CHAPTER 4

The windows in McGonagall's office overlook a large field that appears to be a Quidditch Pitch. Is it mandatory to play Quidditch? I hope not, seeing as I can't even fly on a broom and would probably fall to my death trying to both fly and chase a ball at the same time.

McGonagall leads me over to her desk, motions for me to sit down in the chair in front of her desk, and then makes her way around it to sit behind it. She watches me curiously for a moment. Do the professors live in the castle, or do they live down in Hogsmeade? Not wanting to seem too curious about the innerworkings of this place or about the professors here in general, I don't voice these questions about the professors' lives, but I do ask, motioning to the Quidditch Pitch, "Is Quidditch mandatory?"

Her eyes narrow suspiciously as if she suddenly doesn't know whether to believe my lie from earlier. "No."

"Good, because I can't fly on a broom."

"Are you in danger, Rodgers? You said someone was trying to kill you."

I clear my throat. "They have recently . . . stopped for now." Because they caught me and have imprisoned me. "I don't think they know where or how to find me, so I'm probably safe here."

"Who?"

"Death Eaters."

McGonagall pauses, processing this information for a few seconds before simply asking, "Why?"

Hot blood splashes across my face, into my mouth—I push the memory away. "I don't really want to talk about it, Professor," I say quietly, looking down at my hands in my lap. "If that's all right."

"Rodgers—"

"They don't know where I am, so I'm not putting the other students at risk. Can I please not talk about it? Professor Dumbledore knows about it."

Looking slightly sympathetic in a way that almost embarrasses me, she inhales and waves her wand—two butterbeers fly to her desk. She hands me one. Having only ever had one in my life so far, and having loved it, I eagerly take the bottle and drink a large swig, savoring the butterscotch flavor for a few glorious moments before I look back at the professor's inquisitive expression. "I know the story about you that Professor Dumbledore has told the other professors is not quite the truth," she finally says to me. "I spoke with him after our short conversation in the corridor."

"What'd he say?" I ask slowly, still trying to enjoy the butterbeer flavor on my lips.

"He didn't know much about your life before Professor Snape brought you here. I suspect you've told him about yourself by now?"

"What little I know I told," I say, sipping the butterbeer again. "Did you bring me in here to ask me what I know as well?"

"Certainly not," she replies swiftly. "I brought you in here because I know Professor Snape can at times be short-tempered, and I didn't want to jeopardize his reputation here at Hogwarts."

In my opinion, his reputation can't be that great to begin with, but this thought remains unvoiced in case she takes offense to any disrespect toward him. "He had every right to be as enraged at me as he was. I mean, I did Stun him." However, as Stunning him was the most fun I've had in months, I have to force back my smile. McGonagall doesn't seem to notice, for she has pulled out some papers and seems to be working, probably preparing for the classes that should be starting soon.

Though I clearly should not be distracting her, something about McGonagall makes me want to speak. Perhaps because she reminds me of Mrs. Stoico. Or perhaps because she's one of the few people to show me genuine kindness in what feels like an incredibly long time. "Professor?"

She glances up. "Yes?"

"I think . . . I would like to tell you what I know about my past." Snape will never be an ally, and—according to the reading I did last night—Dumbledore is the most important figure in the war against Lord Voldemort, which means he likely can't be bothered with helping me. As McGonagall seems like a good alternative, I find myself telling her what I feel is important enough to get her on my side, and once the truth starts coming out, I find it damn near impossible to stop. Everything flows out of me, from my parents to my great-uncle to my time at the orphanage. In spite of the little jolts of fear and nerves, my story lingers longer on the orphanage than I would have liked, particularly Mrs. Stoico—the caretaker at the orphanage where I lived those few years. "She . . . she was a mother to me, Professor, the only one I ever really had."

I take a deep breath and push on, not entirely sure why I am telling her all of this when it is likely unnecessary considering how sympathetic she already looks. "Honestly, she cared about me more than the other orphans, and I . . . I broke her heart when I left the orphanage after receiving my great-uncle's letter. And she begged me—begged me—not to leave. But I . . . I had things I had to do, things I had to learn about myself." What a waste of time and life that was. I've been in isolation for six years because of my choice to learn more about myself. And what good has it brought me? I still know almost nothing about where I came from.

"Part of her understood why I had to leave—she was a Squib and knew why I couldn't happily live in the Muggle world. Still . . . she wanted me to go to a school and learn magic the proper way." Merlin, I miss that woman. I never should have left the orphanage. Everything went pretty poorly for me after that. "I can only assume she meant Hogwarts.

"But coming here . . . it was never in the cards for me." I'm still not supposed to be here. I am supposed to be running from Voldemort and hiding from Death Eaters, not being watched after by one of them. "And, really, it still shouldn't be. None of this was my plan. I was supposed to remain in hiding until . . ." Only then am I able to stop myself from going any farther because McGonagall simply cannot know of my duty to Voldemort.

"It wasn't my intention to bring you in here to coax your past out of you. If Professor Dumbledore knows and is allowing you to stay here, that's enough for me," she says.

My eyes drift down to my lap, a poor excuse to avert my gaze from her but one that was necessary for my own sanity. The answer to making her more sympathetic towards me is becoming clearer in my mind. "Honestly, Professor, it's because you saved me from Snape." She gives me a questioning gaze, which forces me to continue, but not before looking down at my hands again, "Well, since I left the orphanage and have been on the run, I have had no one who seems to care. I think . . . you remind me of Mrs. Stoico." Holding my breath, I look up at McGonagall, but only for a second before I look away and continue, "I didn't mean to say all of this . . . I'm sorry, Professor, I should—"

"Why did you not go back when you discovered your uncle was deceased?"

All thoughts of leaving Hogwarts aside now, I grab the butterbeer with shaky hands and try to force down a swallow, only to find that I am unable, and start choking it back up. This time I will not lie to make McGonagall an ally. No one living besides me knows that Mrs. Stoico died because of my decision to leave, and I don't intend on talking about it now, not to someone who doesn't really know me, especially when I can't be sure just how long Voldemort will force me to stay here at Hogwarts. I simply cannot let that piece of information be known. "It was time for me to move on, Professor. I couldn't live in the Muggle world, not with the knowledge of being a witch."

I know it is a weak excuse, one she can clearly see right through, but whether she is driven to drop the subject by my cracking voice or my poorly hidden tears or my trembling hands is unclear. Whatever the reason, I simply appreciate her not pushing me. "So, you've taught yourself for six years?" Her voice is kind and welcoming, and I try not to look up at her at the sound of it—despite my need and desire to have someone help me, I refuse to get too attached to the idea of anyone being kind to me because history has proven that that never works out well for me. Everyone who has ever cared for me either died an awful death or was lying for their own nefarious purposes. "How far along in your education would you say you are? Do you think you are prepared for fifth-year work?"

"I believe I am. I've had a lot of time to do nothing but magic."

"Would you be willing to demonstrate some Transfiguration so I can see how far along you are in your studies?" McGonagall asks me, trying to put a light tone in her voice. To me, it seems that she is trying to keep me away from Snape for a bit longer by offering a distraction that is hard to ignore. I've been alone on the run for so many years and need to prove, both to her and to myself, that my abilities match those of the students with which Dumbledore has placed me.

"Sure." She can undoubtedly hear the anxiety in my voice. "I've never been asked to demonstrate magic, so forgive me if it's not what you expect." I pull my wand from my robes. "This particular transfiguration saved my life earlier this year." I stand up and move a few steps away from the desk. "Serpensortia!" A serpent appears from thin air and turns to me, ready to strike. "Confringo!" The snake bursts into flames and leaves a small puff of black smoke. With the smoke dispersing through the room, I wave my wand one more time. The smoke reforms and solidifies, becoming three daggers, which I direct to the wall. They smack it and fall to the floor, and I Vanish them a moment later before looking back to McGonagall. "I didn't have to go through so much to get to the daggers, because the other wizard was creating the smoke for me. He had set the house I was staying in on fire. And summoning the snake is just one of my favorite spells. I've learned that snakes can be very intimidating."

"That they can. I won't need to worry about your Transfiguration abilities," McGonagall assures me with a kind smile.

My face grows warm. "That's good to know. Transfiguration is one of the subjects I studied the hardest the past few years. Well, that and Charms, but mostly Transfiguration." Trying to make a cave or an unfinished basement or a cellar somewhere or a little area in the woods into a comfortable place to live for a few weeks always required a little bit of Transfiguration, and that led me to focus almost solely on that branch of magic. Charms were also useful when making an uncomfortable place inhabitable, but I'd rather not think about my true reasons for learning Charms.

"Your least favorite subject would be what?"

"Either Herbology or Care for Magical Creatures," I say. "It was hard for me to get the needed supplies for those, so I just lost interest. I like Potions a good deal, but finding necessary materials wasn't an easy feat. The theory of it, though, and what different ingredients can do, was always very interesting to me. But I focused mainly on Transfiguration and Charms, and a bit of Defense Against the Dark Arts, because I could practice those with nothing more than my wand." For obvious reasons, I needed to practice Defense Against the Dark Arts at least a bit. That way I could at least somewhat protect myself from the Death Eaters who wanted to harm me when running was not an option.

"Professor Snape teaches Potions—"

"So I'll either excel or grow to despise it?"

McGonagall does not seem bothered by my untimely interruption, and in fact there seems to be amusement in her eyes. "It typically works that way for most of the students."

"If things between Snape—"

"Professor Snape," she interjects.

"—between Professor Snape and I continue the way they have been, I fear I'll grow to despise Potions," I conclude.

"Give it a chance. Professor Snape is tough on his students and expects much from them, but that's only because he wants to see them succeed."

I smirk. "At the current moment, I believe he wants me dead."

"Try not to cross him, and Potions will be fine."

I say with a laugh, "Unless Snape—"

"Professor Snape."

"Unless he forgives easily, I fear the whole 'try not to cross him' thing has already passed."

"You can try not making it worse."

I don't know, really. Snape didn't like me from the moment he was assigned to babysit me for Voldemort, and I doubt he'll forgive me for Stunning him, especially after I smirked back at him when McGonagall came to my rescue. The chances of him ever deciding not to hate me now, particularly since he's been forced against his will by the Dark Lord to imprison me, seem incredibly slim.

I don't voice any of these concerns, of course, instead keeping them to myself because she doesn't need to know that Snape has been forced to watch after me on Voldemort's behalf. I'm only in her office for a few more minutes before bidding her a good rest of the day and making my way back to the Slytherin Dungeon.

I've almost made it to the stairs descending to the dungeons when a thought occurs to me. "Dobby?" Within seconds, the little house-elf appears beside me with the same loud crack! as before. "Dobby," I say, smiling at him, "could you please bring me something to eat? It doesn't matter what; I'm starving."

He smiles, then disappears again. I wait in the corridor for his return, but instead of Dobby bringing it back, another elf arrives with my food and disappears before I have a chance to ask its name. On the plate in front of me sits some kind of sandwich, the likes of which I've never seen. Nevertheless, it looks delicious. I carry the plate in one hand and let my butterbeer float beside me as I make my way to the common room eating my meal.

I've just finished the sandwich—it was some kind of ham—and am gulping down what's left of my butterbeer as I enter the Slytherin Dungeon. What I had thought would be a nightmare of a day has actually become quite relaxing. I set the goblet down on one of the tables and take a seat in front of the still-blazing fire (Does it ever die out?).

Having already had enough adventure for one day, the only choice I have is to find something to entertain myself with inside the Slytherin Dungeon. (I am still partially afraid to wander around when I don't know how well Snape has calmed down.) All I really have to do is avoid him until he has had time to cool off and all shall be fine.

Snape and I have had no contact since McGonagall saved my life—thank the stars above for her, or I'd be dead—and I'm dreading when we inevitably have to face each other again. I was in the moment earlier and couldn't help but smile back at him when that glorious Gryffindor arrived to spare my life, so he certainly knows the truth. A shudder runs through me at the thought.

He'll definitely still be upset. I would be and thus can't expect any different from him.

Absent-mindedly, I write all of the questions of my life in the air with a fiery font. Why did my mother choose her crime over me? Where is my father and why did he abandon me? Is he alive, and could he help me escape? Why did my great-uncle not mention my father at all? Why did Lord Voldemort choose me? What will Voldemort do with my child if I actually have one? Where is Voldemort now? (I probably don't really want to know that one.)

Maybe seeing them will help me sort through them; maybe seeing them will help me answer them. But I doubt it. The only purpose drawing in the air serves is to relax me as I ponder my impending punishment from Snape. There's no doubt in my mind that he will do so by undermining the rules of Hogwarts. After all, I'm not even a real student, am I? So why should he abide by the rules when punishing me?

But the longer I lie on the floor, helpless, the more gruesome the potential punishments flashing through my mind become. His Death Eater mates had no qualms about trying to severely injure me, so it stands to reason that he would feel the same way. Perhaps if I go now, perhaps if I find him and apologize for my actions, he will show me mercy. With extraordinarily little hope of this happening, I stand to my feet, brush away all my questions, and leave the common room. Though not at all certain why, my gut tells me that facing Snape head-on rather than allowing him to find me and blindside me makes the most sense.

With no idea which room is his office, I try each door just to make sure. The first one is locked, much to my dismay. The second one is locked as well. Perhaps searching aimlessly for Snape's office was not my best idea. Surely it will be locked with some complicated spell to keep annoying, obnoxious students out. And I probably fall into that group of students. Would McGonagall know which office is his? It could almost be worth going to her office to ask questions; however, not wanting to disrupt her again so soon, I continue trying the doors, ignoring the creeping fear telling me not to find him, the hairs rising on the back of my neck. I ignore all of that the moment the fourth door proves to be unlocked. I just barely manage to restrain myself enough not to open it immediately. What kind of horrors could be in here? Surely, if a professor as cruel as Snape leaves a door open, there has to be a reason, and that reason very well could be potions meant to harm nosy students.

Is that even allowed at Hogwarts?

Probably not.

Am I willing to bet my life on anything less than absolute certainty?

Why not? I've not much to live for anyways at this point.

So I throw the door open. From what little I can see through the dim lighting, shelves line the stone walls, each full of different and colorful potions and what I assume to be potion ingredients, none of which I want to know more about because they likely just result in a death more painful than is safe to imagine. What else would a Death Eater keep in his office? In the middle of the room sits a large desk. Could I possibly be lucky enough to find Snape's office unlocked?

This was a bad idea. He's not in here, and if he finds me trying to sneak into his office, I'm fairly certain he won't believe that I came to apologize and face my punishment, so I spin on my heel to get away before he catches me and slam face-first into a man's chest. My heart drops, my blood pressure rises, and my face flushes at the realization that this simply has to be Snape. Is this how I die?

"I see I've found you snooping," he says coolly, taking my shoulders and forcing me farther away from him. "Might I ask, just what are you doing in my office?"

I stiffen my jaw, annoyed that he immediately assumes I'm snooping and probably trying to destroy his office. I'm not a delinquent—I just make mistakes. How rude of him to assume the absolute worst in me. The burning anger, the anger which can only be set aflame by Severus Snape because he is the person currently responsible for my imprisonment here, begins sizzling once more, but I refuse to attack him again (or make any sudden movements that would make it seem like I'm attacking) because that would be far too dangerous. "Excuse me, Professor," I say through gritted teeth, trying to get around him.

Snape throws his arm up in front of me and pushes me back into the room. "I'll ask again, Rodgers. What were you doing in my office?"

"I was looking for you, Professor," I hiss. So much for the apology.

"It seems you found me." His tone is darker than usual, so much in fact that I can't stop my eyes from wandering up to his face, which is somehow both expressionless and full of fury at the same time. His brow is creased, and the flickering torches in his office make his shadowed face even more menacing in a way that makes me fear suddenly for my life. But . . . he . . . he wouldn't kill me, right? Not only am I a student and he a professor, but also I am the one chosen to bear the Dark Lord's child and he is a devout follower of the Dark Lord.

Is he really a devout follower though? Why did he tell Dumbledore so much about my duty if he's loyal to Voldemort?

His black eyes penetrate straight into my soul, and while I desperately want to cower away from him, that would put me farther into his office, which does not seem appealing in the slightest. "If you ever use any sort of magic against me again"—his voice is such a low growl that I have to physically strain to hear him—"you will beg the Dark Lord to rescue you from my clutches."

I continue to stare at him, speechless. Had he said something like "you're going to wish you had never come to Hogwarts" or "you're going to regret the day you were born", I would have a witty retort for him, but the mention of Voldemort rescuing me from him completely throws me off—all I can do is nod at him and whisper, hardly audible, "Yes, Professor Snape." He slides to the side to let me go back to the Slytherin common room, and I scurry away as fast as possible, wondering briefly if his threats can be taken seriously.

Of course they can.

Before saying the password to enter the common room, I turn to yell at him for threatening me when Voldemort has ordered my safety, but it is in that moment that a jet of scarlet red light streaks straight toward me and hits me directly in the face before I can react. Everything goes black.

My hand flies to my head pounding head when I wake up. Somehow, I am lying on one of the sofas in the Slytherin common room—my unspoken question of how I arrived here is answered the moment my eyes find Snape sitting across from me in one of the armchairs. "The hell was that about?" I croak, forcing myself into a sitting position and scowling at the evil smirk on Snape's face. "You already—"

"Hit you with a spell?"

"Yes." I swing my legs over the side of the sofa to look more natural in the seat and to occupy myself with something other than looking at him. A bitter taste lingers in my mouth. My cheeks grow warm. "Are we even now?" Snape doesn't answer, just smiles cruelly at me. "Truce?" I try again, even going so far as to hold out my hand.

"You are not a real student," he says softly. "You're just another responsibility the Dark Lord has assigned to me. You're in league with Death Eaters now, and if you cross me, I'll respond as any other Death Eater might." Then, watching me suspiciously, he shakes my hand. "A truce for now." He stands and walks to the door and leaves without another word, while I retreat to the fifth-year Slytherin girls' dormitory and curl up on my bed.