CHAPTER 50

It's been almost two weeks since Ron's poisoning, and I still have yet to have a serious, more than one-sided conversation with Draco about it. He's become more aloof, almost like he isn't even really present at all anymore, and I don't know how to help him, which unnerves me. He's become more ill-looking than ever but refuses to let me ask Snape for more Elixir to Induce Euphoria, which is probably or the best because I haven't even spoken to Snape since I escorted McGonagall to his office after he nearly killed himself with that damn potion. I now avoid his office entirely, especially since he never responded to my little note. But he's been at meals, so at least he's alive and well. That's the most important thing.

He hasn't approached me or tried to contact me, not even about our Occlumency lessons, probably because he's still holding a grudge about the Liquid Luck. He has every right to do so.

After DADA class today, I might finally speak to him so we can put this whole issue behind us. That's the plan anyways. He tends to put things behind us easily, probably because he sees himself in me. I just have to be the one who initiates the apologies, and I need to initiate this one because it has gone on way too long. I miss him terribly.

Exhilarated by the idea of being on speaking terms with Snape again, I make my way to his class. Since when am I exhilarated by the idea of speaking with Snape?

Though I'm the first one into his classroom, Snape says nothing to me. It's quite unsettling to have lost the person whose guidance in facing Voldemort is the most valuable. He knows more about me than anyone else. I'm taking out my books and organizing my things when I hear, "Late again, Potter," come from Snape. "Ten points from Gryffindor."

I glance around. If Harry's late, he's only just, but nothing can be done about Snape's attitude toward Harry. And besides, if there were, I wouldn't be the person to point it out because if tormenting the child of James Potter, the man who bullied him relentlessly and made his life a living hell and assaulted him, makes Snape feel better about everything, including losing Lily, then so be it. And honestly, I can't even fully blame him or judge him because I'd probably act the same way.

"Before we start, I want your Dementor essays," Snape says. He waves his wand, and the essays fly out of each of the students' bags and up to his desk where they form a nice pile. "And I hope for your sakes that they are better than the tripe I had to do on resisting the Imperius Curse. Now, if you will all open your books to page—what is it, Mr. Finnigan?"

"Sir," Seamus begins, "I've been wondering, how do you tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost? Because there was something in the paper about an Inferius—"

"No, there wasn't," Snape cuts him off.

"But sir, I heard people talking—"

"If you had actually read the article in question, Mr. Finnigan, you would have known that the so-called Inferius was nothing but a smelly sneak thief by the name of Mundungus Fletcher."

How do I know that name?

"But Potter seems to have a lot to say on the subject," Snape says, cutting off Harry who was mid-mutter to Ron and Hermione. "Let us ask Potter how we would tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost."

I can almost visibly see Harry's mind turning for an answer. "Er—well—ghosts are transparent," he says.

"Oh, very good," Snape interrupts, looking far too pleased about tormenting Harry. Is he in such a bad mood because of his Liquid Luck? "Yes, it is easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on you, Potter. 'Ghosts are transparent.'"

Pansy giggles in that overly high-pitched voice she likes to use, and again I find it hard not to take out my wand and do something to her to make her shut her mouth. Daphne gives me a sympathetic look from her spot next to me, almost as if she's having the same thought about making Pansy shut up. "Yeah, ghosts are transparent," Harry continues, obviously struggling to keep his anger at bay, "but Inferi are dead bodies, aren't they? So they'd be solid—"

"A five-year-old could have told us as much," Snape sneers at him. Has Harry done something again to upset Snape? Surely this isn't all about the Liquid Luck. "The Inferius is a corpse that has been reanimated by a Dark wizard's spells. A ghost, I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth . . . and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, transparent."

"Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we're trying to tell them apart!" Ron says, jumping in to defend his mate. Mundungus was at Grimmauld Place over the summer. Is he an Order member? "When we come face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we're going to be having a shufti to see if it's solid, aren't we, we're not going to be asking, 'Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?'"

My hidden smile isn't as bad as everyone else's laughter, but either way, Snape's warning glare shuts us all up immediately. "Another ten points from Gryffindor," Snape announces. "I would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an inch across a room."

I bite down my smile at this, any sympathy for the Golden Trio fleeing my body at the memory of being in the library and getting accused by Harry of willingly serving Voldemort.

"Now open your books to page two hundred and thirteen," Snape commands, not doing a good job of hiding his smirk, "and read the first two paragraphs on the Cruciatus Curse. . . ."

Textbooks never really seem to properly illustrate or describe what it's like to endure the Cruciatus Curse, but I shove that thought aside because it just dredges us memories of my mother Cruciating me. We're past that now.

As class comes to a close, my heart begins beating fast, too fast for my liking. Part of me feels like I should leave, but I don't want to because I want to solve this issue between us—the issue I caused.

I slowly pack all of my things into bag, whisper to Daphne that I'll catch up with her, and stay in my seat until everyone else has gone. When the last student straggles out, Snape gives me surprised look. "I assume you didn't stay behind to ask more about the Inferi compared to ghosts?"

"I thought you said never to assume things, Professor."

"It's good to see that you do, in fact, you pay attention. What do you want?"

I sigh. "The other day . . ."

"You mean the beginning of this month?" he interjects. "Almost two weeks ago?"

"Yes, Professor," I say quietly.

"What about it?"

He enjoys being difficult, and while I should be more frustrated with him, I simply can't muster the frustration because I miss him too much. "I . . . I came to say . . . I wanted to . . ." He watches me with false intrigue. "Are you really going to make me say it?"

"Say what?" he asks innocently.

I bite my lip. "I'm . . . I apologize, Professor, for telling McGonagall about what happened." Tears sting my eyes. He could have died. "I thought you were dying, and I—" I clear my throat, swallowing around the tightness forming there. "I panicked. I couldn't let—you're too imp—I couldn't let you die." His face softens. "And I'm sorry about Vanishing your potion."

He's silent for a moment and doesn't speak until I look back at him. "Very well then."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Just like that? You're over it just like that?"

"I moved on once I came back around. I realized that I've been desperate all year, but not even that potion can overcome what I need to do." I frown at him, wondering what could possibly be so bad, but before there's a chance to say anything, he continues with, "So if anyone is truly missing out, it's you."

I look away. "Yeah, I pieced that together, thanks." I shouldn't have Vanished that potion. "Anyways, I just wanted to clear the air before I left for the Easter holiday." Snape seems too pleased with my uncomfortable apology. "Why didn't you reinstate our lessons if you weren't angry with me?"

"I thought it would be good to let you have a rest. We will begin them again immediately and continue them until you leave for Easter."

I nod, then leave without another word, a bit perplexed by this short conversation.

Christopher climbs into the compartment with me on the Hogwarts Express. "Why aren't the others going home for Easter?"

He shrugs, his feet swinging above the floor. "I guess they have their reasons."

I can't argue with that. "So, how's your family doing?"

The boy sighs. "Not well. My little sisters and brother miss me, so my parents wanted me to go home. Why are you leaving?"

"I'm going to see Fred."

"That should be fun."

Except for the fact that I must tell him everything, the full truth about myself, and I do not want to do that. Christopher seems to register my discomfort, for he drops the subject entirely and instead says, "Can I come over there and sit?"

I smile at him. "Of course." He stands and takes the seat next to me.

Silently thanking McGonagall for her lessons, I Conjure up a stool for us to put our feet up on. He slides next to me and rests his head on my shoulder. I then rest my head atop his, and we both drift into a peaceful sleep.

I do not wake up until the train comes to a stop. Christopher and I stay silent as we make our way to the platform. "I'll see you later, Charlotte."

I nod at him before Apparating to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

George immediately says in a singsong voice, "Oh, Fred, I believe there is someone here to see you."

Fred rushes around the corner and swiftly takes me into his arms. "How's Ron?" he asks me once he places me back on the floor.

"Much better. I'm still sorry I didn't get to see you much that day," I say, even though I've already written and received a letter about this very subject.

Fred shakes his head, smiling. "I already told you—no worries. Now c'mon, I have to show you something." Then he takes my hand and pulls me alongside him to the second floor. "Look!" He dramatically motions to the shelves that reach from the floor to the ceiling, each single shelf packed full of Weasleys' Wildfire Whiz-bangs. "They've become our bestseller! I can almost guarantee you that this whole shelf will be sold out by the end of April."

"So you're pretty sure that you'll be buying Zonko's?"

He nods vigorously. "Oh yeah, we'll have that place by the end of the year if all goes well."

How am I supposed to tell him the truth when he's so happy? I don't want to ruin this for him.

"Then I'll be able to visit you each Hogsmeade weekend!" I say cheerily.

"Perfect!" He gives me a quick kiss. "We close up shop in a few hours, so you can either assist in our endeavors or you can wait in the flat."

"I'll help. What should I do?"

"Go help Verity at the register, if you don't mind."

"On it, boss," I say with a wink.

Verity, a girl with short blonde hair, appears to be roughly the age of Fred and George. "You're out of the castle?" she asks as I take the spot next to her behind the counter.

"Yeah, for the Easter holiday. When did you graduate? Or did you go to Hogwarts?"

"Graduated in ninety-three."

I didn't even know what Hogwarts was in 1993.

Verity and I make idle conversation until, just a couple of hours later, Fred makes his way over to us. "Verity," he greets her with a kind nod.

"Mr. Fred," she answers, smiling shyly, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. I file that look into the back of my mind, not actually sure whether I care very much about it. But it does remind me of the comment Zabini made at the Slughorn Christmas Party.

"I'm letting George take over for the rest of the evening. Come on, Charlotte, I have plans for us tonight."

I bid Verity a good day and follow Fred to the flat he shares with George. You need to tell him the truth, Charlotte.

"We're going to dinner tonight, in London, someplace nice. I have the reservations and everything," he informs me.

The moment he closes the flat door, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him against me, resting my head against his chest just beneath his chin. He twines his arms around me and holds me closely. This could be my last day ever with Fred. The thought fills me with both dread and relief—dread because he's grown to mean so much to me and relief because I will no longer be lying to him.

"Charlotte," he says, pulling away from me to look me in the face, "Charlotte, what's wrong?" He wipes the tears from my eyes.

I exhale slowly. It's now or never; stop being a coward. "I'm so sorry. There's something I have to tell you that I've been putting off for a really long time, but it's become obvious that I can't escape and that I have to tell you because my time is running out and I know I should have told you this long before I let things get this far but I was so afraid and now—and now—"

He presses his lips to my forehead, and together we walk to the sofa and sit down. "You can tell me anything, Charlotte, you know that."

I don't even know where to begin. I tell him as much.

He wraps both of his hands around mine. "I'm here," he says quietly, "and I'll be here as long as you need me."

Don't make promises like that, when I know you can't keep them. "All right," I whisper, taking a slow, measured breath to try to calm my racing heart. It takes me a moment before I trust myself to be able to speak properly. "So, you know how I'm Aurelia Lestrange." He nods. "And that my death was faked, and I became Charlotte Rodgers." He nods again. "I have always said that I don't know why my death was faked." I pause. "That's a lie."

"You know why your death was faked?"

"Yes." I exhale. "I was chosen, because of who I am: the daughter of the infamous Lestranges. He thought I would be . . . just as loyal and talented as they are. And I would be a pureblood. I—"

"Wait," Fred interrupts me kindly. "Who is 'he'?"

I meet his gaze. "Voldemort." His face darkens, but his eyes tell me to continue. "He . . . he chose me, Fred . . . there's nothing I can do."

He takes my hand. "He chose you for more than joining his Inner Circle?"

"He never chose me for that."

His grip on my hand tightens, and a concerned expression—one almost mixed with suspicion—crosses his face. "Then what did he choose you to do?" he asks in a strained voice.

I bite my lip, not wanting to go on. But Fred deserves to know. He has to know. This has gone on long enough, and I'm out of options. Continuing to lie to him is simply out of the question. "To bear him a child."

One of his hands goes to his hair. "You . . . you what?"

"I have to bear him a child," I say quickly and quietly.

"How long have you known?"

"Since I was ten." I can't look at him.

He releases my hand completely. "Why are you just now telling me?"

"Because . . . I've always thought I would be able to get out of it, but I—I had a meeting with him."

"A meeting? With him? You had a meeting with—with You-Know-Who—about bearing him a child?" Fred stands, an unreadable emotion on his face as he processes this information. I nod. "Well, what happened?" he says with a rising voice.

"He . . . he's chosen a day." I should have told him earlier. "It . . . depending on—well, I can't say what, exactly. He expects me to conceive the child in July."

"Ju—July?" Fred asks, his eyes widening. "But that's so soon! Why has he not given you more—"

"He gave me plenty of time to prepare myself for it," I whisper.

"Telling you when you were a child is not giving you time!"

"That's not what I mean."

He sits back down and clasps his hands together, leaning forward and bracing himself on his knees with his elbows. "Then what do you mean?" he asks, though he clearly already seems to have guessed what I mean.

"He . . ." I glance away from him, unable to look into those brown eyes when I confess everything to him. "He told me last summer." Fred takes a sharp breath. "His plans were not fulfilled before Christmas, so it bumped the day back to July."

"Christmas? You mean last Christmas? You learned about this last summer and are just now finding it worth your time to tell me?"

"That's not what—I didn't mean—of course I should have told you but—" There is no excuse for what I've done.

I reach out and take his hands, but he jerks them away from me and propels himself to his feet once more. "You've been lying to me this whole time!"

Of course I've been lying to him. "No, not lying, never—never lying—"

"Just purposefully keeping the truth from me then?" he snaps. "That's no better, Charlotte! You told me he wanted you in his Inner Circle—you—" He clenches his jaw. "That's when he told you, isn't it? You said the meeting was for you to join his Inner Circle, but it wasn't, was it?"

Tears fill my eyes. "Fred—"

"No! You met with You-Know-Who months ago and are just now telling me! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I was afraid of how you'd act." I stand up and take a step toward him, but he backs away.

"Were you even holed up in Malfoy Manor?"

I look away from him, shame and regret flushing my face. "No, but I was forbidden to tell anyone—"

"How long have you been lying to me?"

"I didn't want to lie to you! I was trying to protect you!"

"By keeping the truth from me?"

"Yes! The Dark Lord—"

"You've known about this since you were a child! You found out the exact date almost a year ago! You should have told me!"

"How was I supposed to know how you'd take this? I didn't want to face it!"

"You were supposed to trust that I cared enough about you to at least tell me!"

"You wouldn't have been fine with this no matter when I told you!"

"Now we'll never know, will we? This affects me too, Charlotte! Can't you see that?"

My heart plummets, and an uncomfortable rage shoots through my chest. "Of course I see that." But actually being forced to bear someone's child against my will is far different from him dating someone who is going through that. I push that thought aside because it surely only emerged to harden my feelings against him to make this less painful for me. I step toward him and place my hands on his chest. He glances down at them, disgusted. "And that's why I was afraid to tell you."

He steps backward, letting my hands fall away from him. "Everything we have together is built on a lie."

"No! No! I never lied about how much you mean to me! I just didn't tell you—"

"Who else have you told?" His gaze darkens. "Who else knows? Be completely honest with me."

"Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape"—none of those names seem to bother him—"the Tonks family"—his jaw clenches at this, which annoys me because that's my family—"Voldemort and his Death Eaters." I look away from him, not wanting to admit the last two.

"Who else, Charlotte?"

I can't keep any more secrets from him, no matter what the consequences. "Your mum and—"

"My what? WHY WOULD YOU TELL MY MUM AND NOT ME?"

I flinch away from him when he shouts. "Because I had to find a way to tell you . . ." I say quietly. "I thought she would . . . be able to help me."

His hand closes into a fist. "Who else?"

I close my eyes and turn my face away from him. I knew this was going to come back to haunt me, I just knew it, and yet I did it anyway.

"Who else, Charlotte?"

I exhale. "Z-Zoe Accrington."

"The Muggle-born Slytherin?"

"Yes."

"Why did you tell her?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit! Why did you tell her, Charlotte?"

"Because I couldn't tell you!"

"She was your replacement me?"

"No, I—"

"When did you tell her?"

I take a shaky breath, trying to decide whether I truly regret my actions. For some reason, it felt right to tell her at the time, and now I can't bring myself to feel truly guilty about it, which only makes this whole situation worse. I just wish this could have happened differently. That's my only regret about telling Zoe. I meet Fred's eyes; he's expecting an answer. "A few days after I found out."

"A FEW—A FEW DAYS? IT TOOK YOU A FEW DAYS TO TELL HER BUT IT TOOK YOU MONTHS TO TELL ME?"

I flinch away from him again, unable to stifle it. "This isn't something I planned!"

"Who is Accrington to you?"

"A friend. Someone I trust."

"Someone you trust more than me?"

"That's not—"

"Those visits when you couldn't stay long with me, did you go visit her?"

"Yes, but—"

"Are you cheating with her?"

"I—"

"There were rumors about her, but nothing was ever confirmed, at least not outside Slytherin. I didn't mind you being friends with her. I never cared. Even after I saw the way you looked at Fleur, I didn't care. Because I thought—I trusted you'd never—" He just sighs. "Tell me the truth, Charlotte, have you ever cheated with her?"

"No! I would never cheat on you, Fred!"

"Have you ever wanted to? With her?"

I look down, remembering how I wanted to kiss her on the train last Easter.

"That's answer enough. You wanted to cheat on me with her. You told her things you didn't tell me. You've been lying to me for months, but you told her everything. I can't trust you anymore."

"No, Fred, please!" I cry, again trying to reach out for him, grabbing the collar of his jacket. "I never wanted any of this! I didn't want to be chosen! I don't want to do any of this! I didn't want to be attracted to Zoe! I didn't want any of this! I just want you, Fred. That's all I want. Please. I'll do anything." I wrap my arms around the back of his neck and pull us tightly together. "Please don't hate me. I'll do anything. Please forgive me. I need you."

"I could forgive you keeping things from me because you feared how I would react. I could forgive you keeping this child thing from me. I could forgive you lying to me to protect me." He puts his hands on my waist and pushes me away from him. "But I cannot forgive you telling her and not me. What does that say about us when you trust someone else rather than me about something that affects the both of us?"

"Fred, let me make it—"

"You should go now," he whispers.

"Fred—"

"Go."

He closes his eyes as if unable to bear seeing me Disapparate. I summon my bag to me and leave Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and Fred behind me.