CHAPTER 6

My eyes peel open, and my heart plummets. Today is the day before Harry Potter's birthday, the day before I am to fulfill my duty to the Dark Lord. One day.

It's not surprising that Zoe is still asleep considering how poorly I slept through the night and how early it is right now. The idea of the Dark Lord looms over me, and with that knowledge comes the inability to sleep. Not even Zoe's warmth is enough to calm me right now, so I sneak out of the bed—softly so as not to disturb her—pull on some clothes, and make my way to the kitchen area where I begin preparing the two of us a quick breakfast of toast and eggs, hoping that she'll be awake soon enough to eat it before it gets cold. I have not yet left for Spinner's End because I am choosing to believe that by "before breakfast", Snape meant before the time we normally eat breakfast; that is still more than an hour away.

Unfortunately, she does not wake up before the food turns cold. Some thirty minutes later she's still asleep, her breakfast is cold, and I am drinking a cup of tea and flipping through the only sketchbook she has ever given me permission to open. At the very least it's a good distraction from what will happen to me tomorrow.

This particular sketchbook is filled with drawings of the Hogwarts castle, Thestrals, dragons, Hogsmeade, anything that seemed to catch Zoe's eye and draw inspiration in her last year at the school. I come across an early sketch of Zoe liberating me from Snape and Hogwarts and stop completely. It's so very different from the one she gave me. Less detailed. We're not at the entrance of Hogwarts but rather just on the grounds, the castle far behind us. It seems like this was forever ago, and yet it still ignites a small, warm happiness in my heart. I wonder if part of me loved her back then but simply refused to acknowledge it or was unsure of it. Wait, do you love her?

From the corner of my eye, I suddenly see Zoe hop over the back of her sofa and land beside me. She quickly reaches over and pecks my cheek. "Spying on my drawings again, Marcus?"

"Excuse me, but this is the book you allow me to look at."

She lifts the cup of tea from my hand and takes a long swig. "Is there a set time you have to leave today?"

I glance at the clock by her front door and frown. "About—about forty-five minutes," I whisper.

"You should've woken me!"

"Your breakfast is cold, but it's on the table if you want it."

"Charlotte, why didn't—"

"I don't know," I confess. "I didn't want to bother you, and I liked just sitting and going through the pictures."

"Come on." She saunters off in the direction of the kitchen, my cup of tea still in her hand, and I smile as I stand to follow her. She puts on another cup for herself. "I'll eat later. I have the day off, and I'm making these forty-five minutes the best forty-five minutes possible." Her eyes soften. "While also not making you leave this flat or have to see or do anything."

I smile at her, and she retrieves a box from under her bed, one that I have never seen. Inside is a large pile of notebooks. Grinning, she says, "These are all the journals I filled with sketches as a child. I think it'd be a fun way to distract you." For the remainder of my time with her, that's all we do. We flip through drawings of her past—Zoe gets choked up a couple of times at the mention of her parents and her failure to ever show them any of her work but manages to hold it in fairly well. The sketches she allows me to see range from Muggle homes to her parents to pets she had as a child to the random designs that I wish she would frame and use to decorate her flat. Each sketchbook we finish flipping through is given its proper place on the bookshelf, next to a row of others that I haven't been granted permission to look through.

My heart swells when I spend time with her. I'm eternally grateful that none of the Death Eaters know about her, that she doesn't play a part in the Order. She's safe. The only person who knows about her is Snape, and he would never try to harm her or snitch on us. She's safe—or as safe as she can be as a person in my life. Either way, she's at least somewhat safe. The thought brings peace.

When our time is up, she embraces me, holding me tightly, resting her head on my shoulder. "I'm sorry we couldn't get you out of this," she whispers, and my breath catches in my throat. "But I will be here if you need me. Any time. It doesn't matter if it's in the middle of the night, if you need me, you may come here. I'll make you some tea and hold you close."

Tears sting my eyes, and I tighten my hold on her. "Thank you," I say airily.

She pulls away from but leaves her hands on my shoulders. "I have only one thing to offer you." The look in her eye informs me exactly what this will be. "'Time is a river, a violent current of events, glimpsed once and already carried past us, and another follows and is gone.' This will pass, Charlotte. You will make it through tomorrow, and we will enjoy our next moment." Her hands on either side of my face, she leans down to kiss me once more. "I'm here."

I cover one of her hands, my eyes still closed, and nod. "I'm here," she repeats. She drops her hands from me, and I Apparate.

Snape sits in the living room of Spinner's End, his wand in his hands, his eyes staring blankly at the empty mug of coffee on the table in front of him. He flinches at the sound of my Apparition and looks up quickly at me. "Charlotte," he says softly in greeting. One day. I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. One day. That's all I have before I am made a slave until Harry ends this Dark Wizard's life once and for all. And this one day, this one day when I very much want to be around those who care the most about me, I am not allowed to be anywhere other than Spinner's End. Not that I blame Snape for this decision. Part of me believes, should I be anywhere with those I love, I would not have the will to return with my impending doom looming over me.

"Professor," I whisper, tears springing up.

The weather is gloomier here than it was in Hogsmeade. Rain pounds against his house, the universe finally taking pity on me and mourning with me over what will happen tomorrow.

"Do you need anything?"

"A Time-Turner would be nice," I sigh.

His eyes are sorrowful, but his voice is not when he asks, "Would breakfast suffice? Have you eaten?"

"A little, a while ago." Snape stands to his feet and leads me into the kitchen where there is a feast, similar to the breakfasts that Mrs. Weasley cooks, waiting for me. A smile comes to my face despite my circumstances. Either he spent quite some time preparing this or he stole it from one of his neighbors. I refuse to ask which of those is the truth because both answers are just as appealing to me. Instead, I sit down quietly and attempt to eat some of this food Snape has so kindly offered but soon learn that my stomach cannot handle much of anything right now and push the plate away from me.

"You need to eat."

"I've been trying."

"You've hardly eaten anything the past few days."

"You've been monitoring my intake?"

"You'll need your strength," he says kindly.

"I can't really eat right now."

His voice is gentle when he says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't think you really want to hear what I have to say about this whole thing, Professor."

"You're probably right," he says, "but I'm willing to listen nevertheless."

"As much as I appreciate the offer, I'm afraid I'm not willing to talk about it," I whisper, only managing to give him a half-hearted smile. "But thank you." Then I push to my feet and shuffle from the room without looking back at him because I cannot emotionally handle the sympathetic eyes with which he is undoubtedly watching me. I pass the sofa and, rather than taking my normal spot, work my way up to my tiny room where I slide under the sheets and stare at the wall with tear-filled eyes. This time last year, I was taking lessons with Snape to prepare me for this moment. This time last year, there was hope I would escape the Dark Lord altogether. Now here I am, one short day away from the worst thing that will ever happen to me, and there is no escape.

I had hope last year, and now I have nothing—nothing other than the knowledge that I am an object of choice used to reproduce, and that's all I'll ever be. I draw my knees to my chest. How does Bellatrix see this as an honor?

I close my eyes and take a shallow breath. Perhaps my body will kill itself off before I have to do this.

But I rather doubt it.

I'm startled awake by a loud crash of thunder. According to the clock it is well into the evening, which means I have wasted my last day of freedom. Yet I can't bring myself to care because this could very well be the last good sleep I ever get.

A faint knock at the door draws my attention, and I wipe away the fresh tears on my face. "Come in," I choke out.

Snape cracks the door open and peers in before entering. "If you hadn't answered this time, I was coming in to check your pulse."

"How often have you checked?"

"This is my fourth time," he says as he approaches the bed. "May I?"

"Sure."

He sits down on the end of the bed, and his face instantly becomes confused. "This bed . . . . is much softer than I remember."

"I switched the mattresses," I confess quietly, wiping tears from my eyes.

"When did this happen?"

"Last year."

"Last—last year?"

"I was upset with you, so I switched them when you left one day. I never switched them back." I laugh sadly and add, "I can change them back if you want me to."

"That's not necessary." A few moments later he says, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Not really."

We both fall silent, neither one of us knowing what to say to make this whole situation easier, and after a few minutes of this, he begins to stand and leave. I do not attempt to stop him.

Sleep does not come again, and with each passing moment, my panic rises. I imagined this night going differently. I imagined being held by Zoe while she muttered encouragements into my ear, but I am not allowed to leave Spinner's End.

My heart rate picks up, and my breathing shallows. My pulse echoes through my body as my blood pressure continues to rise. I can't do this. My adrenaline pumping, I roll out of my bed and rush from my room, coming to a stop in front of the one door I'm never allowed to open—Snape's room. I knock on the door, but he does not answer, and tears start sliding down my cheeks. I knock again, and yet he still does not answer. I know he's in there because where else could he be? I ball my fist up and bang roughly on the door, struggling for air, and he finally swings it open, his expression less annoyed than I feared it would be, probably because he sees the tears running down my face.

Having expected his room to be Slytherin colors, I'm surprised to find that the inside of his room is black and gray. Which is somehow extremely disheartening. Snape sees me looking into his room and steps aside to block my view. This brings me back to the present, and I quickly blurt out, "I can't do this!" I start trembling but can't seem to make myself stop.

"I know tomorrow will be difficult for you, Charlotte," he says softly, "but—"

"I can't do this!"

"Charlotte—"

"No!" I say frantically, breathing becoming more difficult by the second. "I can't—I can't—I can't do this!"

"I –"

"Please don't make me do this!" I weep. My knees give out, and I fall to the floor before him.

"There is nothing I can do," he says, not unkindly.

I choke on my sobs, unable to breathe, and try not to vomit on the floor. "I can't—"

"Charlotte—"

"I don't want to be alone tonight," I mumble. "I'm so scared."

He crouches down onto the floor in front of me. "What was that?"

"I can't sleep—not with him—not with tomorrow—I don't want to be alone," I stutter, trying my best to hold down the sorrow and fear building in my chest and making it excruciatingly tight. "I'm scared."

"You need some rest," he says kindly. He puts his hand under my chin and forces me to look at him. "You need to go to sleep. Tomorrow will be worse without rest."

The sobs break free once more, and I start choking again, my whole body now shaking worse than before. "I can't." I reach forward and grab the front of his robes, burying my face into his chest. "Please just kill me!"

"You need to stand up and go back to your room," he says gently.

"I can't."

"You must," he argues. "I can't let you go tomorrow without having some rest."

I try to stand but collapse back to my knees. "I don't have it in me," I whisper, officially giving up now. Without a moment's notice, Snape puts his arms under me and lifts me into the air, one arm under my knees, one arm around my waist. I bury my face into the crook of his neck and wrap my arms around him, still sobbing. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He remains quiet as he carries me back to my room and gently places me on the bed. "You need to sleep, Charlotte." He pulls the blankets over me.

As he tries to move away, I lurch forward and grab his left arm. "Please don't leave me," I beg. "Please, I don't want to be alone. Not . . . not now . . ."

Snape looks prepared to argue with me, but something in my face must stop him, compassion filling his eyes as he Conjures up a chair low enough to the floor that he can be comfortable while still forfeiting his arm over to me. I hold it tightly, my hand slipping into his, and try to go to sleep.

When my eyes crack open that next morning, I'm still clutching Snape's arm, and I look over at him, immensely grateful for his kindness toward me. His feet are propped on the bed next to mine, his head leaning back against the chair. His mouth is open slightly, his breaths deep. He snores softly. My eyes drift to the arm I'm holding, the arm with the Dark Mark, and I can't stop myself from turning it over ever so slightly to have a better view of the mark. I carefully roll up his sleeve, and the mark stares angrily back at me. Though I try to look away, I simply cannot. It's mesmerizing. Before I can stop myself, my hand has moved toward the mark, my fingers tracing its outline as I try to understand why anyone would willingly take this mark, this thing that brands them as followers of the Dark Lord himself.

Snape's arm twitches, likely because the light, feathery touches on his arm tickle him, so I stop. Then I slide out of the blankets, careful not to cause too much of a disturbance. The bed is in the corner against two walls, and for a moment I consider crawling over his legs to get off the mattress but decide against it. Instead, I stand unevenly on the mattress, bracing one hand against the wall, and walk to the foot of the bed, where I will only have to crawl over his feet rather than his legs. But something stops me from leaving the room when I reach the door.

I take one of the blankets from the foot of the bed and unfold it to drape it over him while he sleeps, then leave the room, silently shutting the door behind me. I walk to the sitting room and can go no farther before I grow weak and sit down on the little sofa.

I cannot do this today. I can't fight the Dark Lord.

I don't want to do this.

I want to be normal, I want to be with a family right now, I want to be enjoying my summer holiday as normal students do. I shouldn't be here, I shouldn't be trying to gather courage to face the Dark Lord while he tries to impregnate me with his demon spawn. The sofa is my fortress for nearly half an hour before I manage to pull myself together and shuffle my way into the kitchen where I find two eggs and a skillet and begin cooking a small breakfast for myself and Professor Snape, hoping that it can distract me. While those are cooking, I toast bread, and once those have both finished, I set two glasses on the table and fill them with orange juice. Just as I'm pulling out my chair to sit down, Snape's footfalls on the steps alert of his approach; nearly each step is followed by a quiet groan.

I am seated by the time he arrives.

"Morning," he grunts as he sits down across from me.

"Morning."

His eyes skim over the meal set before him, and he says, "Did you rob the neighbor again?" He seemingly unconsciously massages the back of his neck.

"Actually, no," I say airily.

He pauses, looking from me to the food, hiding the shroud of skepticism on his face so poorly I almost believe he is not attempting to mask it at all. "And it's not poisoned?"

I roll my eyes but still reach over to prove my innocence, taking his glass of juice and gulping a swallow down. "I'm over wanting to kill you, sir," I say pointedly, trying to make myself sound upbeat though tears gather in my eyes, then place the glass back from where I took it. "That ship sailed long ago."

"Humph," is his only response, and without looking at me, he switches our glasses so he has the full one and I have the one I drank from. "What possessed you to actually cook this morning?" He prepares his toast, watching me.

"It's . . . it's my way of thanking you, Professor," I say quietly, trying not to look away from him despite how badly I really want to.

A smirk. "You weren't this grateful when I shared my home with you last year."

"That's not what I'm thanking you for," I say, my voice giving out on me, my lower lip trembling terribly. I finally cave in and glance away while I add, "I'm thanking you for not leaving me alone last night when you had every right to do so." Then I force myself to meet his gaze again despite the heat rising to my cheeks. His obsidian eyes are compassionate, which is a look I hardly ever receive from him, but he only nods understandingly, not a word on the subject passing his lips, before going back to his meal. I follow his lead and begin eating as well.

At least I try to eat, but I've grown nauseated again at the thought of what lies ahead of me today, and I find myself unable to stomach food at the moment.

After trying to force down this meal for what feels like forever, I simply wave the white flag and leave the kitchen altogether, my half-full plate still on the table, Snape still silent. I bypass the sitting room, not ready to be on the sofa again just yet, and trudge toward the steps, refusing to look back and see those pitying eyes of his again, as he is no doubt watching me with concern. No words right now can offer any help, no words can soothe this storm inside of me. I walk to the bathroom where I spend entirely too long in the shower, just letting the warm water wash over me for a while. When I've grown too pruned to justify staying in here any longer, I return to my bedroom and lie down. Because what else can I do, really? Is there anything that can be done to save me?

Not this late into the situation. Because honestly, when the Dark Lord wants something, nothing can be done to stop him. Nothing can be done to save the object of his hate.

Unless, of course, your name is Harry Potter. The Chosen One. The one who always seems to escape He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the one who has the entire Order of the Phoenix trying to protect him because he is just oh so important to stopping the Dark Lord and his wretched Death Eaters, because he is the only hope we have against You-Know-Who.

If more people knew about the Dark Lord's plans for me, they would try to help me escape as well. If they knew that the Dark Lord planned to have a child through me, they would be more willing to help me. But as they do not know, I am not as important as the all-wonderful Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. What a joke. He only lived because of people like Snape and Dumbledore—people who put their lives on the line for some Gryffindor deemed important by nothing more than chance.

And the fucking brat doesn't even care about what Snape or anyone else has done. He doesn't realize just how many times Snape has almost died for him, how many times Snape has been tortured for him, how many times Snape has looked the devil in the eye and lied for him. He hates Snape so much. Even if he knew the truth, it would change nothing. Potter would go along hating Snape no matter what.

And here I am, a slave-to-be, someone who respects the amount of hell people have been through on my behalf, and the Order—the very group I strived so hard to be a part of—has all but forgotten about me. None of them even care where I am.

Do any of them—the ones who know the truth—even realize what today is? Would they even give a shit? Do any of them actually care about the You-Know-Who's plans for me, or are they too busy trying to make sure Potter—in his safehouse so protected that no one could ever stand a chance to reach him—is kept out of danger? Are they so concerned about guarding the Boy Who Lived that they don't care about the Dark Lord's other plans?

No one gives a shit about you, Charlotte. No one cares about what's going to happen to you and what might happen if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named gets a child. That's not their priority. I'm not their priority. I'm no one's priority. I'll never be anyone's priority. I'm disposable. Chattel. A prisoner. I'm trapped forever until Harry fucking Potter figures out a way to destroy the Dark Lord. A boy, one younger than I am, holds my fate in his hands while he tries to discover a way to kill You-Know-Who when even Dumbledore himself was incapable. Surely others must realize that it's hopeless. Harry's basically just a child. And my life is in his hands.

I roll over, now facing the wall, and grab my pillow and bury my face into it and let a growing wail rip through me, muffling it with the pillow only because I do not want to frighten the neighbors. My knees slowly fold up to my chest, and I wrap my arms around them, burying my face into them, trying to hide away from the world but failing.