CHAPTER 24

I jolt awake almost every two hours and flinch, waiting for an attack that never comes. I don't know why I keep expecting to be attacked.

Oh wait . . . Bellatrix wants to Cruciate me. And Snape probably does too since I kissed him (what was I thinking?). I mean, I wanted to make a point—but that? That was my being reckless and stupid, and whatever punishment comes my way is well-deserved.

There is only so much time before I am forced to face Snape again and deal with the consequences of my action. It wouldn't surprise me if the universe decides to crumble on top of me at this point—in fact, I'm actually expecting it to happen any time now.

I close my eyes and fall back asleep.

Again, I jolt awake and flinch at the attack that doesn't come. I flop against the bed, then curl up on my side and bury my face into my knees. Reality hits me harder now: Draco is my cousin; I am in love with my cousin. My stomach churns uncomfortably. I open my eyes, trying to steady my stomach, when I see it—my things, everything I had taken to Malfoy Manor with me, are sitting beside my bed with a note. I crawl out of bed to read it.

It takes reading it nearly three times before it sets in. Dumbledore had spoken with McGonagall and had arranged for the return of my belongings. I am to be in his office at two this afternoon. The clock says it's after twelve. Groaning at the cruelty of the world, I get ready for the day, taking twice as long as usual to do so. Then I go down to the common room and have one of the house elves bring me a sandwich and a glass of water. I eat all of three bites and don't even drink half of the water before I stop. It only makes my queasiness worse.

I don't want to go to Dumbledore's office or face him at all. What if he looks at me with pity? Merlin, I don't think I could handle that. And as he is a kind man, he will likely offer some sort of sympathy, which ais also something I do not want.

What I want is to have Voldemort's head on a stick.

But for now, that is impossible.

So I really have no choice, do I?

I leave the common room and walk up to Dumbledore's office.

"Miss Rodgers," he says to me when I enter his office.

"Haven't you heard, Professor?" I say without any emotion, all of it having been drained from me already. "It's not 'Rodgers.'" I might as well get this part out of the way.

"I have heard." He motions to the chair in front of his desk, indicating for me to take it "It is Lestrange, correct?"

"Yes, sir," I say, unable to look at him.

"Do you wish for the professors here at Hogwarts to know you as Aurelia Lestrange?"

I shake my head. "I'd rather not have any connection with them."

"So it is still Charlotte Rodgers?"

"I guess so," I whisper through my thick throat.

"Good afternoon, Miss Rodgers."

I swallow down the pain. "Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore."

Finally, I force myself to meet his eyes, and he smiles at me. "Is there anything about the Lestrange—or Black family, for that matter—that you wish to know?"

"The Black family?" I shift in my seat, confused because I had expected him to focus mainly on my duty to Voldemort and how I had found out who I am. This is a very bright change of events.

"Your mother's family."

Oh, right. My family doesn't just end with the Malfoys and my parents. "Well, are there any of them besides my parents and the Malfoys that are alive?"

"Besides the Lestranges and the Malfoys, there are a few others," Dumbledore says. "There's your mother's other sister, Andromeda, who married a Muggle-born wizard named Ted Tonks. Their daughter is Nymphadora Tonks. All of them have been disowned." She has a good sister—I have an aunt who is not an evil person.

"They have a habit of doing that, don't they—disowning someone in their own family for whatever reasons they deem noble?"

"The Blacks are bred believing that being a pureblooded wizard is better than other wizards. Those who mix with Muggles or Muggle-born wizards are considered blood traitors. Blood traitors in the Black family are those such as Alphard, Andromeda, and Sirius Black."

"Sirius Black?" I ask, my heart sinking once again. "He's related to me?"

"Your mother's cousin."

"So my whole family is made up of Voldemort's servants?" I ask quietly. I should have seen this one coming. After all, I knew that Draco's family was full of Voldemort's servants, and now that Voldemort-loving family is my family as well. My throat tightens at the thought.

Dumbledore shakes his head. "No."

"But you said that Sirius Black was part of my family. I've read about what he did. He spent twelve years in Azkaban!"

"Sirius Black is part of your family. And he did spend twelve years in Azkaban. But not all of your family serves Voldemort."

"But he killed Muggles and wizards for Voldemort! That's why he went to Azkaban! He's no better than the rest of them! He's a filthy murderer just like—" Just like the rest of the Black family. Just like me.

"It is no surprise that you believe the story of Sirius Black put forth by the Ministry." Dumbledore does not look the least bit upset about me having shouted at him. "Hardly anyone knows the true story."

"'True story,'" I scoff. "And I suspect somehow you know the true story but just decided it wasn't worth your while to stop him from going to Azkaban? And now you're planning to tell me the true story that was kept quiet for all those years?"

Dumbledore doesn't seem the least bit bothered by the disrespect I just showed him, and despite the fact that I should feel sorry, I just can't currently feel much of anything. I'm far too drained. "Sirius Black was framed for a crime he didn't commit and was sentenced to Azkaban for twelve years. But he is, and has always been, innocent."

I don't actually know if I believe this, but it's Dumbledore. Why would he bother lying about something like this to me? "So . . . is he alive?"

"Yes. Sirius Black, and Ted, Andromeda, and Nymphadora Tonks are all very much alive, and completely disowned from the Black family."

"Do you know where they are?"

"I know where the Tonks family is."

"Do . . . do you think—would it be feasible or allowed for me to write to them, to tell them who I am? I would like to meet family that isn't—that aren't followers of Voldemort. I want to learn more of who I am."

"I don't think they'll mind," Dumbledore says kindly.

I leave his office shortly after that, happier than I thought possible given the circumstances.

I write the letter to the Tonks part of my family, explaining to them who I am, making sure to tell them that I am not like my mother, I am not a pureblood supremacist like my parents and the Malfoys. I tell them that I would like to meet them somehow, that I want to meet family that is not fond of "You-Know-Who." Then I go back to my dormitory and retrieve my Nimbus 2001 (I'm surprised the Malfoys sent this with the rest of my stuff; something tells me it was Draco's decision) and go to the Quidditch pitch.

That's where I am now. I figure I can teach myself how to fly when there aren't that many students around, which means I don't have to worry about being humiliated.

I set my broom on the cold, frozen ground, and say, "Up!" It doesn't do anything. "Up!" It still does nothing. "Up!" Finally, it flies into my hand. I mount myself onto it and kick off the ground, soaring into the air.

I was right to assume that flying was freedom. I'm on the top of the world. The wind blowing on my face, the ground far below me, the chill in the air—I feel invincible. Nothing can harm me now, not even my familial relations or Voldemort.

After a few laps around the Quidditch pitch, I decide I want to do something a bit riskier. Because why not? What's the worst thing that can possibly happen to me when I know what's headed my way? So I stop the broom, wobbling dangerously, and look around the grounds of Hogwarts. I don't see any of the other four students still here for the break, which means there will be no witnesses if this goes horribly wrong.

With one small breath to prepare myself, I dive straight for the ground. My stomach flops around as it makes its way to my throat, where it stays, making me uneasy and forcing me to rethink this whole idea. The wind deafens me, frightens me. Not having the guts to keep going, I pull up, intending to call this whole thing off, but the tail of the broom hits the ground—the sudden force throws me off the broom, and I fly forward through the air against my wishes.

Flying through the air without a broom below me is not as much fun as flying through the air with a broom below me. My heart lodges in my throat, and I close my eyes as I smash right into the icy ground, rolling in the snow a few times until my body comes to a stop. My head throbs with pain, and blood runs down my face, tickling me. That had not gone as planned. I roll onto my back but remain on the ground, looking up into the sky, and place my hand on my throbbing forehead. It's slick with blood.

Perhaps I would have done better had there been someone here to teach me. Someone like Draco, who only ever wanted what's best for me. That's what hurts the most, I think. The only person who only wanted good things for me is cut out of my life and has been replaced by a completely evil follower of Voldemort who is jealous of my duty to the Dark Lord.

Growing angry at my predicament, I sit up and snatch up my broom, pressing my hand to my bleeding head to stunt the pain for a second. I've had enough of flying for one day. Maybe forever. It only reminds me that I could have been learning to fly at Malfoy Manor instead of here at Hogwarts by myself.

I have just reached the edge of the Quidditch pitch when I hear someone say, "For a while there, I was thinking that you would be a good addition to the Slytherin Quidditch team . . . then you crashed."

I look over, and my heart stops. I close my eyes and flinch away, bracing myself for an attack from Snape. When it doesn't come, I open my eyes. "Did you need something?"

"To talk to you about your . . . actions," he says softly. He raises his wand at me, and again I flinch. "Vulnera Sanentur." The gash on my forehead itches and tickles, but when I reach up to feel it, there's no more pain and no open wound. I wipe the remaining blood away.

"What about them?" I ask him innocently. "Last night seems like a few years ago. I can't remember what happened."

"And yet you flinch at the smallest movement of my wand," he says, proving his statement by waving his wand and watching me recoil.

"Well," I say, scrambling for some lie I can tell him. I've never had this much trouble lying before. "I'm just used to you punishing me with magic . . ."

"But what have you done that requires punishment?" Snape asks with a false sense of wonder in his voice.

"Er . . ." I don't know how to dig my way out of this hole. "I barged into your office uninvited last night, right? Some people take that offensively . . ." I look up. We are only a few feet away from the entrance of Hogwarts. Maybe I can keep him occupied long enough that I won't have to acknowledge what I have done.

"Yes, I believe you did barge into my office last night." We enter Hogwarts, and he stops me by simply putting a hand on my shoulder. "If you do so again . . . I fear the consequences will be most severe." But I can tell by the look in his eye that he does not just mean barging into his office unannounced.

"I will try not to invade your office again, Professor." He walks for few feet beside me before we finally break apart. Snape goes in the direction of the dungeons while I go to the library in search of books on Conjuration. I might as well take this extra time to continue practicing.

Three hours later, with no more progress than what little I made with the quill those months ago, I give up in the library and leave the bookroom far behind. At last, I reach the room I really want to visit: McGonagall's office. Full of apprehension, I knock on the door and wait for the answer. An "Enter" calls through the door a few seconds later.

"Evening, Professor," I say, stepping into the room.

"Evening, Rodgers. I gather you spoke to the headmaster earlier."

"I did." I take the seat in front of her desk. "I was even able to write the Tonks family to let them know who I am and see if I can meet them. Do you know them?"

She smiles. "I taught them. They're good people."

The thought gives me hope. Perhaps I won't be left without a family after all. Perhaps I can have people who grow to care about me. "I . . . I'm not . . ." I look away for a moment. "I actually came to talk about something other than my family, Professor."

She nods at me, and I take that as my cue to continue. "I . . ." My words catch in my throat. How do I go about this without giving away too much information about my past life? "The school year is nearly halfway over"—yes, this is probably a good way to go about this—"and when it finally comes to an end, I will need a place to stay. I will not fool myself into believing that Voldemort will ever allow me to live with my 'blood traitor' family—and let's face it, he will have a say in that because he simply cannot risk me running again." And I'm steering into dangerous territory. I need to backtrack a bit. "I will probably be forced to stay with the Malfoys—but Merlin knows I can't do that. And if Draco"—I take a deep breath—"if Draco ever truly cared about me, he will understand why I simply cannot live under the same roof as him during the holidays.

"If he ever truly cared about me, he will understand my need to leave." I clear my throat. "But I can't risk running now that the most ruthless Death Eaters are out of Azkaban. Which means I will—hopefully with Draco's help to get away from the manor—need to fend for myself.

"And that means . . ." Again, I look away from her. "That means I will need to know how to Conjure things, Professor. I realize Conjuration isn't something you teach until N.E.W.T.-level classes, but I've been living thanks to Transfiguration for the last five years. Yet I seem to be unable to Conjure something, despite the fact that it is crucial for me to learn it in case—" I stop myself. Damn, I'll have to tell her more than I really want to because I don't know how else to impress upon her the importance of my need to learn Conjuration. "Just in case I end up living as I did before Hogwarts."

My breath is shaky. "I need you to help me learn how to Conjure something. Conjuration is the branch of Transfiguration I simply have not been able to accomplish—well, that and Human Transfiguration, but I don't really need—" Oh no. "I don't really have much use for it."

She watches me curiously. "I can see that you are sincere, Rodgers, but I am afraid there is much you must learn before you reach the level of Conjuration."

"But, Professor, you know that I am ahead of the curriculum. You know that."

"Even so, you are not at the level of Conjuration, no matter how far ahead you are with the Vanishing Spell."

I huff and close my hand into a tight fist, trying to expel all of my frustration into digging my nails into my palm. "I'm not just simply 'ahead' in the Vanishing Spell, Professor! I perfected that spell when I—" I stop myself and let out a loud groan. "I can Vanish anything in this room without any trouble, I can Transfigure almost anything in your office into something else."

"Rodgers—"

"No, Professor, I need to learn to Conjure things because I cannot live like an animal again."

Her eyes widen for a brief second, and in that brief second, I realize my mistake. I slam my closed fist into my thigh as I stand and say, "Never mind, I didn't mean to waste your time, I'm sorry." I head for the door, but it will not open when I pull on it. Please don't pull a Severus Snape and trap me in your office, I silently beg.

"Rodgers," her voice is soft and kind.

I rest my forehead against the door and keep trying to pull it open, but of course it does not budge.

"Rodgers."

The sobs break free before I even have a chance to attempt stopping them, and I sink to the floor, hiding my face in my knees.

"Rodgers," she tries again.

Still, I make no move to respond.

I hear her chair scrape across the stone floor and her feet clicking closer.

"Rodgers, you need to get up. Would you like to—"

"Please just l-let me leave."

I dare to glance up at her, and she waves her wand once. "You are free to leave, but I believe it would be best for you to stay and finish what we were discussing."

"I c-can't live like-like an animal anymore," I whisper, "not after liv-living here, where I'm s-safe and-and comfortable." She looks at me kindly, and with a few deep breaths, I manage to stifle the sobs. Then I pull myself to my feet. I am a child. Why am I in here crying to this woman when I should doing just about anything else? "I'm sorry, Professor."

As I open the door, she says softly, "At the beginning of the term, I told you that as a professor here at Hogwarts I care about the well-being of all the students. That doesn't end when the school year ends." I close the door again. "I'm going back to my desk now, and if there is anything else that you would like to say, you may join me." Her chair scrapes across the floor again a few moments later.

I continue staring at the door. This is my chance to run.

But I don't want to.

I want someone to know the truth.

But I simply can't bring myself to say it.

Without glancing back, I mutter, "Sorry, Professor," before wrenching the door open and leaving her office far behind. No matter how badly I want to tell her the truth, I can't. It will only make all of it more real. Right now, I can pretend that none of it really happened, that it wasn't truly my fault, that I wasn't as bad off as I really was, but if I talk about it, if I acknowledge what I have done, there will be no denying it.

It was my fault, everything that happened to me because of the orphanage. And I simply cannot face that truth. I would rather spend the rest of my life living like an animal than admit what I have done and how I deserved what I got, than admit what I've done and how I am not so different from my mother after all. Part of me is just as evil as Bellatrix Lestrange, and if I have to explain to McGonagall why I have been living so terribly, she'll see that, and I don't want to face her knowing the truth just yet.

Trying to avoid the four other students and the rest of professors as I make my way back to the Slytherin Dungeons turns out to be much easier than I had originally imagined. Merlin knows where the professors are, but I'm sure the students are in their dormitories. Either that or they're outside enjoying the day before curfew. If I had friends here, that's probably what I'd be doing.

My good luck streak dies when I hear a high voice say, "Rodgers."

Biting my tongue and silently cursing, I turn to see Umbridge walking toward me. "Professor," I greet her with a falsely cheery voice.

"It was my understanding that you would be leaving for the holiday."

"I had to come back early, Professor, there were some family issues that came up."

"With the Malfoys? Well, I certainly hope everything is all right now," she says, almost talking more to herself than to me. "Why was I not informed of your return?"

"I came back late last night after leaving Malfoy Manor, Professor. We didn't really have time to inform all the professors."

"'We'?"

"Professor Dumbledore and I—he organized my return, but like I said, it was late. We didn't have time to inform all the professors." Her face turns a slight shade of red as if she is trying to restrain her anger, and I quickly add, "I'm sorry, Professor."

Really though, I'm sure she's only angry that Dumbledore did something without first speaking with the High Inquisitor. My suspicions are confirmed when she says, "I will need a word with the headmaster. As for you, Miss Rodgers, I believe it would be best if you head back to your dormitory."

"Yes, Professor." I spin around and hustle away. Umbridge reminds me far too much of those who spent years making my life as miserable as they possibly could.

Upon reaching the dungeons, I have a sudden, strong pang of desire to go back to McGonagall's office and finally tell someone the truth. About everything. I squelch it quickly. She isn't my mother, and she isn't Mrs. Stoico. She's just a professor at Hogwarts.