CHAPTER 7
I leave Arithmancy with Hermione, who is not nearly as awful as Draco made her seem. Granted, she is a know-it-all who had an answer for every single question Professor Vector asked, which is rather annoying, but her being a Mudblood—Muggle-born, I reprimand myself, as it was the term she used for herself—doesn't seem as nearly a catastrophic as the Slytherins acted. When I see Draco, I say goodbye to her and walk with him toward Defense Against the Dark Arts. Luckily, he hadn't seen us talking, so there is no bombardment of questions. The last thing I want to defend is my right to talk to someone in my class, and I especially have no desire to defend myself to someone so closely related to the Dark Lord and my imprisonment here. "Do you think this Umbridge woman is as bad as they say?" I ask quietly. "I don't think I can handle much more today."
He casts me a furtive glance. "Of course not," he says, his voice confident, "she was once a Slytherin, so she can't be completely incompetent. Sure, she might never be as good as Professor Snape, but she can't be too bad. It's the Mudblood, isn't it? Did she tell you how bad Umbridge is? You know you can't believe a word she says."
Despite my determination not to let Draco's opinions matter to me or influence me in any way, I catch myself chewing my inner cheek as he says this. He was the first student to show me kindness within the walls, and that means something to me, unfortunately, considering how isolated my life has been for so long. "Draco," I say quietly. He looks at me, wide-eyed and eager. "What if I'm a Mud—Muggle-born?" Considering the fact that Voldemort chose me to bear his child and my mother died in Azkaban and my great-uncle was magical, the chances of my being a Muggle-born feels miniscule, but the curiosity bubbling up inside of me simply demands an answer. It demands to know whether Draco would shun me should I discover my parents were Muggles. His opinion shouldn't matter this much—he's a Malfoy, a Death Eater's child, and kind of a prat just like his dad with how he speaks about anyone he believes to be beneath him. But that's also part of the issue: he's been nothing but nice to me, and the idea of him thinking I'm beneath him bothers me a great deal.
Draco stops suddenly and grabs my arm. "You're not a Mudblood. You shouldn't even think those things! It's rare for a Mudblood to be in Slytherin. You have nothing to worry about."
"Draco, my parents are gone, and I never knew them. I could easily be one. . . ." I swallow down the frustration with myself for admitting I never actually knew my parents. It's not like it matters anyway; he'll probably find out about me at some point considering his parents are . . . effectively my guardians, according to Snape. Oh hell, does that mean I'll have to live in the cellar during breaks from Hogwarts? Perhaps staying in Draco's good graces is a better idea than I thought. After all, if I'm locked in the cellar, being his friend could afford me some creature comforts if he's willing to bring anything to me.
Draco's other hand grabs my free shoulder. He looks at me square in the face. "If you were a Mudblood, I would know. You're not one. Don't worry about it. I know plenty of pureblooded wizards who were scared of having a Squib for a child and left their families over it. That's probably what happened with your family as well." He smiles reassuringly at me. Why did he not comment on my slip about my parents? Does he already know about me? Is that why he seems so keen on befriending me—because his parents told him about me? "Besides, Durmstrang doesn't allow Mudbloods."
Hmm. Maybe they actually haven't told him about me. I nod silently, and we walk to our Defense Against the Dark Arts class together. Umbridge, wearing a fluffy pink cardigan, is already behind the teacher's desk, looking over the desks with a wide, creepy grin. "Maybe this class will be worse than I thought . . ." Draco whispers to me.
I sit down beside him as the rest of the class files in. When we've all taken our seats, Umbridge stands and greets us like we're five years old again. "Good afternoon!"
Hardly anybody replies, which seems to enrage Umbridge, who proceeds to rant to us about how when she says "Good afternoon!" we are supposed to reply with "Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge!" Indeed, she forces us to go through this ritual before officially beginning class. I grit my teeth and follow along, growing angrier about this than warranted. When she says that all of the other DADA teachers before her have put our year behind what the Ministry expects us to be at by this time, I lean over to Draco and quietly whisper, "How many teachers have you had in this class?"
"A new one every year," he says, keeping his voice as quiet as I had.
Is that normal? Surely not. McGonagall and Snape both seem to have been teaching here for a long time. Why are they still here if DADA teachers leave regularly? Umbridge continues, "You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please." She taps the board, and words write themselves for all of us to see.
Course Aims:
Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.
Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.
Looking around, I find that almost everyone else seems confused despite the straightforward instructions she just gave—even Draco looks confused. Am I missing something? Umbridge asks whether we have our Ministry-approved textbook, at which point Draco sighs and says to me under his breath, "This is much worse than I thought. My father will hear about this. This is worse than when the werewolf taught us!"
"You had a werewolf teach you?" Werewolves and ghosts as teachers? Perhaps the Malfoys are right to question Dumbledore's competency as headmaster.
"Third year."
"Who else has taught this class?" I whisper.
"Ugh, the writer Gilderoy Lockhart, probably one of the worst except for the werewolf. Then there was the Death Eater Barty Crouch Jr. who pretended to be Alastor Moody." He adds angrily, "That bastard turned me into a ferret."
That is definitely a story worth hearing when we have more time.
"I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners.' There is no need to talk," Umbridge's voice rings through the classroom.
After a few minutes of reading some of the worst text that I've ever had the displeasure of reading—which shocks me because it's not like I haven't read multiple textbooks over the years—Draco taps my arm. "Look over there." He's pointing at Hermione whose hand is in the air, her book closed in front of her. The look on her face says she's been waiting for a while for Umbridge to notice, possibly since we were first told to begin reading.
"Hmm," I say, then turn my attention back to the book, not really interested in whatever Hermione's problem is right now. Never before have I read a Defense Against the Dark Arts book this stale and dry before. It's like the author went out of their way to make this the most boring, most mundane, most bland book in the world, which is a shame, because I had hoped to learn a decent amount of DADA magic while here. If I'm forced to be at Hogwarts, I might as well get something out of it. As it stands, however, I would've been better off continuing to teach myself without instruction.
A few minutes later during an eye-rubbing break I've given myself, I finally notice that multiple people around the classroom have stopped reading because they're too busy watching Hermione's attempt to get Umbridge's attention. And, admitting silently to myself that watching her is actually more entertaining than reading this book, I join the others in enjoying the spectacle. When over half of the class has stopped reading, Umbridge decides it is finally worth her while to address the situation. "Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?" she asks Hermione.
"Not about the chapter, no," Hermione says.
Draco's brow furrows. "The Mudblood never questions the professors like this."
"Really?" Judging by the look of determination on her face right now, I would have assumed she questioned professors on a regular basis; however, considering she acted nothing like this in Arithmancy, perhaps Umbridge just has a way of bringing out the worst in people.
"Yeah, she's a know-it-all, didn't you notice? She wants the approval of the professors, tries hard to get it, too, probably because she knows she doesn't belong here."
"There's nothing written up there about using defensive spells."
"I can't imagine a time when you would need to use defensive spells in my class, Miss Granger.
"We're not going to be using magic?" I don't see who asked this, but whoever it was seems upset. Umbridge quickly reprimands him for talking out of turn.
"That was Weasley," Draco tells me, just as Umbridge asks what the offender's name was. "Normally I wouldn't agree with him, but I fear he has a point, both he and Granger, really."
"Surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?" Hermione tries.
"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" Umbridge asks in a falsely sweet voice.
"No, but—"
"Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the 'whole point' of any class is—"
"I don't think Umbridge is qualified either, personally," I mutter to Draco.
He laughs quietly.
Umbridge and Hermione argue for a few more minutes, but I don't hear most of what they say. Draco is talking to me—maybe more to himself than me—about whether Hermione has a point and about how he wants to agree with her. His clear preference is to not agree with her simply due to his principles and always being against her because of her blood status.
When Umbridge says something about learning in a "risk-free way," Harry pipes up, automatically criticizing how the real world will never be risk-free, and I try to re-focus on what's going on around me so I'm not completely in the dark.
A lot of students begin asking the same question, because Umbridge swiftly refused to answer Harry's hand after she told him to raise it. Then she starts criticizing some "half-breed" who once taught the class because he made it too dangerous.
"The half-breed is the werewolf," Draco says softly, now coming to terms with the fact that on this one thing he must agree with Hermione and the other Gryffindors who have spoken out against Umbridge. "His name was Remus Lupin."
Dean Thomas (Draco leans over and whispers his name to me) jumps to the werewolf's defense. "He was the best we ever—"
"Hand!"
"I wouldn't agree with him on that statement, personally," Draco adds quietly.
"What spells were taught that were inappropriate for our age range?" I ask, grasping onto Umbridge's words and immediately wanting to know more.
"The boggart." It's definitely for the best that I missed that lesson while on the run. What else could my worst fear possibly be aside from Voldemort, our child in his arms? No one needs to know that.
"Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!"
Something in her voice sets my nerves on edge and immediately begins making my blood boil. Is it because she cuts everyone off or because she refuses to listen? I don't know, but this woman disgusts me in ways that make me want to hurt her. Don't think like that.
When Harry again speaks up about the real world, I block Draco out completely.
"This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world."
"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting out there?"
"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter."
"Oh yeah?" he asks sarcastically.
"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?"
"Hmm, let's think . . . maybe Lord Voldemort!"
At the mention of that name, I retreat into myself and begin tuning them all out again. There's no doubt that Voldemort would want to hurt young witches and wizards our age, and it's only a matter before he hurts me.
I try to put myself in that place under the beech tree while Umbridge preaches to the students that Voldemort has not returned despite Harry's claims. Harry's infuriated yells about a boy named Cedric Diggory "dropping dead of his own accord" pulls me violently back to the present. His voice betrays his strong front: it's shaky. Either he's at the point of heartbreak, or he's at the point of murder, or a mixture of both. After calling Umbridge a liar, he's sent from the room, probably to McGonagall since she's the Deputy Headmistress and his Head of House, and I can finally put the thoughts of Voldemort behind me.
But then a sudden, sharp pain rips at my stomach, and without thinking, I grasp Draco's arm, trying to hold back the vomit threatening me. This is much worse than the usual nausea brought on at the thought of Voldemort, and I fear I might lose this battle and spew the contents of my stomach onto the floor. Draco puts his hand over the top of mine. "What's wrong?" I shake my head, not trusting myself to open my mouth without vomiting right now. "Hospital wing?"
Still keeping my mouth, I nod slightly. Draco slips his hand into the air. Umbridge seems reluctant to answer, probably due to the near-riot that almost occurred a moment ago, until she sees my face, which no doubt looks as sickly as I currently feel. Draco slings both my bag and his bag over his shoulder and walks me out of the classroom. My whole body generates heat. My eyes are trying to drift shut, and sweat begins to bead on my forehead and gather on the back of my neck under my long hair. I fear my body might spontaneously burst into flames.
We pass the bathroom, and I stop Draco so I can run into the room, where I regurgitate everything that was once in my stomach, along with what I register to be blood—and a lot of it.
Stumbling and uneven on my feet, I struggle to the sink. My curly black hair is frizzy and sweaty and clinging to the side of my face, and sweat is crawling towards my eyes, which were once icy blue but are now dull and sunken in. Red flushes over my pale cheeks, and I nearly vomit more blood at the sight of it. I have to get out of here, and I have to get out of here now. I stampede out of the restroom and almost knock Draco over. "Charlotte!" He pulls my right arm around his shoulder and wraps his left arm around my waist. He's pretty much carrying me to the hospital wing because my legs, not working properly, are almost impossible to move, allowing me to do little more than drag them.
"I'm so sorry, Draco," I whisper hoarsely.
"No matter," he says cheerily. "It got us out of class, right?" I nod weakly. "We're almost there."
I force down the vomit trying to free itself, but as soon as we step into the hospital wing, it comes out against my will—this time it is all blood. My legs give out beneath me, but Draco catches me and prevents me from falling into the blood. Madam Pomfrey, the matron nurse at Hogwarts as I soon learn, rushes over to help Draco half-drag, half-walk me over to a bed.
My eyes wander around the room until they land on Draco. I try to apologize again but can't speak. He becomes blurrier by the second until I finally lose all sight and pass out.
My eyes fly open. I'm drenched in a cold sweat and am alone in this room . . . right, the hospital wing. Through the window, I see the sun setting. What day is it? Torches flicker, sending shadows jumping around the room in a way that makes me uneasy. I don't like this. I feel helpless and vulnerable, like at any point someone might attack me.
I sit up and immediately regret it. Fire courses through me and forces me back down with a loud groan of agony. Madam Pomfrey all but materializes in front of me with some kind of potion in her hand. Though I try to speak to ask what happened, no noise comes out.
"Drink this." A sweet flavor touches my tongue and slides down my throat. Sleep instantly takes over me.
When I wake the next time, I'm surprised to hear the voices of Draco, Dumbledore, and Snape but not Madam Pomfrey. The two professors sound troubled. Keeping my eyes closed, I listen to their hushed voices. "Did you see who did it?" The voice belongs to Snape.
"No," a trembling voice—Draco's—answers. "She just grabbed my arm out of nowhere."
"Headmaster," Snape begins.
Dumbledore cuts him off. "You know what I think of your theory. We cannot throw the blame on anyone yet."
"They tried to kill her!" he says furiously. "And they would have accomplished it had they been more practiced!"
"Severus," Dumbledore's voice carries a command of silence.
A cold hand touches my arm. Daring to open my eyes enough to investigate who is touching me without opening it enough for anyone to notice, I see Draco, who looks about as sickly as I did in the bathroom, with sunken eyes and an unusually pale face. "Mr. Malfoy, you may go to class," Dumbledore says. Draco seems to be on the brink of arguing, but one look from Snape forces him to obey and leave the room.
Once the door closes, Snape growls, "She's lucky to be alive."
"I understand your frustration, Severus," Dumbledore replies.
"No, you don't!" Snape spits quietly. "You're not the one who'll be killed if she ends up dead while at the school! And you and I both know that my death will ruin your plans."
What plans could Dumbledore possibly have for Snape? Why would Dumbledore trust Snape with any sort of plan? What's going on?
The two of them are silent for a few moments before Dumbledore tells Snape to go to the dungeons for Potions class because the students will be waiting. The only thing I know about my situation is that someone wants me dead, but I can't think of anyone who knows me well enough to hate me so much they want to kill me, at least not here at Hogwarts. This place was supposed to be safe for me. Perhaps Dumbledore and Snape will hear my pleas and let me leave (for my own safety, of course). I absolutely have no other reasons for wanting to leave Hogwarts. I crack open my eyes. "I was wondering when your curiosity would force you to drop the pretense of sleep," Dumbledore says.
"What happened?" My voice is working once more, but only just.
"You were hit with a weak—very weak, mind you—Entrail-Expelling Curse. It's uncertain whether the attack was meant for you or was a slip of the tongue." I open my mouth to ask a question, but either Dumbledore doesn't notice or simply ignores me, because he goes on, "It has happened in the past that a curse is used without the caster having knowledge of their actions. If someone did mean it for you, they are probably untrained practitioners of the Dark Arts." He looks at me over the top of his half-moon spectacles, "I doubt there is any such witch or wizard here; nevertheless, we will find out what happened and set it right again."
"How . . . what . . ." I can't form the question I want to, and Dumbledore waits patiently while I try to put my words together. After a few moments, I finally force out, "What did the curse do to me exactly?"
"It tore at your stomach and intestines in an attempt to rip your insides out"—that explains the pain and all the blood—"which is why I don't believe it was done purposely. Had someone indeed meant to cast it at you, you would not have survived."
I nod slowly. "So . . . I'll be all right?"
"Oh, certainly," he says cheerfully. "Madam Pomfrey healed you quite easily. She's a master of healing. But you will need to drink this." He hands me a goblet. "It's a Blood-Replenishing Potion. You lost quite a lot." I put the potion to my lips, and it fills my mouth with a warm, metallic sensation and coats my throat with soft velvet.
"Professor Dumbledore," Madam Pomfrey says, "you must leave now. Miss Rodgers needs to rest." This doesn't quite make sense considering I've been unconscious what seems like a while and thus am well-rested, but I don't voice this and instead just smile the best I can at Dumbledore as he leaves the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey looks at me and commands in a soft but firm voice, "Finish the potion." I start drinking it down; the velvet coating my throat is quite welcome but makes me realize more than ever just how dry my throat is. "It's a good thing Professor Snape was willing to make some more of the Blood-Replenishing Potion. I don't think we would have had enough." Though her voice is casual, her words incite fear in me because Snape can't be trusted to help me, and I start coughing and spewing some of the potion from my mouth. If Snape made it, it could very well kill me. But it's too late now, considering how much has already been ingested. If I die, I die. There's not much I can do at this point.
I hand the empty goblet back and in return receive a cup of clear liquid that I assume is water until its sweetness coats my tongue and tells me that it's the same stuff I had earlier, which means I am about to be taken into another sleep.
The next time I wake up, Madam Pomfrey is sitting in a chair beside my bed. The sun sits high in the sky, shining in through the window. I ask in a weak voice, "What day is it?"
The matron of the hospital wing smiles at me. "It's Wednesday. I gave you enough of the Dreamless Sleep Potion so your body could rest and the Blood-Replenishing Potion could run its course with no resistance."
"Oh," I say quietly. My first week of classes and I've already missed the entire second day. What a wonderful way to start the term.
"How are you feeling?"
"A little sore, but fine other than that." While I'm not lying, that's not the full truth—I am nauseated at the fact that I drank a potion Snape made, yet mentioning that does not seem worth the risk.
She smiles at me. "Well, if you take it easy and rest, you're free to go," she tells me. I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. "Mr. Malfoy came by not too long ago to check on you. You were asleep, so I thought there was no point for him to wait around. He said he'll be in the Great Hall."
"Thank you," I stand up and walk slowly from the hospital wing.
The only people who have ever tried to kill me were Death Eaters (not because they were supposed to, but because I would fight back or try to run rather than "come quietly"). I don't understand how any of them would have found me here—where I'm supposed to be safe. That was the whole reason Voldemort decided to imprison me here, so it makes no sense for any of his followers to attack me inside the castle walls. Besides, the only Death Eaters aware of my presence here should be the Malfoys and Snape. None of the others should have any clue. And in any case, if they have found me here at Hogwarts, surely they would not be trying to kill me. With Voldemort back and alive, he would want me protected. Death Eaters trying to kill me now makes no sense.
Unless that Death Eater is Snape. Would he be willing to kill me to get out of whatever plans Dumbledore has for him?