CHAPTER 27

Nearly unable to breathe for the nerves, I stop myself before knocking on McGonagall's door. Although I know telling someone the truth and relieving some of this burden before seeing Tonks and accidentally letting it slip there is the best thing for me right now, trying to convince myself that it'll be fine if Professor McGonagall hates me after learning everything is not going well. But this needs to be done before I speak with Tonks because I'd prefer a professor at Hogwarts loathe me rather than my family loathe me. That in mind, I force myself to knock and steel my nerves with a breath before pushing the door open upon receiving permission. "Happy Christmas, Rodgers."

"Happy Christmas, Professor," I say quietly, sitting down in front of her desk. I clear my throat uncomfortably, hyperaware at how closely she's watching me. Cheeks growing warm, I say, "When . . . when I returned from Malfoy Manor, you said that—" I look away from her. "I—this—this is me joining you at your desk . . . if you're still willing to listen to me?"

She offers me a kind smile, which I take to mean as permission to continue speaking. "I've been lying to you, Professor, for a while." I wait for her to become angry, but she does nothing of the sort. "I . . . I told you that I never want back to the orphanage after I found out Alphard was dead. But that's not . . . that's not entirely true."

"Is that where you were living before you came to Hogwarts?"

I shake my head, my hands already trembling a bit. "Unfortunately, no. I would give anything to be able to go back there and live comfortably—or as comfortably as I can there." And yet I despised that place when I was forced to live there. I wonder if I'll ever feel that way about Hogwarts—if I'll ever come to like being here. "But I can't go back there. Ever."

"Why can't you?"

Because it will forever be the place of my nightmares. I can't voice that and instead just let out a sigh. She watches me curiously, and I force myself to speak. "After I learned that Alphard was dead . . . I lost my way for a while—just a few weeks, but it was enough to scar a ten-year-old. I was lost and alone, completely without . . . No one could help me." I can't help but laugh at the thought of little me running around Diagon Alley with a little sack of Galleons buying all sorts of Transfiguration books. The professor seems concerned that I'm laughing at what I've just said, so I quickly add, "I wasn't very good with money, Professor, and I quickly ran out.

"So, obviously, I couldn't do that for long." This is much easier to talk about than I had feared—well, this part is at least. "Unfortunately, my birthday takes place just before December, so those weeks I spent lost were spent in the freezing winter." My hands begin trembling again. "I was an easy target—a defenseless ten-year-old who was cold and starving.

"There was an older man who noticed this. Um . . . I was in King's Cross when he approached me for the first time. He—he had dirty blond hair and a beard . . . and, uh, a smile that made me want to trust him. So I did." I clear my throat. "He crouched down in front of me and asked if I was cold, if I had a family. Then he—he gave me a coat. It was almost my size exactly . . . I should have known then that something was wrong, but I was a child." I smile sadly. "I still remember how warm that coat was—almost as if it had been in front of a fire for a few hours.

"Then he took me to get a hot meal. It was the first real food I had eaten since I left the orphanage. He, um . . . he asked me so many questions—about who I am, my parents, how long I had been in the orphanage." I shake my head. "I was so stupid."

"You were a child who was shown kindness," McGonagall says softly. "You are not responsible for what happened to you."

"To me?" I laugh bitterly, realizing now what she must have thought I was preparing to say. "He didn't lay a hand on me, Professor. It was Mrs. Stoico he was after." Tears burn hot in my eyes. "And I as good as handed her to him. I as good as killed her myself."

"Rodgers—"

"He convinced me that the orphanage was the best place for me." The tears fall freely now, no longer contained in my eyes, and I do nothing to stop them. "And, I mean, I guess he was right . . . but . . ."

I look away from her and stare at my hands. "He offered to take me back, and I accepted." I smile sadly and release a muffled sob. "She . . . she was so h-happy to see me. And-and I—I was home, even if home was a shitty—sorry—little orphanage."

Breathing deeply can't stop my sobs, and I give up on that altogether, resigning to let myself cry. "I-I had just-just a f-few moments with h-her before he—" I pause.

"Rodgers, you don't have to—"

"It's not just-just about what he did. I can't—I can't k-keep—I can't—"

I shake my head and push on, "Just-just a few minutes af-after I f-found her, there was a-a knock at the door."

"It was the man," McGonagall says quietly. "Do you know his name?"

Of course I know his bloody name, so why can't I bring myself to say it? That man . . . his face, everything about him has haunted me since that day. And yet I can't talk about him. I can't tell her what I've done, I can't tell her how I lost my mind. Because that makes it real. Right now, it's a memory of a nightmare. Right now, I can pretend such atrocities never happened. Right now, I can pretend that I am not a monster.

But I've started down this path, so I have finish it, right? I can't risk finally cracking and telling the Tonkses because they will never forgive it.

But that doesn't mean I have to tell her everything that I did. I can't admit those crimes to anyone.

I take a shaky breath. "No, I never found out his name," I lie. "But . . . after he killed Mrs. Stoico, I snapped. Something in me broke that day." My throat burns. "Professor, I . . . I killed him. I killed that man. And I . . . I enjoyed it. I got my revenge, and I enjoyed doing it. I was ten years old, and I enjoyed killing a man." Finally, I force my eyes to meet her slightly horrified face. "That's how I know I'm like her, like Bellatrix. I was ten years old, and I was already enjoying the act of harming another person."

"You were defending someone you cared about," she says kindly. "That doesn't—"

"But I enjoyed it, Professor! I took pride in how I hurt him, in how I made him bleed. I enjoyed it. I wanted him to suffer. The blood on my hands—I relished it, wanted more of it." The heat of his blood on my face, the taste of iron on my tongue, the light leaving his eyes—I wanted him to suffer for what he did to her, to know that with that choice he had ended his own life. "Who else do you know of who enjoys hurting others? Voldemort? His Death Eaters? Bellatrix?" My voice catches. "I'm just like all of them. I'm just like all of those evil witches and wizards who—"

I stop talking when she stands up, almost fearing that she will attack me. Instead, she comes toward me, waves her wand to Conjure a chair in front of me, and sits down before me. She leans forward and places her hands on the arm of the chair I'm currently in. "Charlotte Rodgers," she says gently but firmly, "you are nothing like Bellatrix Lestrange."

"How can you say that after what I just told you? How can you say I'm nothing like her when I enjoyed killing someone?"

"Because I have never seen Bellatrix Lestrange show remorse, and you seem to regret your actions. That is something Bellatrix Lestrange would never do."

"But I killed a man in cold-blood. You should hate me." Like I hate myself.

"You killed a Death Eater who probably would have killed you and who had just killed the person trying to protect you."

"But he's not the last person I killed."

She watches me expectantly.

Finally, I say, "I spent the last five years living in Muggle homes when I could, but mostly living in caves or anywhere dark and hidden where no one could find me. Because of what Voldemort wants me to do, Death Eaters have been hunting me. And sometimes . . . some of them have wound up dead."

"Rodgers," she says with the slightest hint of a smile, "you killed those Death Eaters in self-defense." I look away from her, unable to admit to her that it wasn't just Death Eaters I killed—there was that Muggle family . . . I force their memory from my mind. It's best not to think about them right now because there is nothing I can do to take that back. But I will rot in hell before I admit that to her. Merlin, I simply just should not have come in here. I should have left well enough alone. "You are not Bellatrix Lestrange." She leans back in her chair, removing her hands from my armrests, and watches me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

She furrows her brow.

"I shouldn't have—I shouldn't have come in here and said all of this." Especially since I backed out and couldn't tell her everything anyways. "I'm really sorry," I say quietly, still unable look at her. "Now that I have, I realize how ridiculous it was to even bring it up." It was even more ridiculous of me not to confess everything even though that was the whole reason for me coming in here.

"That's nonsense. I told you already that my door is open."

I meet her kind eyes and try to stop my hopes from rising too much. "So you don't hate me? Even though you know I'm a murderer?" To pretend I deserve anything less than her hatred would be foolish.

"I do not hate you." Then she stands back up to her full height and goes back to her chair behind her desk, the other chair disappearing as she takes her normal one.

I don't know what to do now—no, I do know but just simply do not want to do it. Only a few moments of internal debate later, I stand to leave, stopping only when she asks, "Leaving so soon, Rodgers?"

"I just . . . thought . . . you know . . . it'd be for the best, all things considered."

She offers a very small smile. "Are you sure you want to leave just now? I was about to enjoy a butterbeer and a biscuit for Christmas, and you're welcome to some if you'd like."

My heart clenches. "With all due respect, Professor, I didn't tell you all of this to incite pity. I told you because I knew I needed to tell someone but I didn't want to risk telling Tonks because I didn't want to risk losing my anti-Voldemort family before I even had a chance to meet them."

"Pity? Rodgers, you help rid the world of a Death Eater—more than one, actually. Gifting you a butterbeer is the least I can do."

Unable to stop my smile, I sit back down. "I would very much enjoy a butterbeer, Professor." With a wave of her wand, two bottles of butterbeer fly into the room. I gladly open one and take a sip, savoring it just as much as it was the first time I ever had one. The butterscotch taste soothes me, and I no longer feel as ashamed at having told McGonagall some of my burdens. And what's even better, she doesn't seem to despise me as I feared she would.

After taking a few sips of her butterbeer, McGonagall says, "Have you still been practicing Conjuration?"

"Well, yes, but I haven't had any success beyond Conjuring a quill, which I can do nearly every other time I try. But . . ." A sad laugh escapes me. "A quill won't really help me out much if I'm . . ." I clear my throat and don't continue.

"Rodgers," she says, her voice sorrowful and quiet, "we can help you. We can find you a place to live. You won't have to live like that anymore."

"Yeah," I snort. "Because Lord Voldemort will just let me live anywhere, right? I spent the last five years running from his followers. He has to keep a watch on me now. I can't be trusted."

"You're here at Hogwarts. What's the difference in living here and living somewhere else?"

"The difference, Professor, is that he can keep his eyes on me when I'm here. Do you really think he doesn't have spies inside Hogwarts?"

She watches me carefully. "Do you know who they are?"

"No. But I don't trust half of my House, honestly. The Slytherins . . . too many of them share the same ideologies as him." I sigh. "And, yes, I realize Draco is in that group, as is his family." A smirk plays on my lips. "Lucius Malfoy is the Death Eater who caught me back in August."

She seems momentarily surprised. "You knew Lucius Malfoy is a Death Eater and—"

"Yet I still dated Draco? Yes. He was the first person in five years to actually care about me without ulterior motives." Her eyes become sympathetic, and I quickly add, "But I guess that's because Hogwarts is the first place since the orphanage that I lived in for longer than a few weeks so it's the first time I've been around anyone for an extended period of time." This does not have the desired effect, and she looks even more sympathetic now. Again I try to make the situation better, "But I'm used to it, so it's not a big deal." This does not help either. "Please stop looking at me like that, Professor. Living that way made me who I am." Loud and obnoxious and selfish. So selfish. I never had to look out for anyone but myself.

"If the Ministry, or even Dumbledore or myself, had known that there was a young witch living that way, we would have found a way to bring you to Hogwarts long ago."

I quickly grab my butterbeer and begin drinking it to avoid the need to respond.

McGonagall, bless her, changes the subject. "Keep practicing Conjuration on your own, and you can meet with me a few times a week next term so that I may help you. You needn't live 'like an animal' anymore."

I smile, tears in my eyes, but say, "You don't have to, Professor. I realize you're a busy person, you have a lot to take care of here at Hogwarts. I can't distract you, not when someone like Umbridge is systematically trying to destroy the school."

"Umbridge will be gone soon enough, I'm sure," she says with a smile. "The Defense Against the Dark Arts professors never last more than a year. And in any case, what sort of professor would I be if I didn't try to help my students excel?"

"Are . . . are you sure?"

She nods. "Yes. I will send you a note at breakfast on the days we can meet."

"Thank—thank you, Professor."

We finish our butterbeers shortly after that, and I say goodbye and quickly leave.

Having now acknowledged my similarities to Bellatrix, I feel nearly free. This weight is off my shoulders, a weight I hadn't even realized was there. Although I am the daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange, I am not destined to be like her, and the mistakes in my past, though I cannot forgive them myself, will not rule my life.

Despite this newfound relief, I make it a point not to leave the Slytherin Dungeons for the rest of the Christmas holidays. Perhaps, if given a few days, McGonagall will truly realize what I have done and will decide that I am a monster worthy of being despised, so I am giving her that time to figure it out before risking being in her presence again.

Dobby brings me food when I ask for it, and Snape makes an appearance shortly after dinner each night ("I must ensure you're still alive, Rodgers. The Dark Lord will be most unpleased if you die under my watch."), but other than that, I have no contact with anyone for the rest of the break.

So the Slytherin Dungeons is where I find myself on what I assume is the last day before the rest of the students return. I'm in the nicest chair in the common room, sitting by the fire, practicing Conjuration. Just yesterday, after Conjuring a quill repeatedly for an hour without fail, I started attempting to Conjure larger things. For instance, a snuffbox. I'm going on my second hour of attempting this when the common room door opens. I sigh and turn around, prepared to snap at Snape for arriving early to ensure I am still breathing, but see what looks like a second-year, not Snape. She smiles happily and bounds up the stairs.

I sit there, bracing myself for his arrival, but even half an hour of preparation is not enough to keep my heart from splintering when Draco steps into the common room. His eyes lock with mine, and without saying a word to his posse, he walks straight for me. "Could we talk?" he whispers.

I nod, and he takes me by the arm and leads me out of the dungeons in silence until we reach the colonnade at the Viaduct Courtyard and sit down. "Charlotte, I . . ." He takes my hand and hangs his head. "I didn't . . . this wasn't . . . of all the things . . ." He takes a long, shaky breath. "I'm so sorry. Sorry about what happened between us—sorry about the . . . the You-Know-Who thing."

"None of it's your fault," I say, unable to look at him. "You have no reason to apologize."

"Of all the ways that we could have—I never would have imagined . . . cousins?" Draco seems unable to fully finish anything he's trying to say, and I can't blame him as I am also finding it difficult to speak right now as well.

"I know."

He reaches to wipe the tears from my cheeks but stops himself. "It can't end this way."

"But it has to."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a watch—Alphard Black's pocket watch. "I would have, you know, sent this with the rest of your stuff, but—but I wanted to give it back in person." He opens my hand, places the watch in it, and then closes my fingers around it. "I'm so sorry."

We sit there for a moment in silence before I finally stand to my feet, unable to be around him for much longer right now. He stands up quickly and pulls me into his arms, resting his head atop mine. I lean into his chest, and we stand there together, crying, for nearly ten minutes, ignoring the curious looks of students who happen to wander by. "Goodbye, Charlotte," he whispers.

"Goodbye, Draco."

We pull away from each other, and Draco leans in to kiss me but stops, redirecting his lips to my forehead. Then he walks away.

I simply walk around the castle a while, not really wanting to face the Slytherin Dungeons when there are other students, and by the time I return, many of them have left the common room, which is a relief because the fewer Slytherins around, the quieter it can be, and the faster I can go to sleep and pretend none of today happened. As I start up the stairs, someone yells, "Hey, Rodgers!" I turn around to see none other than Pansy Parkinson smiling maliciously. "I heard about you and Draco!" She is positively gleeful. "What'd you do?"

"It was mutual. Family issues."

"The Malfoys didn't like you tarnishing Draco's reputation, did they? Good for them." I turn back around and start back to bed. "Everyone knows, Charlotte. The whole House is talking about it."

"When there are so many other things to talk about? The Slytherins, the whole lot of you, must be starved for entertainment."

"At least you've come to terms with the fact that you're not one of us!" Pansy giggles. She seems to be following me. "You were never good enough for him anyway. I'm sure you know that now though, don't you?"

"If I agree with you, will you leave me alone so I can go to sleep?"

"You better not have ruined his Christmas," she hisses before turning around and leaving me standing there.

I look over at my trunk and debate drinking some of the Elixir to Induce Euphoria. I decide against it—hoarding it until I have to face Voldemort feels like a better idea.

I crawl onto my bed and close the curtain.

Not long after, I hear a knock on the bedframe. "Hey, Charlotte," someone says, their voice kind.

I sigh loudly. "Pansy, if you don't leave me alone, I'm going to—"

"I'm not Pansy," the voice answers. "Can I open the curtain?"

I make a noncommittal noise, and Daphne Greengrass pokes her head around the curtain. "What do you want? Because if you're here to ask about—"

"I'm not. Mind if I sit?" I watch her, my brows furrowed. She moves slowly to sit down on the foot of my bed, and when I don't immediately stop her, she takes a seat and pulls her legs beneath her, then closes the curtain back. "I want to apologize for whatever Pansy might do in the—"

"So this is inadvertently about Draco then?"

"Um . . ." She clicks her tongue. "She's going to be cruel. And I just wanted to say—well, you don't deserve that." I actually smile at her, though I don't know why. Then she pulls a Chocolate Frog from her pocket and places it beside me. "For when you're sad." She grins at me as she slides off the bed. "You were too good for him, anyway, you know. You're not a pureblood supremacist. Take it from someone who has spent most of her time around them for the past five years, they're exhausting." She disappears, and I grab the candy she gave me.

Perhaps another day of solitude will do me some good. I'll just skip class tomorrow. After all, I just found out my mother is Bellatrix Lestrange. That's a good enough reason to skip a day of class, right?