CHAPTER 13

Only after Apparating to Spinner's End do I realize how surprising that actually is, as I had just assumed Snape would keep the Anti-Disapparation Jinx on his home while I was gone to prevent me from returning. But he didn't, and now I find myself alone in the sitting room of Snape's house. Should I try to find him and apologize? If he truly is the only Death Eater I can trust, then perhaps mending these bridges between us is the only wise thing to do right now.

While making my way to the stairs to find him, my whole body goes stiff as a board, and I collapse to the floor. What the—? "Did I not tell you that you should not return?" Snape walks into my line of sight. "You asked the Dark Lord to come here, yet all you do is try to escape. I have too much to worry about without adding your desire to run away." He crouches down beside me, his eyes scraping over me until he locates the pocket containing my wand, then reaches his hand into that pocket and steals it. My face grows warm. "So, from this point until the end of the holiday, you are no longer my problem." He stands back up and takes a step away from me before releasing the Body-Binding Curse and magically pulling me to my feet. "You will spend the rest of the holiday at Malfoy Manor—"

"No, I—"

"—under the watchful eye of your mother, who seems more than pleased to lock you away. Your things are already there."

"Professor Snape, please, I'm sorry! I—I—I know I'm not well, and I took that out on you and—"

"Your actions have consequences, Rodgers. Perhaps now you'll learn that."

"Please don't do this. I'll do anything."

He simply glowers at me, grabs me by the arm, and Apparates with me to a place I have grown so accustomed to despite all the bad memories associated with it: Malfoy Manor. Bellatrix stands to the side of the drawing room, watching Snape and me closely, a cruel smile on her face. He releases me and walks to the mother to give her my wand. The indignity of it makes me hot with anger. How could he just hand over my wand like that? You caused this. He was willing to be kind to you, and you squandered it. "Snape," she says.

He glances at me. "I truly wish you the best of luck with that one." Then he Disapparates, leaving me alone with Bellatrix Lestrange.

My hands tremble with fear. We watch each other in silence until, a few seconds later, I say, "So am I to assume I'll be living in your room with you or . . .?"

"The cellar." She takes my arm and leads me to that awful magic-muffling dungeon. I don't bother attempting to fight because being beaten and tortured by my mother right now is in no way a tempting prospect. "It should suffice."

"And I'm to stay here for the rest of the holiday?"

"You lived in the Muggle dunghill. This should be an upgrade for you." Bellatrix takes me down to the cellar door and pushes it open. I find my trunk and rucksack on the floor already. How long have they been waiting on my return so they could throw me in here? Did Snape retreat here as soon as I Disapparated to set this up?

"Just when I thought I had officially said goodbye to living in caves and the like."

Bellatrix says nothing, just releases me and walks away, closing and locking the door behind her. Only two torches light the large room, and I drag my things under one of them to give myself as much light as possible. Anything could be hiding in those dark corners, and I find myself pulling my knees to my chest and burying my head in my hands for a few seconds. A few seconds pass before realizing that although my wand is gone and there's no hope of performing magic, so long as Snape removed nothing from my trunk, I am not weaponless.

I reach inside the trunk and bring out that wooden box with my letters and the D.A. coin. None of those things will offer me any protection down here, but the knife will. I pluck it from the box and hold it in my hand. It's the first time I've held it since that fateful day when I took that Death Eater's life. I feel ill with this thing in my hands, unsure why I even kept it when it should have been buried somewhere. I just couldn't bring myself to part with it.

I fill my rucksack with clothes and lie down on it like a pillow, clutching the knife tightly in my hands, and close my eyes.

Somehow, I manage to drift off, but the creaking cellar door wakes me far too soon. I quickly stuff the knife inside my rucksack again. Bellatrix closes the door and approaches me. "Dinner."

"That's not my name."

Apparently, she doesn't find it worth her time to answer me, for she sets the plate on the floor about three arms' lengths away from me and walks back out of the cellar.

It's just a cheese sandwich, as I soon find out.

When Bellatrix returns twenty minutes later, I'm waiting just inside the door to return the plate. "Mother Dearest," I say before she enters the cellar, "could I get some water?" She waves her wand—a glass of water flies to her hand—and then walks toward me. "So, is this how it'll be for the rest of the holiday? I live in this dark dungeon, you deliver my meals with perhaps four words spoken, I sleep on the stone floor with constant flashbacks of my life on the run?"

"You're safe here."

"I was safe at Spinner's End."

"You don't need to live in that place anymore."

"It's better than living in a dungeon."

"Perhaps you should have considered that before trying to run away."

"I wasn't running away for good. I was just trying to get away from Snape for a short while. Can you really blame me for that?" Bellatrix seems slightly amused, and that almost makes me feel proud. "But really, is all of this necessary? Without my wand, I won't be able to run off. Do I have to stay down here?"

"This is your punishment, and you will serve it."

I sigh. "I guess I didn't really expect any different. Well, thanks for the water, Mum." Both of us freeze at my slip of the tongue. "I . . . I'm sorry, I—"

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Then, without a word, she turns around and retreats from the cellar. The door closes more loudly than necessary.

I walk back over to my things, hoping to find the Theories on Transubstantial Transfiguration to help me pass the time, but that's not the book on top of my pile in the trunk. Instead, a beaten-up copy of Magical Drafts and Potions has that honor. What is this? I leaf through the book—the tiny scrawl is difficult to read but seems reminiscent of Snape's writing, albeit much worse. Is this his? Four bookmarks are wedged into the book: one at the start of information regarding a Cure for Boils, another on a section covering the Forgetfulness Potion, a third in the introduction to the Hair-Raising Potion, and the last one at the beginning of the chapter about the Swelling Solution.

Intrigued, I slide against the wall directly under the torch and begin reading about the Cure for Boils, wondering what made these four potions important enough to be marked in here for me to find. Surely there's no hint about a possible escape using these—after all, there is no cauldron in this dungeon, nor do I have access to the ingredients listed. Those facts, however, do not stop me from reading anyway.

A short while later, the door opens again, and I look up to see Narcissa coming down the steps, a tray in her hand. I smile broadly at her, closing the book and setting it aside. "Hello," I call up to her. "Do you need help?"

"I'm perfectly capable of carrying a tray, Charlotte." Narcissa walks over to me, setting a tray with metal containers down on my trunk, then taking a seat on the floor beside it. My brow furrows in confusion. "I thought you could use some company."

"Doesn't that go against the spirit of my punishment?"

She shrugs. "We were told you had to be locked down here, not that you had to be left in solitude. Besides, this is still my house, and I'll be damned if someone tells me I can't go somewhere inside my own home."

"Even if that someone is the Dark Lord?"

She swallows thickly, but her voice is light when she says, "The Dark Lord did bar anyone from coming down here, nor did he suggest you needed to be in isolation. Until I am told otherwise, I see no reason to leave you completely alone. Now, are you hungry?"

My mouth waters a bit, my stomach gurgling and sending heat to my cheeks. How pathetic I must look down here—alone, hungry, sad. "Yeah, some food sounds perfect. The cheese sandwich Bellatrix brought me earlier didn't quite hit the spot."

Narcissa pauses and looks over at me, searching my face as if looking for some sort of lie or exaggeration. "The—the cheese sandwich?" I just nod, and she rolls her eyes, sighing. "There's no need for her to be so difficult. I've tried explaining that to her, and it's like she takes joy in being—" She stops abruptly and huffs.

"You can say it," I whisper with a slight smile. "I won't tell her what you call her." Narcissa almost looks amused. "C'mon. Everyone knows she's been an absolute bitch to me from the moment she discovered who I am. You, me, her, Lucius, Draco—hell, probably even Cosmo. Everyone knows it. You can say it. I won't tell her."

She sighs heavily. "You're right, of course. She has been a bitch toward you from that moment onward. But I promise you I am working on it. I'm trying to make her understand that she can dislike your fear of your duty while not disliking you personally."

"I know. I . . . eavesdropped the other day when you were yelling at her in the basement."

A grin comes to her face. "Don't let her know that."

"It'll only reaffirm her fear that I'm a spy?"

Narcissa frowns and rubs her hand down her face. "A spy," she chuckles ruefully. "I've no idea where that came from. I know Azkaban broke her, but spies in our midst? Such fears are completely unfounded, and yet she cannot accept that she's wrong about this. She never had a concern of spies before. Not once in the last war did such a fear ever even cross her mind. Now . . . she seems to see them everywhere. Or at least she claims to."

"You think she's lying about her fear of them?"

"I think she's trying to find a reason to—a reason to put a wall between the two of you, and that was her easiest path. I think she's trying to find a reason to—"

She stops abruptly, but I offer a suggestion she might be too tactful to say to me: "She's trying to find a reason to dislike me, isn't she? And if she can become paranoid about spies in the Death Eater ranks, she can pin that on me and use that as an excuse to hate me. Right?" Her eyes drop. It's not like Bellatrix's fear is completely unwarranted. If I can join the Order, I will absolutely spy if that's what they want or need of me, so she's right to believe that of me. "It's fine, really." A sigh escapes me. "Well, it's not. It sucks, but I'll get over it."

"Well, let's look at it from a slightly different perspective," she offers. "She is actively trying to find a reason to dislike you. That means that there's a part of her that does care about you, but she's trying to find a way to stop it."

Tears prick my eyes again. "I guess, but . . . is it too much to just hope she'd stop fighting it? Does she think she's everything I ever wanted? I didn't want a Death Eater mother who tortured people to insanity. I didn't want a parent who envies the horror coming my way, but that hasn't stopped me from accepting it as truth. If I'm willing to overlook so much of her . . . well, I won't say it. But if I can overlook a lot of what makes me dislike the fact that she's my mother, why can't she do the same for me?"

"I know, Charlotte. And I wish I could do more, but she's so stubborn. It's a work in progress, and I need you to just trust me."

"I do trust you. At least, I think I do." A smile comes to my face. "You know, as much as I hated finding out who I am and all of the pain that came with that, I am grateful to have found you." Her eyes soften, a joyful expression crossing her face that makes my heart ache slightly. "In your letter after Christmas, you said you wanted to get to know me. Ask me something."

"All in good time, Charlotte." She removes the lid from a metal tin to reveal biscuits, then pours steaming butterbeer into a mug. "Had I known you didn't have a real dinner, I would've brought something else."

I shrug and scoot closer to the food. "I don't mind. Baked goods were difficult to come by the last few years, so I'll never turn some down."

Narcissa takes a sip of her butterbeer. "I've been meaning to ask you." I glance up at her expectantly, taking a bite of biscuit. "Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration." A smile pulls at my lips at the thought that she remembered the exact book I bought earlier this summer. Did she make a note of it somewhere? "Did you actually want that book, or were you just looking for a way out of the house?"

"No, I really did want it! I love Transfiguration. It's been my saving grace for—well, most of the time I lived on my own. Making an uncomfortable place semi-comfortable for living in temporarily was much easier with Transfiguration. The book—well, I've never had a chance to study any Transfiguration that advanced before. Like turning rocks to Galleons by changing the rock's very essence in a way that makes the change permanent. Changing it from one substance to another completely." Her eyes watch me intently, a delighted expression on her face. "It's less important now, of course, but—that branch of Transfiguration wasn't one I could just make happen on my own. Kind of like Conjuration. I'm still struggling with that. I needed the guidance, and now I have it. Thanks to you."

"Are those the only branches of Transfiguration that you struggle with?"

"For the most part, yeah. There was one I struggled with for a while but kind of figured it out a couple of months before Lucius found me. Inorganic to organic Transfiguration."

"And what'd you use that for?"

The thought of a little black cat in my lap flashes through my mind. "Company," I confess. "I . . . didn't have the resources to care for a living, breathing creature. But I've always liked cats, so I . . . learned to Transfigure things into cats. Or was trying to for a long time. I finally figured it out about a year before . . . before I was caught. Anyway, it let me always have a little black cat with me at night. He kept me company." I've never spoken this aloud to another person.

"What'd he look like?"

"Oh, all black. Completely black. It was the easiest way to make him. Black fur, black eyes. I called him Shepard." My heart feels wistful, yearning again to hold that little cat while I sleep. "I could never tell if he retained any memories or if he was a fresh slate every day, but that didn't matter."

Narcissa watches me closely, her eyes full of wonder and sorrow. "Do you want a cat that you don't have to Transfigure? Hogwarts allows that, you know."

"Are you offering to get me one?"

"Yes," she says automatically.

The thought makes me smile, but I say, "No, that . . . doesn't seem like the best idea currently. I'm not—I don't think I could care for it properly. But when I get out of all this—once I've had the Dark Lord's baby and am no longer living in constant fear and dread of that . . . I'll gladly take you up on the offer to get me one." Narcissa gives my forearm a squeeze, and I take a moment to sip my butterbeer to collect myself. She offered to get me a cat. Why does that fill me with such warmth?

Narcissa sets her own mug down. "You said you also enjoyed Charms while running from Lucius and the others?"

"Yes!" I say, growing fond of the idea of being able to just talk with her without anyone interrupting. This is exactly what I wanted when Draco and I decided to start dating, and now there's not even an ulterior motive she doesn't know about. She's choosing to talk with me by choice and not out of some obligation to be kind to her son's girlfriend. The thought lightens my chest a bit and almost makes me feel the need to cry. Who would have thought when I first met her last year, she'd be bringing me snacks and treats in the dungeon just so she'd have an excuse to speak with me? "Two, specifically, became a cornerstone of my time on the run, but they were by no means the only ones I used. I just had the most use for them—memory charms and the Disillusionment Charm."

Her eyes widen slightly. "You can perform a Disillusionment Charm? Successfully?" I nod, feeling proud. "Most witches and wizards have to buy cloaks with that charm already on it rather than perform it themselves. How'd you learn that?"

"With a lot of constant practice, actually. I started small, with insects and rodents. Then moved on to cats and dogs, and eventually to myself. It seemed the simplest way to stay out of danger, so I worked on that spell specifically for hours every day for nearly three months. It . . . probably would've been much easier to learn had I had someone like Professor Flitwick training me. That's been something I've enjoyed about Hogwarts, actually. The professors. I learn so much quicker now."

Narcissa looks pleased by this information. "And the memory charm? How did you practice that?"

I grimace and take a sip of my butterbeer. "I'm not—it's not my proudest accomplishment." But with her backward beliefs about Muggles and blood status, she'll probably be proud of me regardless. "I used Muggles. I practiced memory charms on them until I could successfully remove their memories."

She chokes on her drink momentarily. "On Muggles? What do you mean?"

"Yeah, like I'd pass one on the street and say something, and then attempt to remove that memory and try again to see if they remembered we had just had that conversation. That took . . . a while. And it didn't always go as planned. There were . . . some mistakes and I . . . took too many memories. I'd rather not discuss it." Her expression, for the briefest of moments, becomes sad, and she seems to be debating her next question, and I take this moment to ask, "Was there every any warning in the Daily Prophet about Muggles having their memories altered? Anything about the secrecy law thing?"

"Not that I saw."

So those Muggles are probably still wandering around in the world missing some of their memories, and no one will ever know or be able to help them. Guilt tightens my throat, but I do my best to push it aside because I can regret that later. Right now, I am choosing to enjoy my time with my aunt.

Narcissa exhales heavily. "I want to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me." My eyes narrow suspiciously. "Did you not—was there never a time you thought to let the Death Eaters catch you? To not live that way? Were you ever tempted to just stop running?"

"Once." I swallow thickly. "A man promised—a man promised he would bring me to . . . to a family. He said I'd have a mum and a brother, that the woman had had two sisters growing up and would no doubt love to have me." I set my butterbeer down, frowning. "Another Death Eater killed him before we could leave together. Fiendfyre." I look up at her. "Was—was he talking about you?"

Her eyes glisten. "How old were you?"

"Twelve."

She closes her eyes and wipes her cheek as if removing a tear. "Those fuckers," she whispers, drawing a surprised laugh from me. "I told them—I told Lucius that if he and the Death Eaters promised you a home, you'd be less likely to run. It seems very few of them attempted that, and the ones that did—" She stops and shakes her head, visibly growing angry. "I—I could have brought you here so much earlier. We could've—could've known so much earlier who you are! You were out there all alone, struggling—we buried you! And then you lived completely alone—" Narcissa slams her hand onto my trunk. "These men never listen! I missed out on years with you; I mourned you for years because they thought they knew better!"

I reach over and touch her arm. "I'm here now though, Aunt Cissy." The anger in her drains immediately, her eyes glistening. "I'm here now, and you don't have to mourn me anymore." I smile sadly. "For the record, I think—I think I would've liked to be here sooner, if only to have had you." A soft hiccough escapes her, and she quickly covers her mouth.

"You were all alone," she whispers, "and you were just . . . just a child."

"I'm not alone now though."

Narcissa gently takes my chin in her hand. "Indeed, you aren't. And you will never need to be again."

She releases my face. "Now I have a question for you." Her eyes watch me expectantly. "Did you suspect who I was? Back when you first sent me with Snape to Hogwarts? After Lucius threw me across the room and you helped me up, there was . . . a look on your face. Like fear. And recognition."

Her gaze drops to her hands in her lap. "There was . . . something in your eyes, the expression of rage and helplessness on your face." She looks back up at me. "You reminded me of Bella when she learned of your death. I thought—I thought it was wishful thinking, but at the same time, I also didn't want you to be Aurelia because that means I failed you. I let you grow up alone and on the run. And it means that I . . . I'd still have to bear witness to your duty to the Dark Lord. I've never wanted that for you, but there's nothing I can do to stop it." Does that mean she might try to help me escape? Is it possible that she'll be the ally I've so desperately been searching for?

Tears prick my eyes. "I don't blame you for anything that happened to me or will happen. You know that, don't you?"

She opens her mouth as if to say something, but the words don't come out. Instead, she takes another sip of her drink. Finally, she says, "I just wish I could've found you sooner."

"So you could convince me this is an honor?" I ask, a venom in my voice that was not truly on purpose, especially not after what she's just said.

She almost flinches. "So I could've had you in my life for the last fifteen years. You're a piece of Bella—she was locked away, and you were alone."

"I wish she accepted me as a piece of her," I whisper, closing my eyes so as not to be even more embarrassed by these words.

Narcissa just takes my hand. We refrain from speaking about Bellatrix again for the rest of her visit.