CHAPTER 11

Zoe and I are sitting at her small oak kitchen table in her loft, which is just a short walk from the Three Broomsticks. It's been silent for a couple of minutes, basically since I told her about my meeting with Voldemort. Zoe's been looking down at her hands with a horrified, sickly expression, while I've been trying to look anywhere other than her because meeting her eyes will certainly bring me to tears again. How could I have done this to Fred? How could I have chosen to tell her rather than him?

Why does only part of me feel guilty about that?

Through the window to my right is a beautiful view of the village. I can just see the towers of Hogwarts, and a strong urge to go see McGonagall rises in my chest, followed immediately by a wave of nausea because telling her about my meeting with Voldemort both feels like it will be a comfort and a source of guilt as well. How could I burden her with this knowledge when so much else is already happening—Sirius has died, Voldemort has returned, the bloodthirsty Lestranges who tortured her students to insanity are roaming free. She must surely feel so weighed down by pain worry enough has it is.

And yet a part of me desperately wants to speak with her because despite Narcissa's willingness to fill Bellatrix's position in my life, McGonagall has begun filling Mrs. Stoico's, and talking to her will probably make me feel a bit better, even though this growing attachment must be nipped in the bud as soon as possible to keep her safe. If I allow myself to grow as fond of her as I was Mrs. Stoico, she will undoubtedly wind up with the same fate: dead at the hands of Death Eaters (possibly the hands of Bellatrix).

I tear my eyes from the castle and banish those thoughts. To my left, spurring from the far wall with the door, two large empty, backless bookcases serve as partitions to offer her bed some privacy from the living area that is currently cluttered with boxes, which probably contain all the books and knickknacks that will actually block the bedroom area from the living area. What must it be like to live freely, completely unrestricted by anyone else's plans for you? To just be able to purchase a flat for yourself right out of school and start building the life you want? She's incredible, and utterly enviable. "What're you painting?" I ask her quietly, motioning to an unfinished piece of art on the easel against the window opposite the bookcases.

She looks up quickly, terror on her face for a split second, then calms and says, "You're asking about that now?"

This disbelief in her voice brings a smile to my face. "Well, I'm not quite sure how well you're processing what I've said, and I didn't like the silence."

A sad smile comes across her face. "I'll tell you all about it later. Right now, though . . ." Her honey eyes fill with compassion. "Charlotte, be honest with me. Is there anything I can do?"

I shake my head slightly.

Zoe reaches across the table and takes my hand. "You haven't told the Gryffindor this?"

"I don't know how."

"But do you want to?"

"I don't know that either. I mean, of course I want to stop lying to him, but I don't really want to tell him what I have to do. What if he views me differently? What if he decides he can't be with me because of it? What if—"

"If he decides not to be with you over this, is he even worth it?"

I clear my throat. "I care a lot about him." Zoe releases my hand and watches me intently. "And he does too. I just . . . don't want to ruin what we have."

She smiles deviously and says, "'Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.' If you can't change what's going to happen to you, and you've made it rather clear that there's nothing anyone can do, you'll have to tell him eventually, you know."

"I know." I grin at her. "Stop quoting him. That was one of his, right?"

"Ah, c'mon, Marcus, don't be such a downer." She smiles back at me, then clears her throat and glances away for a second before looking back at me. "So, why'd you decide to tell me all of this?"

I sigh quietly, having known this question would likely be asked but not really certain my answer makes complete sense. "You're not connected to the Order or to the Death Eaters. You're a neutral zone, and I feel like I need that right now, you know? Someone who isn't mixed up with either group." She nods and offers me a sad smile but doesn't question the logic of not wanting to talk to someone in the Order about it, especially because an Order member would stand a better chance of protecting me or helping me escape than a Muggle-born witch with no strong connections to anyone in the Wizarding World aside from other fellow students.

Despite the hour growing a little later than Snape is probably happy with, I don't want to return to Spinner's End just yet because returning row will force me to confront my failures, that I told Zoe the truth instead of Fred despite my plans. There's really no way I could successfully keep that a secret from Snape considering our continuing Occlumency lessons.

"You need a distraction, don't you? A reason not to return to Snape's just yet?"

"Yes, please."

Zoe stands and walks to the area behind the bookcases where her bed is slightly hidden, returning just a few short minutes later with a large rolled-up canvas in her hands. Waving her wand, she clears everything off the table and sets down the canvas. "This is the painting I'm most proud of." Then she unrolls it, a nervous smile on her face.

A smile comes to my face as soon as my eyes land on the image before me, and I stand to get a better angle on it. A tall, strong-jawed man in a tuxedo smiles lovingly at the woman on his arm whose head reaches his mid-chest, a woman who shockingly resembles Zoe—these must be her parents. She wears a white dress, one that appears to be a wedding dress. The two of them gaze at each other, laughing, caught off guard, nearly shining with joy. "It's beautiful. Are these—are they your parents?"

She touches their hands, which are clasped together on the man's chest. "Yes." A small, framed picture flies into the room and into her hand. "It was based on this, taken on their wedding day." The photo she shows me looks almost identical to the oil painting.

"And you did this by yourself?"

She nods, a sad smile on her face as her eyes stare lovingly at the two people she probably misses most in this world. "A long time after they died. I never let them see any of my paintings or sketches; they always asked, but I was so nervous." She swallows thickly, her eyes growing misty by the second. "Now it's too late."

"This is incredible. Why were you so shy about it?" I look away from her to give her a moment's privacy and turn my gaze back on the painting. Her parents were so in love, and so happy. What would they think about who she's grown up to be? From how Zoe seems to miss them, they must have been good parents, so they would probably have been thrilled with who she is now. That familiar envy stirs in my chest. She had a family. She was loved by her parents. And I am not.

She doesn't reply, just shrugs, wiping silent tears. I pull her into my arms tightly, not realizing until this moment how badly I also needed to be held right now. "I'm sure they'd be proud of you."

"They always said they were."

Another stirring of envy. Her parents were proud of her for painting, and mine hate me for living on my own for six years, for teaching myself magic, for learning to survive in caves and care for myself, for finding ways to defend myself from grown witches and wizards who wanted to hurt me. Well, parent. But still. How unfair this all is. What would my life be like had I had a different set of parents?

"I'm supposed to be comforting you, not the other way around," she says with a slight laugh in her voice. She's been without her parents for a few years now, but at least she had them once. I have to get out of here before I grow bitter toward her for circumstances entirely outside of her control. But would it be rude to leave right now?

I don't know, but I need to remove myself from this situation because she means too much to me to allow myself to be upset about this right now. When she pulls away from me, I ask, "What time is it?"

Zoe looks around the room, trying to find a clock that apparently isn't yet set up. Finally, she resorts to summoning her wristwatch from the living area. "Almost eleven."

Snape is the perfect excuse to get out of here. "I have to head back. I'm not supposed to be out this late—I told him I'd be back soon."

She nods understandingly. "Owl me."

"I'll do my best." But there's probably still little to no chance of actually owling her considering I have no access to an owl, but I keep this thought to myself and Disapparate back to Spinner's End.

Snape is walking up the stairs when I come to a stop in the living room; he turns when he hears the pop and watches me curiously for a moment. "Back so soon? You surprise me, Rodgers. Mr. Weasley took the news better than you thought?"

"I couldn't tell him," I admit, disappointed that keeping this information from him would never be simple and is therefore better to go ahead and confess. Snape descends the steps, his curious expression morphed now into surprise. "I know, please don't lecture me."

"I didn't plan to."

But he watches me expectantly for a few moments, his eyes roving over my face as if trying to discover some information. I exhale heavily. "I told—I went—I told Zoe Accrington." His eyebrows rise, but he remains quiet. "That's where I've been. I . . . told Fred the Dark Lord wants me to be in the Inner Circle; I couldn't—I couldn't—I can't tell him—"

Snape's expression becomes sympathetic, and when I remain silent for a few moments, he says, "Do you think keeping secrets will benefit him or benefit you?"

I hang my head. "It wouldn't be a lie to say I think it'll benefit both of us—but me more than him. He needs to know, but . . . why bother him with this about the Christmas holiday when there's a chance that won't happen?" The professor just stares at me. "You think I'm being selfish."

"I think you're putting a bit too much effort into your self-preservation"—he smirks slightly, more amused than cruel—"but I've been tasked with teaching you nonverbal spells and Occlumency, not offering you any sort of relationship advice. You have time to think about when you want to tell him."

"I'll . . . sleep on it."

With that, we both start up the stairs and into our respective rooms. Only after closing the door and having sat down on my bed in complete solitude do I let the day's events finally hit me with full force, Snape's words repeating in my head. Am I focusing too much on my own self-preservation? Am I that fearful of losing Fred about this? Like Zoe said, if he doesn't accept something that is completely outside of my control, then that's on him. You mean like when you were angry at her for having loving parents?

I swallow down the thought, the guilt in my chest increasing rapidly because I am a hypocrite, am full of double standards.

In short, I'm a terrible person. I don't deserve any of the kindness that people have shown me and continue showing me. There is no justification for my actions; having lived alone for so long, my selfishness and self-preservation have become a core part of my being. And now here I sit, dealing with guilty consequences of that. The fear of losing Fred was stronger than the desire to be honest with him because I selfishly want this happiness in my life for a little while longer. How could I have done that today? How could I have looked him in the eye and just lied again? I told Zoe the truth, the whole truth, rather than telling Fred. What does that make me? I don't even really want to know what that makes me.

But if I get out of this, I will never have to tell Fred anything. So are you really hurting anyone by lying?

What are the chances of that, though? Not very good. I'm not Harry Potter; no one is standing in Voldemort's way to stop him from hurting me like they do for Harry. My chances of escape are basically nil.

But I can't lie to Fred anymore. I can't keep doing this; it hurts too much. My chest grows hollow. I have to stop lying to everyone. I can't keep on like this.

And there's no way to stop this.

Or is there?

Disgusted with myself, I drop to the floor in front of my trunk and take out a bottle of ink, a quill, and parchment. Snape thinks I prioritize self-preservation too much. I'm going to prove him wrong.

I have to stand up for myself. I have to finally tell the truth. So that's what I'm going to do.

And if he kills me, so be it. At least I won't be drowning in all of these lies anymore.

This is why you cannot get attached to people, Charlotte. Are you really even proving Snape wrong when part of why you want to tell this truth is because you hate wallowing in guilt? Is this also not a form of self-preservation? Don't be daft.

I push that thought aside the thought and begin writing. My first letter, one long confession of all my lies, one long apology, is addressed to Fred. If he chooses to mourn me after learning all of this, that's his choice. The important thing is that he learns the truth before potentially wasting his time being upset about my death; he deserves to know the truth to make that decision for himself.

The second letter is one long thank you to McGonagall. She helped me a great deal when I was at Hogwarts and therefore deserves some kind of acknowledgement, as well as an apology.

I scribble a quick note to Zoe, thanking her for accepting me even after she learned what I am supposed to do for Voldemort. My chest hurts more than it should as I sign her letter and fold it over.

Narcissa gets a long thanks for being so kind and caring toward me when my own mother treats me like trash and an apology for leaving her again. She wanted to get to know me better, the real me, and I'm possibly robbing her of that chance. The least I can do is apologize for it. To soften the blow, I tell her I love her, though my heart isn't sure how true that is. Perhaps it could have been true one day.

Andromeda and Tonks are the last people I address. That day I spent with the Tonkses was great because of their kindness. I wish there had been a chance to get to know them better and spend more time with them.

I gather the folded pieces of parchment into my hand and leave my room. Tears threatening, I knock on Snape's door. Upon receiving no answer, I softly say, "Professor, I know you can't be asleep yet. Please."

It takes another minute before he opens the door in a long nightshirt. It catches me off guard, stealing the breath from my lungs. Should I have written something to him too? He's been helping me in ways I don't deserve. I look up into those black eyes, and my legs begin trembling. I don't want to have to say goodbye to him. After a short moment of my silence, he says, "Rodgers, what do you want?"

"I'm sure you understand the predicament I find myself in with Vol—the Dark Lord. And no matter what I say or do, I won't be fine with what I have to do. I will never willingly do what he wants me to do." He remains silent, and I look down at my feet. "And it kills me that I can't tell the truth to the people I want to, because I am so afraid of losing them. He will never choose anyone else other than me because of who I am, I know that. And I am left with no choice but to obey. But I cannot have his child."

"Rodgers," he says, not unkindly, "we've had this argument before. There is no other way."

"But there is. It's not ideal, and it's certainly not my first choice, all things considered. But I can't live with the knowledge of my duty, and I can't live like this anymore, in fear and with all these lies." So many lies.

I hold the letters out to him, and he accepts them. "What're these?"

"Apologies. Confessions. Each is addressed to someone, and I am asking you to ensure that they are delivered to the right people."

His face becomes serious, his lips turning down into a slight frown. "You're planning to take your own life." It's not a question, because I'm sure, even if he doesn't know exactly what my plan is, he has a general idea. Why does he seem displeased by that? Surely he'll be happy to be rid of me. "You're planning to give up entirely because you don't like telling lies? After everything? Do you think anyone enjoys lying to the people who trust them? You think you're alone in that pain?"

"I'm not planning to take my own life." He narrows his eyes at me, listening but seemingly not fully believing me. There's concern on his face that makes very little sense to me. Am I not just a nuisance to him? Didn't he himself tell me that? "But I am going to tell the truth. One last truth. And if he decides that my transgressions are reason enough to kill me . . ." I look away from him for a moment. "Anyways, thank you for all you've done. And I'm sorry it ended up being such a waste."

"Charlotte, you can't—"

"I don't really have a choice, Professor. I won't have his child."

"Charlotte—"

"Promise me you will deliver those if he kills me. Please."

He watches me for a moment before concluding that arguing with me is not the way to persuade me to change my mind. So he switches tactics. "What're you planning on doing?" There is a distinct but hidden laughter in his voice, a stark contrast to his kind tone from moments ago.

"Just promise you'll relay the messages."

"What are going to do?" Still the hint of mockery in his voice.

"I'm going to Malfoy Manor. The Dark Lord has ruined my life enough. And it's time he finally knows that no matter what, I will not do his bidding. I don't care if he rips me limb from limb, if he peels the flesh from my bones, if he Cruciates me to the point of insanity like Bellatrix did to the Longbottoms. He will know that I will never support him, that I will never have his child. My mother can take my position. I don't care. I can't keep lying like this, it's killing me—and if he decides to kill me, at least then all the truth will come out."

"You think you can throw everything away that easily?" Now Snape is openly laughing, but it's not a real laugh. It's like he's trying to tell me that my reasoning is faulty, that this is no reason to throw my life away. But I don't want to hear it. "Do you really believe you're the only person who has ever been forced to do things for the Dark Lord that they'd rather not do? Do you believe yourself that unique in his ranks? Don't fool yourself."

"Just make sure those get to the right people. Tell Mrs. Weasley, too, that I'm sorry."

"What makes you think I'll ever have contact with them?" I think he's just trying to waste time.

I meet his black eyes. "Please."

He must see it on my face that I'm about to Apparate, for he lunges at me.

I open my eyes inside the empty drawing room of Malfoy Manor, but the moment I turn away to search for Voldemort, the manor disappears as someone forcibly Disapparates me back out of the manor. This time when I open my eyes, I'm back in the sitting room of Spinner's End, Snape's arms wrapped around me from behind, pinning my arms to my side so I can't move them to attack. "You could have Splinched me, you stupid son of a bitch!"

I attempt to Apparate again but can't, resolving to struggle against him, flailing my body around wildly and kicking my feet frantically, really just trying to hurt him in any way possible. My elbow connects with his gut, and he lets out a low grunt before tightening his hold on me, successfully preventing me from being able to move any part of me other than my legs. Based on the quick, heavy breaths on the back of my neck and the heartbeat in his chest beating fast and hard against my back and the arms tightening around me to prevent me from fighting, it seems clear that I'm angering him. The thought of that brings me twisted joy, prompting me to flail my legs harder in an attempt to harm him. "Let me go!"

Then Snape leans backward, lifting my feet off the floor and ruining my tiny bit of leverage. "Let me go!" Doing what I asked while not really doing what I wanted, Snape violently and unceremoniously throws me onto the floor. I smack my mouth against the table, splitting my lip open and biting deep into my tongue. "You evil shit." I thrust my hand into my pocket and pull out my wand, but as soon as I roll over and aim it at him, his spell throws it from my hand. Bracing myself on the rickety table, I push to my feet, then spew the contents of my mouth at Snape's face, splattering him with blood and spit.

His lip curls into a snarl, and he wipes his face off with his sleeve, some of the blood simply smearing across his cheek. Without giving me a second to process how awful of an idea that was, Snape closes his hand around my throat and shoves me against the wall, his face inches from mine as he growls softly but viciously, "If you ever—"

I spit more blood into his face, not caring how reckless my actions are because I am so sick of being ordered around and stripped of all autonomy. His eyes widen with fury, and he shoves his wand against my cheek.

"Kill me then," I say quietly. "You'll only be doing me a favor. I don't want to live like this anymore."

His eyes narrow, and a deep growl emanates from the back of his throat. Then, through gritted teeth, he says, "Stupefy."