CHAPTER 29

For three weeks now, I've been trying to keep Snape out of my mind while sleeping, yet still I cannot do so without casting the Shield Charm. He grows more irritated with me each day, and I grow more frustrated with the whole idea of Occlumency. When Snape sees me growing disheartened with our lessons, he switches back to our waking lessons rather than the sleeping ones, and as loathe as I am to admit it, trying to perform Occlumency in my sleep has actually made it easier to perform it while awake. While that seems to imply I'm not a complete failure, the feeling of being one remains strong.

Christopher and his friends—would he consider Jacob a friend? Why does he even hang around him?—will not leave me alone, for some reason taking it upon themselves to run to me every single time they see me to show how much they've improved in Transfiguration. All of them can now change the match into a needle, and now that I've helped him once, Jacob does not mouth off at me like he did in our first tutoring session. So maybe Daphne and I were right: working with Jacob has curbed his terribleness a bit. He hasn't mentioned my blood status in a while, and from what I've seen, he doesn't say rude things to the other first-years either. But I'm not around them all the time, and he could very easily just be holding his tongue in mine and Daphne's presence.

Conjuration is no longer going as well as it was originally. I can Conjure nothing larger than a miniature chair, one the perfect size for a house-elf. McGonagall seems to think it is all the stress I have recently found myself under. It's like I'm trapped in a maelstrom, being dragged from one side to another as I slowly descend into an overwhelming darkness I won't be able to escape. At least twice a week now I wake up from a dream of drowning in the Black Lake. With Voldemort, my Occlumency and Conjuration lessons, N.E.W.T.-level classes, and this tutoring thing, something as simple as taking a deep breath has become a challenge.

Slowly but surely, the mess that is my life is beginning to completely overwhelm me.

But there is one warm, shining light helping me through all of this: if Draco keeps his word, I won't have to go to Voldemort during the Christmas holidays. I can have one more Christmas. Just one more Christmas. And I'll make sure it's the best Christmas I've ever had. I'll do whatever it takes to enjoy it. I don't know yet what all that means and what I'll end up doing, but this will absolutely be a Christmas for me to remember, one to cherish and reminisce about when life becomes particularly terrible next year, when life is much worse than it currently is. Something to bring me a measure of joy and peace when I most certainly be miserable. A truly happy memory. But that's something to deal with later when Christmas actually gets closer.

Right now, I'm making my way to Snape's office, and part of me dreads each step. September is basically over, and Occlumency is still difficult enough that it might prevent me from joining the Order.

I knock quietly on his door, enter only when granted permission, and silently walk to his desk and sit down. Snape does not look up at me. I wait only a few moments before saying, "Professor," softly, as if to remind him of my entrance. Rather than answer me or even acknowledge my existence, he taps his quill on his desk, his eyes intently watching the papers before him. "Professor," I try again.

He tosses his quill onto the desk and leans back in his chair, his eyes finally meeting mine, his fists clenched in his lap. "I made a deal with you over the summer holiday," he says gently. "But now I must break it."

"You can't stop teaching me Oc—"

"I need to see your memories of Mrs. Stoico."

I watch him for a moment, trying to see whether he's being serious. "No."

"Charlotte, you must believe me when I say that this isn't something—"

"No. We had a deal. I won't show you."

"I have a theory—"

"Such a shame I don't want to hear it."

His jaw clenches. We watch each other silently, neither of us willing to back down. This doesn't make any sense. Why would he want to break our deal? And why would he ask rather than just doing it? Surely he wouldn't want to do this flippantly; he'd have a good reason to want to hurt me like that. Finally, a few minutes later, he sighs, "I don't believe she was who you thought she was."

The absurdity of that statement elicits a laugh from me. "You're ridiculous. I'm not showing you my memories of her. It's too painful."

"Charlotte, this is serious."

"If she wasn't who she said she was, then I'd really rather not know. Let me keep my illusions of her."

Snape leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking down at his hands. "Charlotte—"

"Professor, she is the one truly good thing left from my early life, please don't take that from me. Please don't make me do this. It'll hurt too much. Please."

He looks up at me, pity in those black eyes of his. "I wouldn't ask you unless I thought it was absolutely necessary."

I look away from him.

"I won't force you. It's your choice. But I believe this is something that needs to be done because I believe something is preventing you from being able to make true progress in Occlumency while asleep."

This rattles around in my head. How could she not have been who she said she was? Why does he care if she wasn't? Is this just some way to trick me into letting my guard down? No, he wouldn't purposefully harm you. Not anymore at least. Could something about those memories really be the reason Occlumency has eluded me for so long, why I have not fully grasped it yet? Finally, after several moments of quiet deliberation in which only our breaths cut the silence, I simply say, "Why?"

He frowns at me, and something in his expression implies he doesn't want to say whatever he's thinking. "I just need you to trust me, but I want it to be your decision. If you want to keep your illusions of her, then that's completely up to you."

I close my eyes. He wouldn't do anything to hurt me, would he? I mean, he wouldn't be doing this vindictively because we haven't had any real disagreements in a while, which means he's not just going to do something like this without a reason. He's methodical, not impulsive. If he wants to see the memories, he's thought long and hard about it, and he absolutely has a reason, even if he's not willing to share right now. I nod and breathe out quietly, "Fine." I clear my throat. "Fine. I trust you, Professor."

He gives me a moment to make myself comfortable in the chair, and once I've finally nodded to him, he casts the spell.

I am seven years old again, back in Mrs. Stoico's office, sitting on a small sofa she kept in there, crying, my body convulsing from my sobs. One of my eyes is swollen shut. Deep bruising discolors most of my upper face. Both my nose and my right arm are in casts. "I don't know," I whisper.

"Don't lie to me, Charlotte," she says sternly, approaching me with a glass of water. "I need to know. Who did it?"

"I d-don't know!"

Mrs. Stoico places the glass on the end table, sits beside me, and pulls me close to her. "It's all right," she says softly, petting my hair down. "You're not in trouble." She kisses the top of my head. "Who are you trying to protect? Who did it?"

I just shake my head instead of answering.

"Charlotte, what if this happens to someone else? I need to know who hurt you so I can stop them. Please. You're not in any trouble."

I hang my head. "It was Dylan."

Snape pulls himself out of my memories. "Stop blocking your mind," he says, somehow making his voice both kind and stern, a tone I am unused to hearing from him.

My hands quiver in my lap. She was my mother, the only one I ever knew. She loved me and wanted to protect me. And he wants to take that away from me? And I'm going to let him? Let him annihilate the one part of my childhood that wasn't shit? "I . . . I didn't realize I was."

"In other circumstances, I would commend you for training your mind to block the important information. But I am not the Dark Lord, and this is important for me to know. I need to know who she is."

"You already know who she is!"

"I don't believe I do. I believe she was a witch who—"

"She was a Squib!"

"I know this must be difficult to hear, but I believe—"

"She was just the caretaker of the orphanage! She—she's Mrs. Stoico! That's all you need to know about her!" I stand and start toward the door.

"Charlotte, I'm not trying to hurt you." This stops me, but I don't turn around. "I do not do this lightly. Give me a chance."

I turn toward him. "You're not going to find anything interesting about her."

"I'll be the judge of that." He gestures for me to sit, and I do. He aims his wand at me.

A burly, brown-haired boy, nearly fourteen years old, is being escorted through the orphanage by two large men. He glares at me as he passes by. "You'll pay for this, Rodgers. You just wait until Stoico is no longer around. You'll pay."

It seems that Mrs. Stoico appears out of almost thin air. She nods to the two men, who walk to the front door of the orphanage and wait outside. Then she turns to the boy. "I don't think so, Dylan," she says fiercely. She puts her hands on my shoulders as if to lead me away from him. "You'll no longer be staying here."

"And just where do you expect me to go?" he snaps. "I've no real home other than here." His eyes then dart toward me. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" He lunges at me.

The scene changes, and I'm sitting alone on my bunk in the orphanage. It's dark outside, but I'm waking up, as if I've been asleep most of the day.

This time, when I emerge in Snape's office, he watches me irritably. "What happened?"

"I don't know . . . I don't—I—I have no idea what . . . I don't know."

"Legilimens."

Again, I'm in the hallway with Mrs. Stoico and the burly bully named Dylan. "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!" He lunges at me.

And again, I'm waking up in my room at nightfall.

Snape leaves my mind and just stares at me, and I simply stare back at him, unsure of what to do or what to say. After a few moments, he says, "I believe your memories have been modified."

"By who?" Who could've been powerful enough to alter my memories? Likely only the Death Eaters or another wizard, but who would have done that and not taken me to the Malfoys or to the Ministry? You know who he's implying.

He shakes his head. "I don't know." Then he leans back in his chair again, his hand seemingly absentmindedly picking at his wand for another few moments before continuing, sound almost reluctant, "I believe it was Mrs. Stoico."

"She couldn't—she was a Squib."

"Can you be sure?"

I drag both hands through my hair. "Yes! No matter how many times you ask me, she will always be a Squib! That is why she is dead! She could not defend herself against—" I stop myself, not really wanting to think about what happened to her and also not necessarily wanting to shout at him either since he's been so kind to me and seems to be treading carefully right now.

Snape watches me almost sympathetically. "Take a deep breath," he says, and I obey him, trying to convince myself that this will be okay. "Do you have proof that she was a Squib?"

"Of course—" I stop short and breathe deeply again. "Yes, I do."

Snape aims his wand at me again. "Prove it to me, prove to me that she is a Squib. Legilimens."

I'm standing in Mrs. Stoico's office at the orphanage. She's crouched in front of me with tears of joy in her eyes. "Where did you go?" she asks me. "I was so worried about you!" The woman, the closest thing to a real mum I ever had, brushes her hand through my hair. "Don't you ever scare me like that again!" THIS ISN'T THE MEMORY I WANTED TO SHOW.

I nod. "I'm sorry," I whisper through tears of my own.

She wraps me into a fierce hug.

A gruff voice comes from the door, "Well, well."

Afraid I won't be able to expel him from my memories and pulsing with the adrenaline of trying to avoid this particularly memory, I instinctively shout, "Protego!" and am taken into Snape's memories.

"It is real, isn't it? It's not a joke? Petunia says you're lying to me. Petunia says there isn't a Hogwarts. It is real, isn't it?" This has to be the same girl I saw once before, the one that Snape spoke to in a loving voice, the one with the flaming red hair and the beautiful green eyes that seem uncomfortably familiar.

"It's real for us," a young Snape says. "Not for her. But we'll get the letter, you and me."

Snape shoves me out of his memories with such force that I, along with the chair in which I'm sitting, topple backward. I lie there on the stone floor for a moment, coughing, pain surging through my back, before slowly rolling over and using his desk to pull myself to my feet. Something about that memory—possibly just the fact that I saw it—has angered him. I swallow down an apology because he doesn't deserve it right now, not when he's trying to erode my memories of Mrs. Stoico, and bend to set the chair back on its feet. Before I can sit, his voice rings out with as he casts the spell again.

I'm standing in Mrs. Stoico's office at the orphanage. She's crouched in front of me with tears of joy in her eyes. "Where did you go?" she asks me. "I was so worried about you!" She brushes her hand through my hair. "Don't you ever scare me like that again!"

I nod. "I'm sorry," I whisper through tears of my own.

She wraps me into a fierce hug.

A gruff voice comes from the door, "Well, well."

He will not watch Mrs. Stoico die, and I cannot relive this horrid nightmare. I don't care what kind of trouble this gets me into: I am taking no chances. "Protego!" Again, the spell draws me into Snape's memories.

A young Snape, much younger than the one I saw moments ago, cowers on a sofa. A man is shouting at a woman. Those must be his parents. His father slaps his mother across the face with enough strength to put her on the hard floor. He rounds on Snape. The man is obviously infuriated, and he walks toward Snape, his fists clenched.

Snape forces me out of his mind once more, seemingly less furious with me this time than he had been last time, but he still shouts, "Legilimens!" before giving me a chance to gain my bearings.

The boy named Dylan and two other boys corner me in the orphanage. "If it isn't Stoico's favorite little orphan," Dylan comments.

"How long's she been here anyway?" one of the other boys chuckles.

"She was born here!"

"Did you ever know your mum, Rodgers?" Dylan asks. "Where is she? Is she dead?"

"SHUT UP!"

Fear shoots through my chest. "Protego!"

I'm standing in Spinner's End. The front door bursts open, and Snape falls in—quite literally, in fact. Crawling on the floor, his face contorted in a silent scream, he kicks the door shut and collapses to his side. I squat down to get a better look at him and am taken aback by the tears rushing down his face. A loud sob then escapes him, followed by a blood-curdling scream. He sounds like a wounded animal. He seems to be choking. This is something I should not be seeing, and as much as I want to look away from his pain, I can't bring myself to. A growing part of me wants to reach out and brush the tears from his cheeks and tell him it's going to be all right, that he's fine now. I've never seen him in this type of pain before, and it hurts to witness. Despite how bad of an idea it would be, part of me wants to just hold him and comfort him through this devastation."I'm so sorry, Lily," he weeps. "I'm so sorry." But there is no one around to hear him or absolve him of whatever sin he has committed that has caused him so much grief.

A strong force rams into my chest and wrenches me from Snape's memories. I'm now forced to face the wizard who, with eyes filled so full of hate that I actually fear for my life, is on his feet, his wand drawn and aimed right at him, a deranged look on his face. What have I just witnessed? Whatever it was, it was obviously something far more private than any of the other memories of his that I have seen.

"Professor, I didn't mean—"

"Legilimens!"

Dylan and his friends all begin laughing again. One of the boys walks away for a few seconds and returns with a wooden bat. "Do you think Stoico will realize her injustices before it's too late?" he asks cruelly as he hands Dylan the bat.

"Only one way to find out, right?" He takes the bat and raises it above his head. "You might want to close your eyes," he says to me. The bat comes down on my arm with enough force that I can hear my bone crack underneath it. He raises it again and swings it at my head, and though I try to dodge it, I am too slow, and it hits my nose. I scream loudly, blood gushing from my now broken nose. Dylan tosses the bloodied bat aside and punches me in the face. I drop to the floor, wailing. The three of them crumble to their knees, screaming loudly, begging for mercy from whatever force is torturing them.

"Protego!"

Snape sits in a dark room, his eyes red-rimmed, a tumbler in his hand. On the coffee table in front of him lies a copy of the Daily Prophet rejoicing in Voldemort's defeat at the hands of The Boy Who Lived. Tears run down his face, and for the briefest of moments, I am once again tempted to reach out and wipe them away.

He expels me from his mind again and, without even waiting a second, says once more "Legilimens."

I'm lying on a large bed, the blankets pulled to my chin, silent tears rolling down my cheeks. A lamp casts a little light around the room. My heart sinks at the recognition of what this room is. Voices come from just on the other side of the door. "You can be first this time if you'd like," Alex's familiar voice says.

I close my eyes. "Please get out," I whisper, not knowing whether Snape will show himself as he sometimes does. "Please get out. I don't want you to see this."

The door opens. "Wakey, wakey, Charlotte."

"I'm just trying to sleep," I say.

"Well, we can't sleep," Alex says, "not while we know that you're in here, our clock ticking. My parents will be home the day after tomorrow, and you'll have to leave."

"Please get out. I don't want you to see this."

Snape retreats from my memories, and I drop into the chair in front of his desk, my eyes finding his, heat warming my neck and face. Though he is still openly infuriated, there is a hint of something else in his eyes—something that seems almost like pity, or perhaps sympathy—and whatever it is, I can't handle it right now and quickly look away.

What follows is a minute of complete silence, during which the only sound in Snape's office is that of his heavy breathing as he calms down and my occasional sniffles. Perhaps if I don't speak of what I saw, Snape and I can pretend that I never saw it. I mean, I didn't really learn much, did I? Other than the fact that he did something to hurt Lily. But that's not an overly rare name, is it? I'm sure it's not the same Lily who went on to marry James Potter. Because why would Snape care at all about her? They had a falling out after he was assaulted by Potter by the Black Lake, and from what I've gathered, they never really spoke again.

Finally, he breaks the silence with a quiet, "Charlotte," that carries not the slightest bit of anger. My eyes dart to him, searching his face for a split second before looking back down to my hands. "Charlotte," he repeats.

"What?" I whisper, my voice thick with tears.

"What happened next?" My heart drops, face and neck flushing again, and he quickly adds, "Not with the Muggle—after you were hit with the bat, what happened?"

I still can't bring myself to look at him and instead focus my gaze on my hands, which are in my lap, tightly gripping my robes, trying to expel all my frustration by strangling the life out of the material. "I found Mrs. Stoico. She took me to the doctor. You've seen the rest."

"Look at me," he commands. It takes a second before I force myself to meet his gaze. The rage in his eyes has been replaced with a compassion that I do my best to ignore. He's not supposed to pity me—we're supposed to fight and yell and scream at one another, we're supposed to argue about anything and everything, we're supposed to basically hate each other but still have just a dash of empathy for one another. That's it. This look on his face is more than a dash of empathy. "I need to see when she died."

"No," I say firmly.

"There is no other way."

"The answer is still no, Professor. I won't relive that. I'm sorry. Besides, we had a deal, did we not? You told me you won't force me to relive that, you told me it was my choice. I am choosing not to show you."

He clenches his jaw and is quiet for a short heartbeat. "Charlotte, I need to see it."

"No."

With that, I stand and make for the door, but as I reach for the handle, he calls out, "Wait!" I close my hand around the handle. "I don't believe she is what you think she is. I need to know. You could be in danger."

"Leave it alone, Professor," I whisper. "I'm always going to be in danger." I yank on the door, but it does not budge. Tears already in my eyes, I sigh and rest my head against the only thing stopping me from escaping. My voice cracks when I say, so quietly I don't even know if he can hear me, "Please don't make me do this."

"Charlotte," he says gently. Steeling my nerve, I turn back to him. "If I did not believe it truly necessary, I would not ask you to do it."

I don't want to relive that, don't want Snape to see it, but he sounds serious about needing to know. What if she actually is different than what she made herself seem? What if she actually was a witch and therefore died pointlessly because she could've simply fought back? Is that something I can stomach? Can I handle allowing my whole life with her to become a lie? Part of me seriously doubts it. Too much has gone wrong in my short life, and if I lose the one thing I looked back upon fondly, the one thing that made me feel safe as a child, the one piece of my childhood that truly brings me warmth and joy, I won't be able to handle it. This is obvious. Mrs. Stoico was my very first mother, the woman I loved with all my heart before I fully understood what love is. How can I sit here and let Snape tarnish the only thing I have left of her—my memories? And on top of that, can I relive the memory of her death? See that horror that plagued me for years?

Maybe this is something I need to do though. Maybe I need to know the truth, one way or the other. And perhaps I can stop him before her actual death. Perhaps I won't have to relive the full memory. I acquiesce, trudging back to my seat and sitting down. "Fine."