CHAPTER 12
In Arithmancy, Hermione informed me of some sort of meeting in the Hog's Head during our weekend at Hogsmeade, and I simply must know what that is about. Umbridge? Voldemort? It could be anything, which to me means I must be there, but I am missing the one thing Snape said was required to visit Hogsmeade: a permission slip. I mention this again to Draco. "Do you think anyone will notice if I go down to Hogsmeade without permission? I mean, will anyone be looking for a fifth-year student's permission slip, or will they just assume I have it since I'm not a third-year?"
"Filch—the caretaker—can be relentless." He grins at me. "But I anticipated this issue and have already found a remedy." He produces a permission slip from his robes. "I duplicated one from a third-year. Watch this." With a wave of his wand, the third-year's name changes to mine. "Now, whose name should we sign this with?"
A frown comes to my face. There's no one to impersonate, no one whose signature I can forge because there's no one in my life who fills that role. Technically, according to Snape, the Malfoys are my guardians now, but Draco doesn't really need to know that because that'll just cause more issues or bring up more questions. For a few seconds, I consider his question and finally suggest, "Arabella Stoico."
"Who?"
"My guardian from when I lived at the orphanage."
His brow furrows. "You—you were in an orphanage?"
"Well, yeah, after my mum died, I didn't have much else of a choice."
He frowns. "I didn't realize you had no family to take you in after her death."
I shrug, say, "I don't really talk about it," and motion for him to continue with the permission slip.
With another wave of his wand, Mrs. Stoico's name appears on the parental signature line. "Keep this on you, and if Filch asks for a slip, give it to him and go straight to Hogsmeade. By the time he checks it with Snape, you'll already be in the village. Though, if you walk in a group of fifth-years and above, it's unlikely he'll even question you. He only really knows the problematic students, so he might just assume he's never had any run-ins with you. It'll be fine."
"You're not going to Hogsmeade?"
"Not this time, but I'll show you around more of Hogsmeade next time."
Though my curiosity wants to know what he'll be doing instead, it's a relief that he won't be joining because it'll be easier for me to go to the Hog's Head and find out what Harry is up to without worrying about finding a way to ditch Draco somewhere.
"Don't do anything too interesting without me," he says as I start toward the entrance hall.
"No promises." He grins at me, and I turn the corner and hurry to join a large group of other students ahead of me who appear to be going into Hogsmeade (if their general excitement and trajectory toward the exit are indications of their plans).
For the first time in five years, I find myself walking among a large group of people nearly my age—Draco and his posse are too few to consider them a large group. The last time this happened, I was still at the orphanage, going to a normal Muggle school with other children. It's almost strange how I can be in a group like this for the first time in many years and yet still feel utterly alone. And while that shouldn't bother me considering my desperation for some alone time, I dislike this feeling, like I'm set apart from the students here at Hogwarts—I've been marked for a duty that will ruin my life that will befall me in only a matter of time.
We step into the village, and I start down a street, hoping to stumble across the Hog's Head in time for the meeting. While I could probably ask a resident for directions, that would require speaking to someone about my intention to go there, which is something I'd like to keep to myself. The students I'm following break off to the right, and I continue straight, growing bitter at this feeling of loneliness. I should be allowed to be normal. Hogwarts has been my refuge for nearly a month and a half now, most of which I have spent around other people, but nothing feels right about it. It's not like I want to be around people, but when they are around, I would like to not feel forced to "other" myself. The fact that I am too old to be in my year does not help matters.
It'll just take time. Maybe if someone knew the truth about you, it would be easier to not have these walls up. That's not an option.
Three people carrying bags that read "Zonko's" turn onto the street I'm walking down.
I obviously cannot tell Draco everything, at least not yet. If he knows why I'm marked by Voldemort, he probably wouldn't consider being my friend an easy way to get into Voldemort's good graces. I doubt the Dark Lord will care that someone was kind to his chosen broodmare. And as he is the first real friend I've had in six years, potentially losing him is a risk not worth taking. Continuing to lie to him, even though doing so will cause issues down the line when he inevitably finds out that I've been lying, seems to be the only option currently. Hopefully, by the time he learns the truth about me, he will care too much to cut me off.
"We remember you," a voice says to me, causing me to jump. My thoughts of Draco distracted me so thoroughly that Fred and George were able to sidle up right next to me without my realizing. Another person walks with us on the far side of the twin on my right. "You've done a bang-up job of avoiding us the past few weeks, but we remember you."
"Which one are you again?" I ask the boy on my left, the one who just spoke.
"It'd be a lie to say that didn't hurt," he says. "How could you not recognize me? I'm Fred, and that's George."
"Why were you following us?" George asks.
"Yeah, why would a Slytherin care where two Gryffindors are going?" Fred interjects.
"After all, you're still dating Malfoy, right?" This comes from George. "Has he told you to follow us?"
"You wouldn't be spying on us for him, would you?" Fred asks.
"Who said I was dating Malfoy?"
"You're not?" Fred asks. "Why else would you bother spending any time with that git?"
"He's my friend, something I've been sorely lacking for many years now. That's why I spend time with him."
Fred narrows his eyes at me. "And your 'friend' didn't tell you to follow us?"
"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but you stepped out onto the street in front of me while I was going about my business. I would hardly call that following, would you?"
Fred smiles. "Where're you headed?"
"The Hog's Head."
"The Hog's Head?" His smile falters. "That place is a bit dodgy for someone like yourself to go alone, isn't it?" I almost believe he is sincere. That is, until his brother begins speaking.
"I think you're right, Freddie," George answers for me. Then he looks at me, "Charlotte—that is your name, right? Charlotte something? Why don't you go to the Three Broomsticks? That place is much safer, and there's better butterbeer there. No one makes it better than Madam Rosmerta."
"Is that where you're going?" I ask.
"No," says Fred.
"Then it can't be too good. I'm going to the Hog's Head. You're both free to join me so I won't be alone." They exchange glances. "Besides, Harry, Ron, and Hermione aren't meeting at a well-travelled place such as the Three Broomsticks, are they?"
"How do you know about that?" Fred asks abruptly.
I roll my eyes. "Hogwarts isn't exactly a place that keeps secrets that well, is it? Hermione told me."
Fred's brow furrows, but it is George who speaks. "But why would a Slytherin want to go against Umbridge? Wasn't she a Slytherin as well?" So, the meeting is an anti-Umbridge thing. Interesting. Are they planning to find a way to oust her from Hogwarts? "Malfoy and his cronies seem to like her just fine."
"I'm not his crony."
"Just his friend," Fred says, smiling.
"Yes, and I do not agree with their take on Umbridge at all. I don't need to know what Hogwarts was like before her to know she's ruining it." Fred's smile widens, his eyes searching my face, and my cheeks grow warm. We reach the doors to the Hog's Head, which is already full of students.
"You sure you're a Slytherin?" he asks. I enter the Hog's Head without answering.
Fred walks up to the barman who stands frozen, wearing a look of shock on his face as if he's never seen his place so packed, and asks for twenty-five butterbeers while I make my way far away from the bar and take a seat kind of in the back.
"Cheers," I hear Fred say. "Cough up, everyone, I haven't got enough gold for all of these . . ."
I make no move to take a butterbeer or pay Fred. Very little remains of my Hogwarts loan, and wasting it on a butterbeer is not how I intend to use it.
Hermione begins speaking. "Er . . . Well—er—hi."
"Well . . . erm . . . well, you know why you're here. Erm . . . well, Harry here had the idea—mean—I had the idea—that it might be good if people who want to study Defense Against the Dark Arts—and I mean, really study, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us"—her voice becomes stronger—"because nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts." One of the Ravenclaws—I think he's Ravenclaw?—shouts out encouragement, and Hermione becomes braver. "Well, I thought it we be good if we, well, took matters into our own hands."
She pauses and glances at Harry, then continues, "And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just theory but the real spells—"
"You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. too though, I bet?" someone asks.
I'm not sure Harry is completely on board with this—he looks rather queasy.
"Of course I do," Hermione answers. "But I want more than that, I want to be properly trained in Defense because . . . because," she takes a deep breath, "because Lord Voldemort's back." Some of the people shriek or make other involuntary movements, some spilling their drinks on themselves, some yelping, some shuddering. My reaction is to freeze, every muscle tensing and preparing for an attack, my heart rate quickening. They're not here; they're not here; they're not here.
Because they've already caught you. I close my eyes.
"Well . . . that's the plan anyway," Hermione says. "If you want to join us, we need to decide how we're going to—"
"Where's the proof that You-Know-Who's back?" a blond-headed boy asks.
Hermione tries reasoning, "Well, Dumbledore believes it—"
"You mean, Dumbledore believes him," the boy cuts her off, pointing at Harry.
It makes sense for people to have doubts. After all, nobody wants to accept the fact that Voldemort is back, but if they come to something like this, they should at least believe the backstory to all of it. If they don't, what is the point of coming? I need the doubters to leave. I need to learn more about Defense Against the Dark Arts, just in case the Death Eaters come for me again and there's no chance to distract them and run as I usually try to do. This subject should've been more important to me during my time on the run, but . . . it made things too real if I practiced it.
Now I regret that decision.
Because you already lost.
"What makes me say You-Know-Who's back?" I hear Harry ask them, which brings me back to the present. "I saw him." I stop listening there. He's seen Voldemort. What does a monster such as that look like? For some reason, I can picture him having long black hair and black eyes, but I soon realize I probably only think he looks like that because Snape does, and I dislike Snape and therefore want to compare the two of them.
I should run away again. I was successful for six years. I can do that again. The thought dies quickly—if I manage to hide for six years again, the next time they find me, they won't be throwing me into Hogwarts to hide me because I will be twenty-two, almost twenty-three years old, far outside the age of a Hogwarts student and left to the mercy of Voldemort. Where would he stash me then? A chill runs down my spine, nauseating me.
I've missed an important part of the conversation, because I hear Harry say, "I don't want to talk about Cedric Diggory, all right? So if that's what you're here for, you might as well clear out." Nobody moves.
"So," Hermione says. "So . . . like I was saying . . . if you want to learn some defense, then we need to work out how we're going to do it, how often we're going to meet, and where we're going to—"
"Is it true that you can produce a Patronus?"
"Yeah," Harry answers. I lean a little closer.
"A corporeal Patronus?"
Envy floods me. How did he learn to do that?
Everyone starts asking about what he's done, from killing a basilisk to saving the Sorcerer's Stone (whatever that is) to completing the tasks of the Triwizard Tournament. Harry tries to explain to them that he had help, but no one really wants to hear it. I don't understand why he's being modest, but I can understand him trying to get the limelight off himself. It can't be comfortable.
". . . are we agreed to take lessons from Harry?" Hermione asks.
Input comes from all over the room about how the lessons cannot interfere with this or that. Hermione agrees to come up with a time that works for everyone. The group of students proceeds to speculate why Umbridge doesn't want them to know Defense Against the Dark Arts, something about Dumbledore laying siege on the Ministry. Honestly, I stop listening. Too many opinions, too many voices, too much going on. The only thing I register from this point forward, despite bickering among some of the prefects and some mild trepidation regarding signing their names on a list of this meeting's attendees, is that the group needs somewhere to meet.
Briefly, I think of the big open room Draco took me to when we skipped Astronomy a few weeks back, but if this is something they want to hide from the likes of Umbridge, I can't recommend a place that Draco knows about, so I keep to myself.
Once my name is written down on the parchment Hermione produced, I move to the side and wait patiently for a chance to speak with the three of them.
I hang around outside the Hog's Head, waiting for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. When they step out, I immediately go to them. "Harry?"
"Who're you?" Ron asks me.
"She's the Slytherin I told you about," Hermione answers for me.
Wide smiles spread across the faces of Ron and Harry. "The one who Stunned Snape?" Ron asks me.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "That's me. Charlotte Rodgers."
"You hang around Malfoy, right?" Harry asks.
Heat rises to my face. "Yes."
"Why were you in there?" Harry nods to the Hog's Head.
"I want to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts." He doesn't hide his skepticism. "With You-Know-Who back, now's probably a good time to start learning it, yeah? And frankly, I wanted to meet you. I've read about you—not in the Prophet," I add quickly, seeing the expression on his face turn dark. "You survived an encounter—multiple encounters, I guess—with Voldemort. I don't want to keep you, just—"
"Does Malfoy know you're here?" Harry asks.
"No, and I don't intend to tell him. He has nothing good to say about you lot, and I'd rather not deal with a never-ending rant about you should he discover I was here. But I do want to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts, especially from someone who seems to know what they're doing."
"Didn't the professors at Durmstrang teach it well?" Hermione asks.
An uncomfortable laugh escapes me. "Defense is a little different. I didn't appreciate the Dark Arts."
They exchange a look, and before more questions can come my way, I say goodbye and hurry away, going straight back to the castle, regretting my choice to try speaking with them.
I've been in the Slytherin common room for a couple of hours, trying my hardest to work on either my homework or Conjuration but failing pathetically because it's not something I want to do right now. Despite my love for Transfiguration, there are other things that require my attention, and they are preventing me from really focusing on this task because right now would probably be my best chance. The Slytherin Quidditch team is practicing, which means Draco is not here to interrupt or stop me and won't be able to do so for nearly half an hour. Without another thought to talk me out of this horrid idea, I stand and leave the common room, glancing down the corridor and debating whether I should proceed.
My curiosity defeats my better judgment, and I start walking through the hallway, stopping at Snape's office door, my better judgment once again trying to convince me that this is a bad idea but losing once more to my curiosity. I knock on the door.
"Enter." I push the door open to find Snape brewing a potion. He turns and pauses when he sees me. "Rodgers?" He's obviously just as confused as my better judgment is. . . .
"Professor." He watches me closely, and it takes me too long to realize he's waiting for me to say why I came to his office. In truth, I am too. Why did I let myself do this? "You said I could come to you if I needed something since you already know about my duty . . ."
"And you refused my help," Snape replies. "Why would you change your mind? I'm sure Mr. Malfoy won't be at practice much longer. You can talk to him then." He turns his back toward me and begins his potion again, silently telling me that the discussion is over.
Annoyed at his complete dismissal, I blindly stampede out of his office and through the corridor, not paying attention until I smash into Draco as he leaves the common room. "What's wrong?" he asks me after he steadies himself on his feet again. "I've been looking for you."
"Practice over already?" I ask him, ignoring his question.
"Yeah, we finished early."
"How'd it go?" With much difficulty, I keep my voice upbeat and interested.
"Really well," he says excitedly. "I think we'll be able to win the Quidditch Cup this year! I have a surprise for you." He leads me away from the Slytherin common room before we even go inside.
We enter an abandoned classroom lit by candles in glass jars floating high in the air around the room, giving the ceiling a feeling reminiscent of the night sky. In the middle of the room sits a small square table with two chairs sharing a corner, two large bottles of butterbeer, and one candle. What's going on? He leads me to the lone table in the middle of the room and motions for me to sit down. "I wanted to give you a nice surprise." Draco waves his wand, and a plate of pudding appears. "I guessed you wouldn't be overly hungry considering dinner was a few hours ago, but there's always room for pudding." With another wave of his wand, two forks appear. "It took a lot of preparation. Do you like it?"
"Yes, but why—"
"I thought you might like it."
"Thank you," I force out, growing suspicious. Why would he bother with this? What's going on?
We eat slowly and silently for a few moments before he clears his throat. "So, I've been thinking." Does this mean he finally mentioned me to his parents and they warned him away from me? "It's nothing bad!" he quickly adds, probably noticing my change in expression. "I think it'll be good, actually."
"I'm listening."
"My family has been—almost since the Dark Lord first came to power, my family has been important to him. We have the funds to help support his mission." He seems neither proud nor ashamed by this and instead just says it like it's a matter of fact, something as mundane as the weather. They have too much money. "The Dark Lord has come back; I know what everyone says about Potter, but it's true. And my family is filling their position as always. We're important to him." I set my fork down. Where's he going with this? I could've told him his family was important to Voldemort based on the fact that his father is the one who has been hunting me on Voldemort's behalf. "And you're important to him as well. I think I might've thought of something that could be advantageous for both of us."
I pull my hands into my lap. "Go on."
"Of the other Slytherin students, you and I will be the cream of the up-and-coming Death Eater crop. I come from a family important to the Dark Lord and you yourself are important to the Dark Lord. If we . . . align our interests, we could command respect and power when we join the Dark Lord's ranks."
"Align our interests?"
"Charlotte, if we join the Death Eaters as a pair, a powerful team devoted to the Dark Lord that is also already important to him, we can rise above the other Death Eater offspring who'll try to join his ranks after Hogwarts too. Like Crabbe and Goyle. They're my mates, but they'll never command much respect among the Death Eaters, just like their fathers. Together, we'll become exponentially more important to the cause, possibly rise higher than some of the Death Eaters currently trying to claw their way upward."
A pit grows in my stomach. "What're you saying?"
He grins, almost looking triumphant as if he thinks this offer is too good to turn down, as if my question is somehow a guarantee that I'll say yes. "Be my girlfriend, Charlotte, and when we leave Hogwarts and take our Dark Marks"—he believes I'm important to Voldemort in a way that will lead me to be a Death Eater; that seems like a pretty fair assumption on his part—"our combined importance will benefit us both. You're my friend, and I think you're pretty and interesting, and I think this could be good for both of us. And I know—I know I might benefit more in the Death Eater ranks since I'm not sure what you're supposed to be doing anyway, but you'll benefit too! My family is very wealthy. You help me rise, and you'll never want for anything again. You can live comfortably, your every need met."
Will Voldemort not take offense to someone pairing off with me? Would he even allow that? You know he wants more Death Eaters. What better way to obtain more Death Eaters for generations than to pair up Death Eaters together and have them create more? That's probably his plan for you after you give him a child anyway—he'll probably want you to give him as many extra Death Eaters as possible. The idea of living comfortably for the rest of my life makes my mouth run dry. I want that more than anything. And putting up with some of Draco's . . . cruel beliefs about blood status? I've done much worse for much less.
A smile slowly comes to my face. I can want for nothing. "I think that sounds like a brilliant idea, Draco."
He smiles back at me, then leans toward me, slipping his hand behind my neck, and pulls my lips to his. My brow furrows in surprise and confusion, but I don't push him away. Is the relationship he's proposing not just for show? His tongue brushes against my lips; apparently, not everything about this relationship is supposed to be faked. You've done worse for less. I part my lips and let his tongue slip into my mouth, earning a heavy sigh from him.
In a swift motion, he swipes the plates off the table, wraps his arms around my waist, raises me slightly into the air to place my bum on the table, and positions himself between my legs. I trail my hands up his chest and around his neck, feeling slightly queasy but not willing to potentially lose the deal he's just proposed.
The door creaks, and the sound of a throat clearing abruptly makes us separate. Draco buries his face into my neck and swears quietly, but I just feel relieved and grateful for the intrusion. I glance over my shoulder at the door to see none other than Severus Snape and immediately feel a twinge of annoyance at the gratitude I just felt because he doesn't deserve it. "Malfoy, Rodgers," he says, "come with me."
I slide off the table. Draco reaches for my hand but stops, realizing that might not be the best idea under the current circumstances. We follow Snape to his office, where we both sullenly sit down across from him. He pinches the bridge of his nose as if trying to find a way to start scolding us for our actions. After a few awkward glances between me and Draco and a few uncomfortably silent moments, Snape says, "Very few times in my career at Hogwarts have I ever . . ." He stops and glares at both of us.
"Professor," Draco begins.
"Silence!" Snape commands, cutting him off. He folds his hands together on his desk. "Now, what do you suppose we do about this?" Draco and I both shift in our seats. Why couldn't it have been any other professor? "No suggestions? Well—"
"Professor, wait!" Draco interrupts.
"Yes?" Snape asks, his face full of insincere interest in what Draco has to say.
"Don't punish Charlotte. It was me . . . It was me. It was my fault."
"Your nobility is to be honored," Snape says cooly, just a hint of sarcasm in his tone, "but she is just as much to blame."
"No, Professor," Draco argues, "she isn't!" If he wants to take the blame for that, I am not about to stop him.
Snape frowns. "Detention, for the both of you. My office. Every night for two weeks." Draco and I stand to leave. "Wait." We turn back. "Tell no one of this. Professor Umbridge might react much differently than I." He looks right at Draco, and I have a feeling Snape just doesn't want the Slytherin Seeker to get suspended from playing Quidditch.