CHAPTER 21

After yet another failed lesson with Snape, I'm sitting at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall for breakfast, Daphne next to me, Astoria and Grant across from us, Malcolm a few seats down with the other fourth-years I saw him with last year, but I can't focus on anything they're saying. And no, that's not because each of them is still trying to get me to admit that Christopher Collins resembles me, which at this point I'm mainly refusing to do out of pride.

No, I can't focus on them because my eyes keep finding Draco, who seems different somehow.

I have just managed to steel my nerves, now planning to go speak with Harry, when someone shouts my name, and though surrendering my attention is undoubtedly not in my best interest, I look over and see Christopher Collins waving at me as he and three other first-years approach me. "This is perfect," Daphne whispers excitedly, nearly bouncing up on her seat.

I roll my eyes at her and say, "I'm gonna need you to stop talking."

She just smiles sweetly, innocently, back at me. "Very well."

"Charlotte," Christopher says when he finally comes to a stop in front of me, "for a moment there, I thought you were going to ignore me."

"Why would I do that?" I ask, my eyes darting over to the Gryffindor table where I wish to be speaking with Harry right now rather than these first-years.

Christopher's gaze follows mine. "Do you know them? Harry Potter and his friends?"

I look back at the four students in front of me. "Somewhat. I wouldn't consider them close. Why?"

"I wanted to meet him. He's the Chosen One or something, right? The one who can bring down You-Know-Who?"

Now it makes sense. That's why the kid is trying to get me to tutor him. He wants to meet Harry and figures I know Harry because we're in the same year. "I'm afraid I'm not the one who would be able to introduce you. I don't know them that well."

"That's a shame." His voice is quiet. I take this opportunity to look back at the Greengrass sisters with wide, pleading eyes.

"Charlotte, where are your manners?" Astoria asks. I could hit almost hit her right now. She directs her attention to the three other first-years timidly standing behind Christopher. "I'm Astoria. This is Daphne, Grant, and Charlotte."

A brown-eyed girl with frizzy blonde hair smiles at her and offers her an awkward wave. "I'm Ella Burns. Sorry Christopher didn't introduce us." The boy clears his throat and looks down at his feet. "This is Julia Mitchells"—a girl with pretty brown skin smiles shyly in a way that reminds me of Zoe—"and Jacob Butler"—the swarthy boy with dreadlocks to his shoulders who seemed awestruck by Draco giving away butterbeer grins at me.

The boy called Jacob speaks up, his eyes on me, "Are you the one who'll be tutoring us in Transfiguration?"

My mouth falls open, my eyes moving to Christopher, but before either of us has a chance to reply, Daphne pipes up with, "Yes, she is."

With a short breath of relief, Christopher says, "I hope you don't mind a few more for our lessons."

"Of course she doesn't!" Astoria says, smiling too broadly for my liking.

"Good, because—"

"I never even agreed to tutor you!"

"Sure you did," Christopher says. "Remember—it was last night—I said something about it, and you didn't say no."

"THAT DOESN'T MEAN—" I take a breath and lower my voice. "That doesn't mean I agreed. You walked off before I could answer."

"Oh." Then he looks at his friends.

"But Christopher told us that you were different than the others!" Ella says. "He told us that you were nice, that you wouldn't mind helping us! None of the N.E.W.T.-level students will even listen to us, they say they're too busy."

I groan, deeply uninterested in dealing with these children due to the rest of the responsibilities on my plate at the moment—Voldemort's plan for me approaching and my Occlumency lessons and my N.E.W.T. level classes—but before I can say this, Grant says, "Hey now, not all of us N.E.W.T.-level students are that heartless."

"Then will you help us?" she asks him.

He laughs. "I'm complete rubbish at Transfiguration. I hardly got an 'Acceptable' on that O.W.L., but Charlotte here is already learning to Conjure things, aren't you, Charlotte?"

"Sparkford."

"Just bragging on your accomplishments is all. I left my Potions book in the dorm." With a small wave, he stands and walks away, turning back at Great Hall entrance to look over at us all and laugh once more.

"Please," Ella whispers, "we need help. None of us are any good at Transfiguration."

"Why don't you go to McGonagall? She's the professor. And I'm positive she wouldn't mind helping you. Besides, you just started the term yesterday, so how can you possibly know that you're not good at it?"

Christopher's face becomes serious. "Because we couldn't really even understand her when she was just trying to explain what Transfiguration is. And do you really think the other Slytherins would appreciate us going to the Head of Gryffindor House for help?"

I sigh. "Does it really matter what the Slytherins think? I went to McGonagall for help many times last year and—"

Astoria quickly says, "Many of the Slytherins who know that are not your biggest fans."

"That's not why—"

"Do you really want these kids to suffer the same fate as you? For seven years?" If looks could kill, she would be dead three times over.

"Yeah!" Ella says. "We've got seven more years here at Hogwarts"—I don't have the heart to tell her that with Voldemort gaining power that might not be entirely true—"and we'll be the ones who have to deal with all of them for the remainder of our schooling."

"If the other Slytherins dislike people who go to McGonagall for help, then they already dislike me. Being around me will make my bad reputation rub off on you. So you might as well go to McGonagall."

"But there's kind of a buffer if it's you because you're not as bad as McGonagall—in their minds. You're bad, but not that bad," Daphne says with an obnoxiously exaggerated wink, her broad smile reaching her eyes.

I glance at Julia, whose eyes are staring intently down at something near her feet, then look back to the other three. "What makes you think I'm any different than the other Slytherins? I mean—come on, Christopher—the first time you ever spoke to me was when I was hitting unsuspecting young students with spells for my own entertainment. Does that sound like the personality of someone who wants to help four first years with their studies?"

"It sounds like someone who has too much time on their hands to me," Jacob says.

Astoria's laughter nearly bursts my eardrum. Then she whispers to me, "Were you not the one who, just yesterday, was talking about how much free time you had this year?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose and huff, then quickly pull my hand away and look at it like it's a foreign object. Snape does that same thing when he's frustrated with me. This must be what he feels like when I annoy him. If that's true, I've got some serious apologizing to do. "I . . . there's a lot going on in my life. I don't think—"

"A lot in your life?" Jacob asks. "Like what? Hitting innocent people with jinxes for your own personal entertainment?"

My eyes flare at him. "Jacob!" Christopher exclaims angrily.

"What? I'm just calling it like it is."

I grimace at Jacob, my eyes full of hot anger, but he does not back down. "My life has been on course for tragedy since I was younger than you are now. So, if you'll please excuse me for trying to add a bit of joy to my life. And if that little bit of joy involves disturbing unsuspecting students, then so be it."

All four first-years are silent for a few moments. I look between each of them one last time, only the little girl named Julia not meeting my eyes, before looking away and grabbing a piece of toast and angrily ripping off a bite. "Let's go," Jacob says, "she's no better than the rest. She's arrogant and full of herself, just like the others. They think too highly of themselves to help the likes of us, never mind the fact that they were once in our shoes." I was never in their shoes.

"Jacob, wait!" Christopher calls after his friend. His hand grabs my shoulder, and he looks at me pleadingly. "He didn't mean it, Charlotte. We really do need your help. Please forgive him. Please help us."

I close my eyes. They'll never understand, and even if they would understand, I can't tell them. I'm about to say as much when a small voice says, "He didn't mean it, Miss Rodgers." My eyes jerk open without my full consent at the sound of Julia speaking for the first time. "Please help us." Her dark eyes are wide and almost fearful—something about the expression on her face strikes me as very Zoe-esque mixed with something part of me does not want to acknowledge, and sharp, sudden pain spikes through my chest.

"Fine," I grumble. "Every Saturday after lunch, down by the lake." I would have denied helping them had it not been for that little shy girl. I meet her eyes. "Call me 'Charlotte,' not 'Miss Rodgers.' I'm not really that old." I turn to Daphne. "And you'll be joining us."

"Every week?"

"Every week. You're in McGonagall's N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration class with me, so you're going to be there." My eyes land on Astoria. "And you're coming too. You can work on your homework down there."

I look back to the four first-years, each of whom smile nervously before wandering off. I push my plate aside and slam my head into the table. Damn those stupid kids. I can't deal with this. Why did I agree to this? Is there really a need to ask? Aside from Julia reminding me of Zoe, they remind me of some of those poor children in the orphanage, the ones who were scared of going to Mrs. Stoico for help, the ones who came to me for help even though I was not more than a year older than they were.

Daphne laughs quietly for a second. "Charlotte—"

"Not a word, Greengrass," I mutter, not bothering to lift my head from the table. "Whose side are you on anyway?"

"I'm on whatever side stops the first-years from becoming prejudiced little bastards like so many of the Slytherins our age. If we can turn just those four away from Malfoy, I will consider us to be a success."

"Ugh, fine, I guess you have a point." Owls stream into the Great Hall, dropping letters and packages on the tables. Two owls swoop down to me, one dropping a letter and the other dropping both a package and a letter in front of me, and after stuffing them into my robes, I stand to my feet. "But I'm still not speaking to either of you right now." They both laugh as I walk away.

I glance at the Gryffindor table before leaving the Great Hall and—deciding to just go ahead and get this over with—walk over to the Golden Trio and sit down with them at the Gryffindor table, all of them now looking just as confused as I feel. "Charlotte?" Hermione asks.

"Hello."

"It's probably not a good idea for a Slytherin to be at the Gryffindor table," Ron says between his bites of toast.

"You're right, of course, but I need to speak with Harry." Then I meet Harry's bright green eyes. "About Draco."

Harry immediately perks up. "Have you learned something?"

I shake my head. "Why do you think he's up to something?"

"I just know."

"Harry—"

"No, Hermione. I know what I saw."

"None of us know what we saw," she counters. "We can't be sure what he was doing."

"What happened?" I ask them.

"Why do you need to know?" Ron asks.

I don't look away from Harry. "I need to know." He watches me carefully. "I need to know."

He pauses for a moment. "We saw him going into Borgin and Burkes—"

"Harry," Ron says, "how do you know we can trust her?"

Harry just looks at his best mate for a moment before saying, "Because she trusted us enough to know who she truly is." Though I dislike them talking about me as if I'm not right here, I don't interrupt. "Because she trusted us enough to tell us Voldemort's plan for her to join the Death Eaters. And if she can trust us in that, we can trust her in this." His eyes meet mine. I am an awful person. "He needed Borgin's help with something. I don't know what it was, but he was desperate, even showed Borgin something that terrified him. He said something about a Fenrir Greyback who would be checking on him periodically. Hermione went inside to find out what Draco had been up to, and Borgin became angry. We had to leave."

Draco had been adamant about knowing if I had gotten Bellatrix into the castle and how I had done it. What if he truly is trying to find a way to get Death Eaters into Hogwarts? But why would Voldemort want that? Snape—one of his most trusted followers—is still here.

"Do you know what he's doing?" Harry asks me quietly.

"No." I have an idea, but I'm not sure about it. And I'm certainly not sure why more Death Eaters would need to be here. What did Bellatrix say to me? Something about someone dying this year . . . Has Voldemort decided to send his followers to attack Harry while he's at Hogwarts? What kind of a fool would do such a thing with Albus Dumbledore here? "But I do believe he's up to something."

Harry looks at Ron and Hermione. "You see! He is doing something!"

"Harry," Hermione says, "just because she believes—no offense, Charlotte—that doesn't mean he's actually up to something."

"Look at the signs! Malfoy is a Death Eater! Just like his father, right, Charlotte?"

"Draco a Death Eater? I doubt it. Voldemort only allows the best witches and wizards into his Inner Circle. I don't think Draco fits the bill." But is that true? Could Draco be a Death Eater? It does make sense that he would be, but I can't be sure. Snape said nothing about that. Harry turns away from me, obviously frustrated, and I don't blame him. Even I find myself rather frustrated as well, so I stand, glancing at the staff table to find Snape watching me curiously, and leave the Golden Trio and the Great Hall behind me, making my way to the library.

I throw my legs up onto the chair across the table from me and glance around the library. Only a handful of others are in here, and I take this time, my break before my first class of the day (N.E.W.T. Transfiguration with McGonagall) to read the letters I have received from Fred and Zoe. I open Fred's first.

Dear Charlotte,

I can't explain to you how relieved I am that you're out of Malfoy Manor and are safe. It's like I can take my first real deep breath in weeks. George says I was too worried, that you can more than watch out for yourself, but can you really blame me for being sick with concern? You were trapped, magicless, with Bellatrix Lestrange. George has since explained to me that it was his feeble attempt to calm me. Didn't work very well, did it?

However, he's really happy that I can finally devote my full attention to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes rather than constantly thinking up ways to rescue you from the manor. Speaking of the shop, George and I went out to celebrate Filch's hatred of us and our ingenious products. I've sent you one of our Portable Swamps as a greeting to Filch from us. Tell Peeves to direct you to the best place to use it, tell him Fred and George Weasley have sent you. He'll listen. Just don't get caught.

What classes are you taking? I can't be of much help, George and I hardly scrounged five O.W.L.s together, but you can complain about the workload if you want. Just keep writing me, it doesn't matter if you think it's unimportant.

I know you must simply be aching from how much you miss me, but don't let that distract you from your work, yeah?

Love,
Fred

I do miss him, though I would never admit to him just how much. I open the package he sent, smiling at his words. The twins' Portable Swamp greets me. Hopefully Peeves will be willing to help me. Merlin knows I won't be able to do this alone.

I reach into my bag and pull out parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink to begin writing my response.

Dear Fred,

My smile returns as I write back to him. I tell him how honored I am that he was so worried about me and ask him to apologize to George on my behalf. I never meant for my situation—well, my lie of being trapped inside Malfoy Manor—to distract him from his work. Not for the first time, I desperately want to tell him the truth, the full truth, but I can't do it. I am too afraid of what he'll do, how he'll react, what he might say. He brings me the most joy of anyone in my life, and risking that when there's a clock ticking away until my slavery is something I am simply unwilling to do.

I quickly try to squash down my ever-rising guilt by changing the subject. Though I slightly fear Peeves's reaction to me asking for his help, I swear to Fred that I will unleash the Portable Swamp somewhere in the castle where it can annoy Filch the most.

I'm taking Transfiguration, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Arithmancy. And don't worry, I won't force you and George to help me. Did I tell you that Snape got the DADA post? We've had one class, and he's only tried teaching us nonverbal spells so far . . .

I briefly describe to him what Harry said to Snape, knowing how much he will enjoy hearing about it. Then I take a breath and decide to tell him the truth. Well, one of the truths.

I'm trying to join the Order of the Phoenix. I'll come of age at the end of November, and I plan to join. Of course, I'm in a certain amount of danger because of the position I'm in with You-Know-Who, so I'm learning Occlumency. Which works out well for us, because He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will not learn of our relationship. I don't know what I'd do if you were endangered because the Dark Lord read my mind and saw how much I love you.

I will try not to let the Fred-sized, aching hole in my heart distract me too much. And I implore you to do the same. After all, I can only assume you miss me as much as I miss you.

Love,
Charlotte

By the time I have finished my letter to Fred, I hardly have enough time to stuff the writing materials, as well as the Portable Swamp, into my bag and rush off to McGonagall's classroom for Transfiguration. Nonverbal spells is the main focus of this class as well, so I don't really have to put forth that much effort. While Daphne tries in vain to jinx me nonverbally, I try in vain to Conjure something silently.

Beside us, Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott try to jinx each other silently as well. "I hate this," Zabini huffs quietly to the three of us.

Nott sighs loudly, then says, "Yeah, I thought it'd be enough to work on this in Professor Snape's class, but in Transfiguration too?"

"Well, apparently it's important," I say to them. "I don't know. At least it's the same thing, so homework should be fairly simple, right?"

Daphne frowns. "I suppose you have a point, but it doesn't make this any better."

Zabini clenches his teeth together, his wand shaking furiously as he tries to jinx Theodore. He lets out a deep breath, then repeats, "I hate this."

"It could be much worse," I try again.

"Can the two of you stop trying to act so positive and rant with me and Nott?"

I laugh in spite of myself. "Fine. Nonverbal spells are dreadful."

"Damn right."

"Zabini!" McGonagall snaps.

He ducks his head in an awkward attempt at a silent apology. "Whoops," he whispers, smiling. A heartbeat later he drops his wand. "I need a break, or I'm going to burst a blood vessel in my brain. Try to jinx me, Nott."

Daphne lowers her wand and motions for me to start trying to jinx her as well.

"You're not in Potions," Zabini says to me.

"I didn't do well on the O.W.L.," I say.

He shrugs. "Slughorn's interesting."

"I get a weird feeling about him," Daphne says.

"Probably because you're not in line to be one of his favorites," Zabini says, not maliciously. "But I'm not so sure if that's a good or bad thing."

McGonagall walks over toward me and Daphne. "See me after class, Rodgers."

"Yes, Professor."

She walks to another pair of students to monitor their progress.

"In trouble, Rodgers?" Nott chuckles.

"Who knows?" I sigh, though I'm fairly certain I'm not in any sort of trouble.

When class finally comes to an end, I wait until all of the other students have left before approaching McGonagall's desk. "Professor," I start, "is this going to be another thing about how you don't want to see me underachieve in your class again?"

She glances at me, and I can almost swear she smiles. "No, Rodgers, this is about your lessons in Conjuration."

"What . . . what about them?" I ask, trying to stop the hope rising in my chest.

"I believe you have Thursdays free?"

"Yes, Professor."

"I do not teach a class on Thursdays right after lunch. We can continue your lessons on those days when I can, which I will know the day of and will let you know at breakfast."

I smile broadly. "Thank you, Professor."

Her next class begins filing in, and I leave as quickly as possible.