CHAPTER 33

Snape and I both take a sharp breath, the sound of my answer ringing through the room, seeming to linger long moments after its creation, whispering cruel mockeries in my ear, tearing a rift in the odd bond I've managed to form with the professor. I slowly cover my mouth with my hands, silently hoping it can withdraw the answer, take it away and get rid of it forever. Time stops in the office. I've never felt this much pressure in my life, almost as if every ear on the planet is straining to listen to me, to see if I've truly said what I think I've said. Every potion, every book, every piece of furniture in Snape's office has sprouted eyes and are all looking in my direction, trying to pry into my mind to see how any of this can be true.

But the Veritaserum does not lie.

And neither did I.

Snape takes a short breath, but when he tries to speak, no sound comes out—he seems too stunned to speak. A heartbeat later, he tries again. "Charlotte—"

"Please—"

"Do you have any desire to serve the Dark Lord?"

I don't want to answer, and though every ounce of my being strains against the potion, it's as if someone has plunged a burning iron hand down my throat to grab my answer and wrench it free from me. "Yes."

Snape shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. "Why?"

"I want to please my mother." Where is this coming from? I've never even thought about serving Voldemort. I've never thought about . . . well, okay, maybe I have thought about pleasing Bellatrix and making her proud of me, but I don't want to do that through serving Voldemort. At least I don't think I do.

"Would you ever willingly serve the Dark Lord?" Snape's voice is strained.

"No," I answer firmly. Perhaps my chances of joining the Order are not completely obliterated. It should be reasonable for someone with my past experience to want a mother's approval. Surely Snape won't hold this against me.

His eyes are intently focused, as if he's searching for the right questions to ask, the questions that can negate the answer about my desire to serve Voldemort. After a short moment, Snape says, "You clearly seem to admire Professor McGonagall. Is this true?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"She reminds me of Mrs. Stoico."

"And Mrs. Stoico was what to you, exactly?"

"The first mother I had."

Snape nods as if pleased. "So you would say that you somewhat view Professor McGonagall as a mother figure?"

"Yes." Heat warms my neck and cheeks—I wish I wouldn't have said that to him. It's embarrassing, and he doesn't need to know about it, though he so clearly already did.

"If you had to choose between pleasing your mother Bellatrix or your mother figure Professor McGonagall, who would you prefer?"

"Professor McGonagall."

"Would you ever serve the Dark Lord?"

"If I am forced."

"But you have a desire to, based solely on pleasing your mother?"

"Yes."

Snape pauses for a moment. "Will you ever willingly serve the Dark Lord?"

"No."

Snape nods and stands up. "You are free to go."

Despite his permission to do so, I can't bring myself to get up and leave his office. I never dreamed that thought would ever cross my mind, but here we are, the declaration of my desire to serve Voldemort out in the open—and I know it's true because somewhere, deep in my heart, I've thought about serving him for the sake of my mother, to try to connect with her, make her proud of me, form an actual relationship with her. This is exactly what Snape warned me about—it's dangerous to try connecting with her and forming a relationship with her for this exact reason. He has to hate me for letting this happen.

Snape's eyes are on me, but I can't pull my gaze from the floor. What else have I thought about? All right, so viewing the thought of having Voldemort's child through the eyes of someone like Bellatrix does make me see how she can believe it's an honor, but I've never thought of it as an honor so I don't think that's really the same thing. But I have thought about how it could be an honor if simply seen the right way, the way Bellatrix sees it.

But I know, beyond anything else, that I want Voldemort to perish. It doesn't matter if it could be considered an honor to give him a child, because it's more of a curse. I also know that my desire to please Bellatrix is not as strong as my desire to for McGonagall to be proud of me.

"Charlotte."

It still takes me a moment to pry my eyes off the floor to look at him now that he's interrupted my thoughts. "Professor?"

"You should go now," he says gently, motioning to the door. "You need to rest."

"Right." I stand to my feet, my legs a bit shaky. "Sorry." I can already feel the tears coming. "Have . . . have I ruined any chance . . . of joining the Order?" My voice is hardly audible, but I know he heard me because his expression becomes sympathetic.

A moment of silence passes before he finally says, "I don't believe so."

I turn toward the door and grab the handle but stop before I leave. "I wouldn't—I won't serve the Dark Lord willingly. I don't think—despite everything—you're one of the most important people in my life, and I don't think I could ever disappoint you like that. You mean a great deal to me."

Face on fire, I leave his office without another word and go back to the Slytherin common room where I find only a handful of Slytherins still awake whom I avoid completely so as not to risk spilling my darkest secrets to them because of this damn potion. How can one potion cause such problems? I hate Occlumency.

The next morning, I head back to Snape's office for our typical lessons. Rather than barging in, I timidly knock. He seems relatively confused that I wait for him to call for me to enter before doing so. "That's the first time you've knocked in a while."

"Yeah. Well. You know." I can't manage any sort of emotion in my voice due to the intense embarrassment still over what I said last night. About serving Voldemort to please my mother. About McGonagall being a mother figure to me. About not wanting to disappoint Snape. All of it was way too personal to say to him.

"Are you sure you can handle lessons today?"

"Wasn't it you who said Occlumency was better practiced when I'm emotionally compromised?" I plop down in my usual seat and bite back the discomfort of looking at him.

His face softens, and the kindness in his eyes somewhat disturbs me. "Seeing as you probably won't be able to speak with anyone about what happened last night, if you find yourself . . . in need of someone to speak to about your desire to serve the Dark Lord, you may come to me." Despite how he looks to be in physical pain from saying this, my chest both lightens at his kind offer and constricts at the emotion swelling in me at his words. "I know what that feels like in ways that no other professor here will ever understand."

My mouth runs dry. "Everyone always talks about how hateful you are, Professor."

"That's because I am."

"But you're not. At least not to me. Well, not anymore. Why is that?"

He leans back in his chair and watches me; we stay there quietly for what seems like a short eternity before he says, "You and I are a lot alike. That's why."

"How so?" I ask, unable to stop myself.

Snape swallows. "From the memories of your past that I've seen, it's clear that while Mrs. Stoico cared very much for you, you did not have an easy life," he says. "You were beaten by some of the other children and suffered after you left. And I'm sure that from our lesson in which you've seen into my past and from other stories you've heard from others, you've pieced together that my father was not a kind man and that my time at Hogwarts as a student was not easy. I take pity on you, Charlotte, because you remind me of myself." He pauses. "I had a dear friend with whom I would share my struggles. Though she was understanding, she could not empathize. She came from a quaint little family."

"And though McGonagall is understanding of my problems, she cannot empathize with me," I conclude.

He nods. "Most importantly, I know what it's like to be on both sides of this war. Seemingly against the Dark Lord while around the Order, and seemingly against the Order and Professor Dumbledore when with the Dark Lord. I know what you will soon face and how difficult it will be. I was almost your age when I joined the Death Eaters and hardly a year older than you are now when I became a double agent for Dumbledore. Had there been another who was spying on and lying to the Dark Lord, the task would have proved much easier. But there wasn't."

"And you were alone," I say.

"And I was alone. I don't wish that upon anyone."

"So you're only nice to me because—"

"Because I see myself in you. I needed someone to help me along my path. I am offering you my help because I know you will need it. I am offering you my kindness because it is easier to accept another's help if there is no animosity between you and the one offering the help." I nod, not really knowing what to say. I haven't thought too much about how Snape has gone through what I'm going through right now, how he has been fighting for both sides of this war for so many years. The kind of stress that must put on a person . . . how does he manage at all? How has he managed while so isolated for so many years? My throat grows tight at the unfairness of his life, and my mind is drawn back to the memory of him crawling into his house, weeping. Just as then, the temptation to hold him and assure him he isn't alone gnaws at my chest. If I can master Occlumency, would he ever allow me to be that kind of friend to him, a friend who can help shoulder the burden of double agent secrecy? Why do I even want that? "And I respect your courage," he adds.

I meet his eyes. "So . . . if I find myself overwhelmed, I can come to you?"

"That does not mean you may come to me about every little problem in your life. It means you can speak to me about facing the Dark Lord."

"So I can't come to you when my heart is broken over a failed relationship?" I ask with a smile.

"Most certainly not."

"I'll keep that in mind."

His face becomes extremely serious, but his eyes are still smiling. "If you try to talk with me about something as petty as that, I will not be held responsible for my actions. You are not a real student here."

"Very well then. Shall we begin our lessons?"

"If you believe you're ready." Then he raises his wand at me and casts the Sleeping Spell.

Snape and I are in the sitting room of Spinner's End. "If you had to choose between killing a cat or killing a dog, what would you choose?" I ask him.

The professor looks at me oddly. "A panther."

"That's cruel."

He quirks his eyebrow at me.

"That's my Patronus, and you know it."

"It can be a stand-in for you."

Snape pulls himself out of my mind. "Well done," he says.

"But you missed the best part!" Pride over my success brings about a joy that beats down the horror of my confession from last night, and I willingly let it do so. "We were about to get into a fight, and I was going to cast a spell to force you to start dancing!"

"I could have lived my entire life in blissful ignorance to the fact that you use your free time to imagine my dancing."

My face grows warm, because that is not what I intended to imply. "And I . . . have absolutely no idea how to respond to that, so I guess . . . touché, Professor."

"Did you truly think you were nuisance enough that I would be willing to kill you?"

I shrug. "When I first moved in, yeah. And all the times I ran away. And when I so obviously tried to irritate you. I mean, there were plenty of times when I thought you wanted to kill me—and each time you were right to want that."

He seems oddly proud of this thought, and his expression actually makes me smile. And that's the moment when I realize that even though I struggle with Occlumency, these lessons and my time learning from him have become enjoyable, perhaps the most enjoyable thing about Hogwarts. Could he be . . . is he already my friend? Have I honestly made friends with the surly Professor Snape? I can't stop myself from asking, "So you didn't completely loathe teaching me? You didn't just find me an annoyance?" Like he claimed I was when we set up Occlumency lessons at the start of term.

"You were willing and eager to learn," he says. "So, no." A relieved smile cracks across my face. He watches me silently for a moment before saying, "Let's try this again." He casts the Sleeping Spell at me.

I am walking down the steps of Spinner's End. Snape is in his armchair. "Good morning, Professor," I greet him.

"Rodgers."

"Have you ever had second thoughts about serving the Dark Lord?"

He sets his book aside and looks at me directly. "Never," he says.

I make Snape leave my fake memories, my face breaking into a wide smile. "I . . . I'm actually getting better," I say quietly, almost unable to believe it.

There's a gleam in his eye. "I am quite the teacher."

"You are. And I am quite the pupil."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Charlotte," he says. "You need to be able to do that consistently, but your progress is a good sign. Now the biggest weakness in your defense is the Veritaserum."

"I'll get better."

"With my guidance? You will."

"And then I'll be able to join the Order, yes?"

"I believe so." Snape walks to the door. "Until your lesson tonight then," he says in a subtle way of telling me to leave.

"Until then," I say cheerily before leaving, unable to stop or hide my grin as I wander away from his office. We finished our lesson early today, and it's given me more time than I'm used to, more time than I know what to do with all of it. Usually, I'm rushing off to breakfast right now, but I can't do that this time because it's far too early. I sling my bag onto my shoulder, deciding to go to the library to catch up on the work I've been neglecting to do.

I take a seat by a window in the library, looking out to the Hogwarts grounds, still amazed by the beauty of this place but only letting the outside world distract me for a few moments before beginning a letter.

Dear Mum,

I'm happy I was able to see you the other day. No one seemed to realize I left the village, so no worries about that. The N.E.W.T.-level classes take up more time than I ever thought they would, so the extra free time from taking fewer classes is unfortunately taken up with homework, though I'm sure you probably remember that from your time here.

Did you have any favorite classes? I'm assuming Defense Against the Dark Arts, though just Dark Arts would've been your preference. But were there others?

Tell Aunt Cissy I say hello.

Perhaps my next visit will be longer and we can play another card game? No bets this time, if you'd prefer.

I'm doing well.

Aurelia

I fold that up and begin a Charms essay that captures my attention so well that I lose track of time, and when I'm finally rolling it up, happy with the final product, breakfast has ended. Accepting my hungry fate for now, I retrieve Transfiguration essay and decide to finish this one as well.

Despite my need to stay away from distractions so I can actually finish this essay, a distraction arrives within minutes of starting this new round of homework. It's the Golden Trio, each of them walking through the aisles, Hermione fully engrossed in the books on the shelves, Harry and Ron obviously not caring about anything in here, probably because they wish to be practicing Quidditch. As much as I would like to speak with them, I don't let myself. Right now likely isn't the best time because I don't fully know what to say to them, so my attention re-focuses back on my homework.

Not long after beginning the Transfiguration essay, Harry catches my eye, and his whole demeanor changes, switching from bored to angry in a matter of seconds. I ignore it as much as possible and go back to my homework.

That doesn't last long though, for I suddenly hear an angry voice asking, "You've been lying to us this whole time, haven't you?"

When I look up and meet Harry's eyes, it takes me a moment to register what is happening. He's angry at me, or at something I've done, or at something he thinks I've done. A quick list of all the things I could have done rushes through my mind, and one glaring issue stands out in my mind: Draco. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You know what Malfoy is doing, don't you?"

I glance at Hermione, who looks disgruntled, and Ron, who looks ready to jump into a fight whenever necessary. "I don't know what you're talking about," I say.

"Really?" Harry asks sarcastically. Then he plops his bag onto the table in front of me and begins rummaging through it, his face intent on the task at hand. Pulling the Marauder's Map from his bag—a photo with moving people falls out as well, but he doesn't seem to notice—he opens it, slaps it down in front of me, and points to a name. "Explain this."

A cold chill runs down my spine when I read the name. Aurelia Lestrange. Beside my name are the names of Harry, Hermione, and Ron. I open my mouth for a second before collecting myself. "What does that have to do with anything?" I ask as nonchalantly as possible.

"Last time I checked," he says fiercely, "you were not connected to Bellatrix Lestrange or Voldemort in any way. At least that's what you claimed. Now you're declaring yourself to be her daughter! You're working with them like Malfoy, aren't you? That's why you won't tell us anything that he's doing!"

"That's not what it means, Harry, you have to—"

"How else can you explain it? You're helping Malfoy. And Snape too, right? They're both with Voldemort, and now you are too, aren't you?"

"And you got all of this from your little map, did you?" I ask tartly. "The fact that your map labels me as Aurelia Lestrange simply means that I have accepted the fact that I am Bellatrix Lestrange's daughter, a fact that I cannot escape any more than you can escape the fact that your parents are dead. As for Draco and Snape, my being Bellatrix's daughter does not mean they're Death Eaters or loyal to Voldemort." I begin stuffing my things back into my bag, rage rising in my chest. "And something you should know, Harry: my mother does not trust Snape at all and has warned me multiple times that he's not loyal to Voldemort. What do you think that means for him?"

"That Voldemort and his followers know just as well as we do that he cannot be trusted," Ron says.

I cut a glare at Ron. "Dumbledore trusts him, and Bellatrix does not. I think it's pretty damn clear to see what side of this war he's on when you're not blinded by hatred. You should probably remember that. And another thing, back off Draco. He's not done anything, and he won't do anything. He's not the type of person Voldemort recruits. But I'm sure you know this, don't you? Considering you had to fight off so many of the Death Eaters last year. Draco is important to me. Stay away from him."

"How can you possibly—"

"I am trying to protect my cousin from Voldemort the best I can, and you constantly trying to prove that he's working with Voldemort will only put him in more danger."

"And I'm to believe Snape is helping protect him as well?" Harry asks, his eyes furious.

"Yes. The Death Eaters want Draco, and we're trying to protect him them. So you'd be best to back off him too. Your distrust of Snape has already gotten one of my cousins killed, and I don't want to see Draco suffer the same fate." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, regret grips my chest. Harry whips out his wand and points it at my face, and my wand is aimed at his chest before I can stop myself. Any relationship between the Golden Trio and me has just splintered, and it seems doubtful that anything will ever repair it. "Next time, you should really get your facts straight before you start accusing people of things."

With my free hand, I throw my bag onto my shoulder, then snatch up the map and thrust it at him—while doing so, my eyes catch sight of the photo again, and my breath stops in my throat. The map slips from my hand as I reach for the picture. "Don't touch that!" Harry snaps, now realizing for the first time that the photo is on the table.

But I've already seen what I needed to see. That red hair . . . those green eyes. I look into Harry's eyes and notice for the first time how green they are, the same green as those of this woman, the same green as the girl in Snape's memories. "Your parents?" I ask quietly.

His stone-hard face lets me know everything I need to know.

"Why does it matter to you?" Ron asks angrily.

"I have to go now." I hoist my bag higher onto my shoulder and dash from the library without having a destination in mind. Getting away from them seems like the best course of action to find time to iron out my thoughts.

I understand now.

It all finally makes more sense to me. Snape's hatred of Harry. Snape's misery. What Snape lost to the Dark Lord. The friend who was there for him when he was younger. The reason he had no one when he first became a double agent for Dumbledore. The reason he actually turned against the Voldemort. The redheaded girl from his memories was Lily Potter. Evans, actually, at the time. He wasn't crying over someone with the same name.

How have I not pieced this together until now? This is the reason Dumbledore trusts Snape so much. Snape must have been devastated when she was killed that night, especially since she was killed by a man that he served. That was the memory of him weeping on the floor at Spinner's End. That must've been the night she died.

When Snape saw my memory of my killing the Muggle family, he didn't seem as upset about my killing them as he was about the people who lost them because of my actions. He was more upset for the people who lived than the people who died.

She must be the reason Snape has become such a brave man. She is the reason he risks so much to destroy Voldemort once and for all—Voldemort killed her, and Snape must want to see him pay for it. Lily is the one Snape could have had a life with, could have had a family with, could have been happy with. Could have. Snape's life has been dragged through hell. And for what?

Love. It has to be love. He loved her, possibly still loves her. He probably went to Dumbledore after her death, after he found out who killed her. Dumbledore must have seen Snape's absolute misery, must have seen his remorse for joining Voldemort's cause. That must be why he trusts him so much.

I don't know how I never saw it before. I should have seen this when I saw that girl's eyes. It was always her. I thought they stopped speaking after the incident by the lake? How has he been carrying this torch around for so long?

Snape hates Harry so much because he is living proof that the love of his life preferred another man over him, loved another man rather than him. Snape loves Lily Potter.