this again. You'll be free from your . . . curse." She smiles at me cruelly. "You'll never even remember any of this if you only let me use the curse, Aurelia. You'll be free of this pain and of the Dark Lord."

I look up into her harsh face and set my jaw. "If you want my role so badly, just fucking kill me, Bellatrix." Her mouth opens slightly as if to say something to me, but at that moment, I reach up around my neck, yank off the necklace Draco had given me, and toss it onto the table, watching as it slides across the surface. Draco looks at it, almost at the point of tears himself, still the sickly green he was minutes before. Narcissa looks from the necklace to me, a pained expression on her face. Then I look back at Bellatrix, rip her hand free from my shoulder, shove her off me, and Disapparate from Malfoy Manor before she can retaliate.

I open my eyes, having blindly Disapparated away from the heartbreak that had disrupted my life, but even this far away, I can still feel the earth crumbling beneath my feet. Nothing seems real anymore. I bend over, my hands on my hips as I try to regulate my breathing. Where am I?

Diagon Alley. Of course. This is the only place I had ever felt at home; it was the first all-wizard place I had ever found, the first place I didn't have to hide who I was. Only I didn't truly know who I was, did I? I've only just discovered that little piece of information.

Why did Al—Alphard—not tell me? He could have easily said, "Oh, by the way, you're the daughter of the murderous Death Eaters Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange." But I guess that wouldn't have been very conducive to the way I had to grow up.

You know what, no. What Al—Alphard—did is inexcusable. I could have had money, I could have had a home, I could have gone to Hogwarts at a younger age and not had to worry about running from bloody Death Eaters.

But would I have really wanted to go to Hogwarts as the daughter of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange? I don't need that reputation following me around.

But that doesn't mean I forgive Alphard. I shouldn't have had to grow up alone like I did, shouldn't have had to spend so many years in that orphanage. I could have grown up with the Malfoys—I'm sure Narcissa would have taken in her sister's daughter. Draco and I could have been—Draco. I vomit onto the stones. We could have been raised as family, and we wouldn't currently be in this situation.

I hope Alphard suffered greatly.

There are very few people here, probably because it's getting later than usual for the typical shopper of Diagon Alley, but there's somewhere I need to go. An answer I need.

I go to Ollivander's.

When I step into the shop, it's clear he expected no more visitors today, the place quiet and lonesome as if ready to retire for the evening. "Excuse me," I say, trying to get Ollivander's attention, wherever he is in here. After a few seconds. "Are you Ollivander?" There's really no reason for me to ask.

"Yes, and who are you?"

"I don't know if you remember me," I begin, "but I came here six years ago and got a wand."

"You stole it, I believe. Then brought the money a few months later. That was you, yes?"

"Yes." I hadn't expected him to remember that I had stolen my wand. "Please forgive me for that, by the way."

He smiles, which I take as forgiveness. "Did you need something?"

"I . . . I don't really know, to be honest . . ." I take my wand out. "Could you look at this for me?" I hand it to him.

"Is there something wrong with it?" he asks, taking the wand into his hands. "Ten inches, stiff, cherry, dragon heartstring core, excellent with Transfiguration. Nothing seems to be out of order."

"I . . . I was wondering . . . what—what made that wand choose me, sir?"

"Wands choose the wizards for unknown reasons," Ollivander says.

"Oh . . ." Coming here has got me nowhere. I want to go lie down. "Is there anything else you can tell me about it?"

He turns it over in his hands a few times, inspecting it closely. "Cherry is a rare wood, one that can be particularly lethal when paired with dragon heartstring." His eyes twinkle. "Between us, I designed this one specifically to see the type of witch or wizard this wand chose. A young remorseful thief was not exactly what I had envisioned." He puts it up to his ear for a moment before cracking a smile. "Yes, I thought so. The dragon from whose heart this came from provided enough heartstring for two other wands: one is still on my shelf, and the other —the last time I saw it—was in the possession of Bellatrix Lestrange." My hearts sinks to my stomach. He hands the wand back to me, seemingly oblivious to the new turmoil brewing inside of me. "I hope to see one day what sort of witch you become with that wand at your side."

I nod, unable to speak, then leave the wand shop, more upset now than moments before. I'm more connected to that crazed Death Eater than I thought. But . . . was that even much of a question? I mean, it's not like I've been some innocent child my whole life. I, too, have done terrible, unwarranted evils. At least I regret mine though. Bellatrix—my mother—seemed to take pride in hers when she threatened to put me in St. Mungo's.

I stop at the Leaky Cauldron and step inside. "Hello?" I call.

The landlord comes to greet me. "Hello, what can I do for you?"

"Do you have an owl that I can use to send a letter? And possibly something to write with—and on?"

He smiles and says, "Yes," before walking off. When he returns with the items I requested, I sit down with a quill, a bottle of ink, and a piece of parchment. I stare at the blank page. Who should I write? And Merlin, what should I even say? Hello, yes, this is Charlotte Rodgers and I have just discovered that my mother is a psychotic, sadistic Death Eater—oh, right, and she is Bellatrix Lestrange, which means I had to leave Malfoy Manor quickly because I can't deal with that right now. Finally, after minutes of pondering, I begin writing.

Professor Dumbledore,

I don't know if it is allowed for a student to return to Hogwarts early during the Christmas holidays, but if it is against Hogwarts policy, I beg you to make an exception. Some things have come up at Malfoy Manor, and I was unable to stay there for the remainder of the holidays. If it is necessary for me to stay in the Leaky Cauldron, I will, but I would much prefer to return to Hogwarts.

Please reply as soon as possible.

Charlotte Rodgers

Dumbledore is a kind man from what I little I know about him, so hopefully this is sincere enough that he will allow me to return. Just run away, a voice whispers to me. Just run away, start over, get as far away from Hogwarts and Voldemort as possible.

And live like an animal again? No.

Tom the landlord returns with the owl. I pay him a Galleon, which I've managed to save since the loan I got back in August—wish I could've spent that a different way—and tie my letter to the owl's leg. It flies away.

I place my wand on the table. If the dragon heartstring was taken from the same dragon heart that made Bellatrix's wand, I am obviously more like my mother than I could have ever feared. Now there are more questions about myself than before and more time to fret over them.

At least one thing has been cleared up: my mother was sent to Azkaban because she was a Death Eater, and a ruthless one at that. What had she said about the Longbottoms? Something about having sent them to St. Mungo's. That's probably why Neville got so touchy about the place. Poor Neville . . . my mother is the crazed Death Eater that ruined his life, took his parents from him before he even had the chance to know them. And she worships Voldemort, the one that ruined Harry's life by taking his parents before he ever had the chance to know them. And the same psychopath that my mother worships is the maniac that will also ruin my life, has been ruining my life for as long as it's really mattered.

Draco rushes to the front of my mind, and my heart catches in my throat. He's my cousin . . . I was in love with him, and he's my cousin. Why is it that when I am happy for the first time in my life, it has to be taken away from me? The D.A. will be practicing Patronuses in our next meeting. I don't think I stand a chance of making one. All of my happy memories are tainted by my new knowledge.

The owl flies back into the pub, and I take a pouch and a letter off its leg. Inside the pouch is a handful of Floo powder. The letter states that I am allowed to return to Hogwarts. Dumbledore has connected his office to the Floo Network, but I must hurry.

With permission from Tom, I go to the fireplace, grab the handful of floo powder, throw it to the floor, and shout, "The office of Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." Green flames consume me.

I open my eyes in Dumbledore's office. "Good evening, Miss Rodgers," he says.

"Good evening, Professor."

"Were there Death Eaters at Malfoy Manor?"

It's like knows. But no one knows that the Death Eaters are out of Azkaban. Do they? "Lucius Malfoy just wasn't a fan of mine," I lie.

Dumbledore nods, and I leave his office. There is someone I must confront.