CHAPTER 19

The next morning, not feeling the least bit guilty about this decision, I head down to the Great Hall for breakfast without waiting for Daphne and the others. I'm one of the first Slytherins down here, beaten only by a group of four first-years (including the boy Daphne doesn't want me meeting without her), and claim a seat nearly twenty chairs away from them.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. It does not matter that time is running short, I tell myself, I simply need to enjoy the time while I have it, I need to try learning everything that I can from Snape, I need to focus on my schooling and not my impending duty to Voldemort.

Someone sits down beside me, and I smile, opening my eyes, expecting it to be Daphne or one of the others, and am instantly disappointed to see none other than Draco Malfoy sitting close to me.

"Charlotte," he says blandly as a way of greeting.

"Draco," I reply in the same tone he used. "Was there a reason for the spectacle last night?"

"How were your holidays?"

"Are you really over here to ask me how my holidays were? That's so unlike you." He must want to know where I was. Voldemort had expressly forbidden anyone beyond himself, Narcissa and Lucius, Snape, and Bellatrix knowing where I was, and they were only allowed to know because I was travelling back and forth from the manor to Spinner's End. Draco should learn to keep to himself—it's safer for him that way.

His face drops, and he says sadly, "No, I'm not here to talk about that." I shift to face him more directly. He's not sounded this upset since we were forced to break up. "I . . . I never wanted us to wind up hating each other, Charlotte. I really didn't."

"We have that uneasy agreement, so I wouldn't really say we 'hate' each other." I smile as best as I can. "Things could be much worse."

"Stop joking," he hisses. "This is important. You've got to listen to me. Bad things are going to happen this year. I want you to be sure where your allegiances lie—I know you struggle with that—or things might just end badly for you."

"I assure you, Draco," I say, my eyes searching for an escape and landing on Daphne who is walking into the Great Hall without the others, "I'm going to be just fine. I have friends in high places." I stand up and start toward Daphne, hoping to use her as an excuse to get away from my cousin, but Draco jump to his feet and grabs my arm. I glare at him, my nostrils flaring, but he does not release me.

"Listen," he pleads, "I'm worried about you."

"Don't be." I jerk my arm free from him.

His voice full of desperation, he whispers, "Never refer to the Dark Lord as your friend, Charlotte. You don't know what he's truly capable of."

"He's not the friend I was speaking of, but I certainly do know what he's capable of. Make no mistake about that."

Again I try to storm off, but Draco grabs me once more. "You realize you can't leave now, right?" There's a hint of mockery in his voice. "Schedules are still in the process of being made for each of the students. You're stuck with me for at least another half-hour. Now, why don't you sit back down so we can talk like civil people?"

I scoff at him and lean in close to whisper, "I'm not going to be associated with anyone who willingly serves Voldemort."

Draco clenches his jaw. "Then you're in for a rough surprise, Charlotte. There are more followers of the Dark Lord around here than you might think." Is he talking about Snape? And does he really think that I don't know Snape is a Death Eater? And does he not suspect that Snape might be against Voldemort? Come to think of it, does anyone suspect Snape of actually being good? Most people just assume he's bad. No one really assumes he's good. Draco must believe my silence is me trying to piece together who might be a follower of Voldemort, for he smiles wickedly. "Have you spoken to your mother recently?"

This actually catches me off-guard. There's no way he knows about that. "What?"

"You know bloody well what. Bellatrix disappeared for almost an hour a week ago, when you arrived here for the start of the term."

"Are you accusing your dear aunt of something?"

"If you—" he stops. "If you've found a way to get them into the castle—"

"Them? Whatever do you mean?"

"You know what I mean! If you've gotten her into the castle, you'd better save us both some trouble and just tell me how. You will not take the honor that's due to me. Do I make myself plain?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." And this time, I'm being genuine. None of what he's saying makes any sense. Is he trying to get the Death Eaters into Hogwarts?

Draco's lip curls. "I have to do this to restore the Malfoy name. If you find a way to—" But he has to stop talking because in that moment Daphne finally reaches the two of us. "Greengrass."

"Malfoy." She glares at my cousin for a moment before saying to me, still not removing her eyes from Draco, "Come on, Charlotte, Astoria and the others sent me up here to find you and claim our spot at the table before the new first-years take it." I walk off with her, leaving Draco scowling in our wake. "The two of you were arguing. Care to talk about it?"

"He's still angry about the break up," I lie.

The two of us sit down just a few seats away from the first year Slytherins. "Malfoy really needs to get over that. It's almost been a year, yeah? And . . . and you're still with Fred Weasley, right?"

"That's another reason he's angry about it, honestly. He doesn't like that I'm with a 'blood traitor' now." Daphne shakes her head angrily, but the subject of Draco dies quickly when Astoria and Grant reach us. Halfway through breakfast, the delivery owls swoop in—two of them come to me. One drops just a letter, the other drops a small package with a letter tied onto it.

"Already receiving gifts?" Astoria asks, looking at the owls' deliveries. "I wonder who could have sent them."

I grin at her. "I have my suspicions."

Daphne pointedly looks away from the two of us and starts loading down her plate with food.

The four of us eat our food and chat lightly until Snape starts making his way down the table to hand out the new class schedules. Grant runs off to class the moment he gets his schedule, as does Astoria. I'm left with Daphne while we wait for our new schedule of N.E.W.T.-level classes.

Snape hands me my new schedule without another word, and I'm too busy looking over my schedule to listen as he pieces together Daphne's for her. I will be taking Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms, and Arithmancy.

For now though, I have a free period, the first of many awaiting me today. I wait for Snape to finalize Daphne's schedule before standing and grabbing up my letters and the package, as well as my schedule, and heading out of the Great Hal with plans to go down to the Slytherin Dungeon.

"I have a free period right now," I say as we step through the threshold. "What about you?"

"Herbology," she sighs.

"I got a 'D' in Herbology," I laugh.

She glances at me, her eyebrows raised. "We could've studied that harder together, you know. All you had to do was ask."

"I was at an extreme disadvantage with that class to begin with, so I knew I wouldn't be able to get an O.W.L. in it and didn't see any point in wasting time studying when I could be studying for other classes I actually stood a chance of passing." I smile at her surprised look before saying goodbye and heading to the dungeons.

I take a seat at one of the tables and begin opening my letters.

Dear Charlotte,

Are you safe? Are you all right? The term should have started today, which means you should be safely away from Malfoy Manor. They didn't hurt you, did they?

Love,
Fred

I smile at his worried letter and begin to write back to him, explaining that, yes, I am fine and that, yes, I am safely away from the manor and my mother and that, no, I was not harmed. I feel horrid lying to him like this, letting him believe that I was trapped in Malfoy Manor with Bellatrix, but it can't really be helped if I am to keep Snape's Death Eater status a secret.

I also tell Fred about Filch banning all products from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, anything to make myself feel a tiny bit better about lying to the one I love.

I ignore the guilt in my gut and open the next letter.

Dear Charlotte,

He actually followed you around the castle? I can just imagine! You should have simply wandered about in an effort to annoy him! Marcus, I will be disappointed in you if you tell me that you didn't do whatever it took to irritate him.

I got Milo about a week after I moved to Hogsmeade. He's very good company, actually. He doesn't need much, so when I get home after a long day at work, it's nice to just be quiet with him.

You've inspired me. I am currently painting the daring rescue you described. I've sent you a rough sketch of it, it's in the front cover of the book. Oh, by the way, I've sent you a book. You said you've never read Marcus Aurelius' Mediations. Your own namesake! So I sent it, hoping to rectify this unforgivable oversight. You should read it in all the spare time you'll have this year. Speaking of, how much free time do you actually have? I had loads of it my sixth and seventh years.

Zoe goes on to explain just how great it's been for her to be working at the Three Broomsticks. I smile as I read it, happy for her but a bit jealous too. She has a normal life with normal goals and is doing her best to achieve them. I, on the other hand, have only one goal, and it's certainly not a normal goal: I just want to avoid having Voldemort's child.

I have to remind myself that Zoe's not at fault for my current predicament.

Let me know when the Hogsmeade weekends are, and I can ask off those days.

Sincerely,
Zoe

P.S. "The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts." – Marcus Aurelius

I turn my attention to the package wrapped in brown paper and rip it open, already expecting the Marcus Aurelius book. That's not what I want to see right now. What I want to see right now is the drawing of her rescuing me. Just as Zoe said, the sketch is in the front cover, folded in half. I pull it out and gingerly peel it open. A laugh escapes me.

Zoe, wearing her Muggle clothes, sits atop a hippogriff, a large drawn sword high in the air, her wand pointed at Snape who stands just in front of the doors to Hogwarts, a look of terror on his face. I am attempting to climb onto the back of her hippogriff, my wand also aimed at the professor, who seems unsure which of us poses the worse threat.

I can just imagine Snape's face if he were to see this—he would probably burn it. With that in mind, I carry it up to my bed and place it safely in my trunk, then rush off to the Owlery to send the letters back to Zoe and Fred.

I wait by the lake until it is time for my first class of the day, Defense Against the Dark Arts. Towards the end of the holidays, when I stopped trying to run away and stopped being difficult to be around in general, Snape became much more agreeable, but as he would never show favoritism or kindness toward me in class, I'm hoping for him to be neutral toward me. When I reach the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, a line of students already waits for his arrival, and as I take my place in the large group of students, I hear Hermione exclaim to Ron and Harry, "We got so much homework for Runes. A fifteen-inch essay, two translations, and I've got to read these by Wednesday!" I'm slightly happy I did not do well enough of the Study of Ancient Runes O.W.L.

"Shame," Ron yawns.

"You wait," she all but growls back at him. "I bet Snape gives us loads."

As if summoned by the sound of his name, Snape opens the door and commands us all inside. It seems the he's already put his own personal flare to the room. Which means the classroom is just as dark as Spinner's End: the curtains are drawn over the windows, leaving just candles to light the whole space. Horrid and gruesome deaths depicted in paintings around the room warn each of the students to take this class seriously. Regardless of how gloomy this room is compared to when Umbridge controlled it, my spirits are oddly high. I'm not dreading this class like so many of the other students who are struggling to hide their feelings about Snape taking over the Defense Against the Dark Arts post. He was an excellent teacher to me over the holidays.

"I have not asked you to take out your books," Snape says from the back of the classroom as he closes the door and walks through the aisle to the back of his desk. I see Hermione quickly hide hers in her bag and stow it under her chair. "I wish to speak to you, and I want your fullest attention." He scans the room with his black eyes. "You have had five teachers in this subject so far, I believe." I've only had one, and no matter what anyone says, Snape is far superior to her.

"Naturally, these teachers will all have had their own methods and priorities. Given this confusion, I am surprised so many of you scraped an O.W.L. in this subject. I shall be even more surprised if all of you manage to keep up with the N.E.W.T. work, which will be much more advanced."

Snape moves to the edge of the room. He's relatively close to me, so I don't have to strain to hear him or crane my neck to see him like many of the others in the back are doing. "The Dark Arts," he says softly, "are many, varied, ever-changing, and eternal. Fighting them is like fighting a many-headed monster, which, each time a neck is severed, sprouts a head even fiercer and cleverer than before." This analogy does not make me feel any better about defying Voldemort, the greatest Dark Wizard of all time. "You are fighting that which is unfixed, mutating, indestructible." The tone in his voice, in conjunction with the words he says, makes me uneasy in a way I have never experienced. Given the truth of his words, how can I possibly expect to ever escape Voldemort?

Daphne sits beside me, watching Snape with a sort of rapt attention that I'm sure he must just love. It probably makes him feel important.

"Your defenses," Snape continues, slightly louder now, "must therefore be as flexible and inventive as the arts you seek to undo. These pictures"—he indicates a few that make me shudder—"give a fair representation of what happens to those who suffer, for instance, the Cruciatus Curse"—I'd say the painting of the shrieking witch captures the essence of a person in agony, but it certainly doesn't begin to explain the pain that comes from that particular curse—"feel the Dementor's Kiss"—the picture shows a blank-eyed man huddled against a wall sends a chill down my spine; my parents were in danger of that for so many years in Azkaban—"or provoke the aggression of the Inferius"—that painting is just a bloody mass upon the ground.

"Has an Inferius been seen then?" a girl asks. "Is it definite, is he using them?"

"The Dark Lord has used Inferi in the past, which means you would be well-advised to assume he might use them again." The last thing I want to think about is Voldemort using the undead in his army. "Now"—Snape makes his way to his desk, his robes billowing behind him—"you are, I believe, complete novices in the use of nonverbal spells. What is the advantage of a nonverbal spell?" It's like I'm back in his basement-dungeon again.

Hermione's hand shoots into the air. His eyes sweep over the classroom, searching for anyone to call on other than Hermione, and I meet his gaze. He knows I know the answer (I mean, he taught me so of course he knows I know the answer), and his eyes rest on mine for a second. When I don't raise my hand, he curtly says, "Very well—Miss Granger?"

"Your adversary has no warning about what kind of magic you're about to perform, which gives you a split-second advantage."

"An answer copied almost word for word from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six, but correct in its essentials," Snape says airily. Draco sniggers, and though I can't see him, I have no doubt that it is he who made the noise. I don't know why this irritates me much more than it once did, but I suddenly feel very defensive of Hermione and want to silence Draco. "Yes, those who progress to using magic without shouting incantations gain an element of surprise in their spell-casting. Not all wizards can do this, of course; it is a question of concentration and mind power which some"—his eyes linger somewhere behind me in the general direction I know Harry to be sitting—"lack."

Despite the fact that he said this likely only as a way to subtly attack Harry, a sense of pride, of accomplishment, surges in me due to my success over the summer in nonverbals spells.

"You will now divide into pairs. One partner will attempt to jinx the other without speaking. The other will attempt to repel the jinx in equal silence. Carry on."

As I walk past Snape's desk, he murmurs to me, "The holiday lessons never happened. You are as novice as the rest." I nod without looking at him.

I pair up with Daphne, who looks more nervous now than she's ever looked in a DADA class. For the first few minutes of her attempts, her eyes bulge with the intensity of her concentration, and I try not to laugh at the facial expressions she makes. While I'm on guard and ready throw a shield up in case she manages to succeed, it seems doubtful that it will happen this soon.

Ten minutes into the lesson, Hermione manages to repel Neville's jinx, and a certain resentfulness and jealousy flare in me because nonverbals spells took me forever to learn and an incredible amount of emotional damage that led to a breakdown, yet she makes it look so damn easy. So unfair.

"Pathetic, Weasley," Snape says a short while later. I turn to see him glaring at Ron and Harry. "Here—let me show you—"

He turns his wand on Harry who shouts, "Protego!"

Harry's Shield Charm is so strong that it knocks Snape off-balance and causes him to stumble back against a desk. The whole class turns to watch as Snape rights himself, scowling. "Do you remember me telling you we are practicing nonverbal spells, Potter?"

"Yes."

"Yes, sir," Snape corrects.

"There's no need to call me 'sir,' Professor."

Ron, Seamus, and Dean grin at Harry, all safely hidden from Snape's line of sight. Many students gasp, Hermione included. My mouth drops open and refuses to close as I watch everything unfold. If Snape wasn't a professor, I'm sure he would attack Harry, likely resulting in permanent damage, but he is a professor and Harry is his student, so he punishes the way a professor does. "Detention, Saturday night, my office. I do not take cheek from anyone, Potter . . . not even 'the Chosen One.'"

Having said many more disrespectful things to Snape than that in the time I've known him, I'm surprised to see how furious Snape gets with Harry for something so benign. You're also not the child of the man who assaulted him, and Voldemort wants you to be safe at Hogwarts. Both of which are probably to thank for Snape's patience with me compared to Harry.

I look over and see Daphne smiling at the scene, confusion and shock on her face, and it makes me smile as well.

In that moment that it hits me: It actually feels good to be back at Hogwarts with my friends. While already different than last year, of course, and though I miss Fred and Zoe, it feels good to be here. Safe.

Later that day, I find Harry speaking with Ron and Hermione, as usual. Hermione seems rather upset with Harry, probably over what happened in DADA class, but I can't be sure. Someone hands him a parchment, and as he's tucking it into his robes, the three of them chatter excitedly over whatever the paper must have said. The moment I get close enough, Harry immediately asks, "Are you still sure that Snape isn't loyal to Voldemort? Has nothing changed? Did you see him at the meetings over the holidays? Has Voldemort mentioned his name?"

I gape, not having been prepared for any kind of interrogation. "I . . ." So caught off guard, I can't find any words.

"What about Malfoy?" he asks next. Why is he bombarding me with questions? "What is he doing for Voldemort? Do you know? What's he planning?"

I stare at him for a second while all of his questions process in my mind. "Um . . . no, Snape is not loyal to Voldemort, as far as I know." A lot has changed, so I just won't answer that question. "I didn't see him in any of the meetings." Because I wasn't there, of course, but he doesn't need to know that detail. I ignore the question of Voldemort mentioning his name. "And I don't know about Draco. If he's doing something, I would like to know as well."

This isn't the answer Harry wanted. "Let me know if something changes," he says. Then he leaves with Ron and Hermione, who seem as equally confused about Harry's string of questions as I am. They're going to Potions, and a twinge of jealousy brings my mood down. I would have liked to take that class too. Instead, I slowly make my way to Snape's office.