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Chapter Text

November, 1955

Somewhere in Los Angeles…

The man was still breathing, though not easily. 

Sweat clung to his temples, dragging the pomade into greasy rivulets down his face. His wrists were bound to the chair with conjured wire. Tight enough to bruise but not enough to bleed.

Most of the blood pooled lower.

Rosalind smoked a cigarette and leaned against the wall, watching him try not to squirm.

Screaming was never the point. It wasn’t that she minded pain—she just preferred it at lower volumes. Screaming was so grating.

The hunt always came easier. Watching from a distance as her target went about their day, grabbing a coffee, casting a glance at the waitress, checking their reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Utterly unaware. Already marked.

She liked the turn. That brief second when they realized something was off. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one. The snap of Apparition in a quiet alley. Her wand at their throat.

Fear bloomed fast in men like Harold Godfrey. The kind who wore their names like armor and thought endless vaults made them immortal.

She crossed the warehouse floor, heels tapping against concrete. His eyes followed, wide and bloodshot. He flinched when she passed behind him to the table.

His wand sat there, snapped at the hilt, Wampus cat fur jutting out like a broken bone. She picked it up, thumb dragging along the splintered point.

When did she stop feeling anything about all this? Maybe kill number three. Maybe the one before that.

They weren’t her first. They wouldn’t be her last. Maybe that knowledge made it numb.

Her heels clicked as she stepped back into view. “Did you get this from Ollivanders?” she asked, lifting the broken wand. “Oh. Right. You’re American.”

He tried to sit up straighter. “I—I don’t know what you think this is, but—”

Rosalind dropped his wand to the floor and took another drag. “What happened to Patricia Weston?”

He blinked. Then shivered.

“I don’t—”

“Cute little button nose,” she said. “Mole right here.” She touched her own cheek. “From Cleveland. Wanted to be in Muggle films.”

Still nothing. Or he was a better liar than most. But Rosalind had seen inside Patricia Weston’s memories. She knew how the story ended: bruised and beaten in a hotel room on the wrong side of town. Memory wiped. Not well, of course. Men like Godfrey were always lazy. 

“You told her you’d make her a star,” she continued. “Said, Sweetheart, I’m the biggest magical producer in Hollywood. ”

His mouth parted, but she didn’t wait. A flick of her wrist and the silencing charm snapped into place. She didn’t need the confession. She certainly didn’t need the scream. She’d already had enough of both.

She only dragged it out because it was the only thing she knew.

Taking a long drag, she remembered the words–

Where’s the elegance in a quick kill?

Most nights bled into the next. Shadow and blood and bone. Her heels were ruined again. It didn’t matter. Her bank account didn’t notice the replacements. Designer shoes, diamonds on her fingers, Evelyn DuVall on every marquee.

Her face still lingered on cinema screens across America— The Woman Upstairs , a Hitchcock picture with middling reviews but all the usual hallmarks—gorgeous rooms, voyeur’s angles, a woman you couldn’t trust. The poster showed her backlit in a window, cigarette in hand, Joseph Cotten’s reflection faint in the glass behind her.

The studio liked to think they created Evelyn DuVall. But Rosalind had written her long before the cameras rolled.

The pocket watch on the table ticked louder in the silence.

She reached for it absently, turning it over in her palm. It was heavier than she expected. Probably enchanted. Probably valuable. He’d called it an heirloom when she took it from his coat.

It was just after 2:00 a.m. Fuck, where had the time gone?

Time was always slipping.

It had been five years and seven months in Los Angeles.

He’d promised her five. No more, no less. Five years to go and live the life she thought she wanted. Five years to prove she could exist without him. Five years before she had to return to him.

She had pushed it to the edge, as she always did. 

And he’d let her, as he always did, too.

But he would come soon. He always did. He wouldn’t let six go by.

Her fingers tightened around the wand.

Was this justice? 

Did it even matter?

She glanced at Godfrey again. His chest was still rising, shallow and fast. There was a wet patch beneath him now–piss or blood. Maybe both. His shoes were expensive. His tie had a gold pin. She wondered if he’d worn it to impress someone tonight. 

Well, they were better off without him.

Rosalind tilted her head.

Once, moments like this had shaken her. When she was eighteen and terrified. When her magic killed by accident, not intention. When she still tried to measure her actions against words like right and wrong .

She almost laughed, bitter enough to burn on the way up.

Those questions never saved anyone. Justice? Matter? Rosalind was a witch whose magic defied explanation. She acted , she took . Men like Godfrey deserved to decay six feet under. Their outsides to match the rot inside. 

She raised her wand. The cigarette hung between her lips, smoke curling upward.

The air shimmered. Godfrey’s eyes widened, his body locked in place by the charm. He didn’t scream. He couldn’t.

Ancient magic coiled under her skin. Hungry. Ready.

The lights flickered. Then Rosalind struck.

The spell was silent, silver-blue magic coiling from her wand, slipping around his neck like a noose.

A crack.

Then stillness.

Magic curled off his body like smoke. There was no struggle or spectacle. She’d done all that earlier. The elegance, if you could call it that, was a slicing charm to the knees, her fist to his face.

Now, only death.

She stood there for a moment, listening to the tick of the pocket watch, the dripping of blood from his knees.

Her heart was still racing, but her hands didn’t shake.

She looked at the body. It should have meant something. Once, it had. Now it was just another night in just another room, with just another man who thought he’d get away with it forever.

Her thumb traced scratched silver, a name she didn’t bother to read. She didn’t care what it meant to him.

She took it anyway.

It was a habit she’d picked up—the need to keep something. Little trinkets and artifacts to prove she was something. Powerful. Untouchable. This one might have been useless, but she’d toss it into the box like the rest of them. Just like he would.

She always thought of him in moments like this.

Tom.

Her lover. Her obsession. The only person who ever looked at her hunger and didn’t try to make it smaller. Who wanted it. Who met it. Who understood it.

She wondered if he was still wearing that stupid chain, the one that made it hurt less. She didn’t have the luxury of numbing it. She carried the hurt. Day in, day out. Never enough to stop her. Always enough to burn.

An itch that never eased.

She told herself it was her choice to leave. But he let her go. 

And she’d been bleeding ever since.

She slipped the watch into her coat pocket.

There was no cleanup. She wouldn’t be connected to this—not Evelyn DuVall, not the studio’s precious star. She had people who ensured that. A system now. A rhythm.

Rosalind stepped back and took one last look at the scene. The chair. The blood. The quiet. She didn’t say a word, just flicked her cigarette to the ground beside him. 

Let it burn.

She sealed the warehouse door behind her. Her heels echoed across the floor as she walked out into the Los Angeles night, already thinking about the next one.

There was always another.

Wizards moved here in droves, hungry for power, eager to take advantage of pretty, naive girls who didn’t yet know how to say no. She liked to think of herself as a correction. A necessary cruelty. Balance.

The ancient magic stirred inside her. It wanted. It always wanted.

Memory. Pleasure. Rage.

Her.

And the night was still young.

Chapter Text

December 1945

Being pretty had its advantages.

The world shifted for Rosalind Sallow—just enough to clear a path. Never enough to ask where she was going.

There were other pretty girls, of course. Symmetrical, polished by Tugwood tonics. But Rosalind had something else. Something older. Hungrier. People looked at her and filled in the blanks, calling it elegance or allure. Gave her credit for things she hadn’t said and blamed her for things she hadn’t done. She let them, because it saved her the trouble.

The truth was worse.

Of course, being Rosalind Sallow came with disadvantages as well. Namely: busybody pureblood mothers, eyeing her for their sons.

She slipped through the crowd, gown in one hand, champagne plucked from a floating tray without breaking stride. At eighteen, no one batted an eye. Except for her mother, who'd made it clear that one drink was acceptable. Rosalind had passed one drink already.

The atrium of the Ministry had become a winter wonderland. Floating candles flickered like starlight above garlands of holly and ivy. A towering Christmas tree smelled of balsam and cedar, dusted with frost and red-green baubles. A live jazz band played as couples spun across the floor.

Rosalind slipped past it all, smooth, blurred at the edges.

If someone were watching, they’d say she glided. But Rosalind didn’t glide. 

She evaded.

She caught Vespera Rosier’s predator’s stare across the hall. She ducked her head, but it was pointless. Mrs. Rosier carved through the crowd until she stood before her.

The older witch had swaddled herself in fur, with a fashionable green gown peeking through.

“Miss Sallow,” she said, drawing out the S like it tasted expensive. “Aren’t you a vision in blue?”

Rosalind forced a polite smile. In her mind, she narrowed her eyes like a femme fatale and asked if that made the woman nervous. Instead, she deadpanned, “Thank you, Mrs. Rosier. Not nearly as lovely as you.”

Mrs. Rosier’s dark eyes swept over her again, as though selecting a cut of meat.

“And how grown you are. You must already be snatched up. Are you attached to someone?”

Straight to the point. Rosalind could grudgingly respect that. Emmeline Nott had at least pretended to care about the weather before asking the same thing.

“My focus has been on my studies, Mrs. Rosier. I’ll be sitting for my N.E.W.T.s soon.”

“Yes, Paris has been complaining about his studies all weekend,” she replied breezily, meaning her youngest son.

Paris Rosier, who leered like she should be grateful for it. The kind of boy who thought reading French poetry made him mysterious. Indistinguishable from his friends—fragile egos, inherited opinions, all of them convinced she was flirting just because she looked their way.

“Do you and Paris get on?”

Rosalind nearly choked.

“You should be speaking with my parents about these matters, Mrs. Rosier,” she said coolly. Not me. I’d send a Howler with my refusal.

“What good are N.E.W.T.s anyway?” the woman waved a hand. “You’ll find a husband soon enough. Don’t work too hard, dear. It’s far more important to enjoy your last year at Hogwarts while you can. Basil works so hard now. He has no free time at all.”

Rosalind had no idea what Basil Rosier did for a living—something uninspired at the Ministry, surely—the fate of most good little pureblood boys. The only thing she knew about him was that his relationship with Walburga Black had gone up in flames and landed him in the gossip columns. Walburga was now engaged to her cousin, and Basil had become a cautionary tale.

“I imagine they’re good for quite a lot,” Rosalind said airily, lifting her champagne. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Rosier, my brother is waiting for me.”

Before the woman could pry further, Rosalind swept away, the hem of her gown whispering across the polished floor. She passed another floating tray and traded her empty glass for a full one, then took a second, just in case.

Benedict, her younger brother, stood near the buffet with a plate of canapés, his sharp green eyes scanning the room. He looked so much like their grandfather that it sometimes unsettled her. Everyone said so—her parents' coworkers, her grandparents' old classmates, even witches and wizards in the street who recognized the family from the papers.

And, like their grandfather, he looked like he was planning mischief.

“Happy Christmas,” he said, taking the glass from her.

“Don’t say I never get you anything.”

He smirked and clinked his glass against hers. “Tastes like victory.”

“Don’t let Mum catch you. You need to pace yourself.”

“Says you. Your nose is pink, Ros—and Mum’ll be too busy killing you to notice my glass.”

She swatted him.

Benedict drank half the glass. “I saw you cornered by two pureblood mothers. Got a husband on the line now?”

“Three options,” she said wistfully. “And they’re going to fight to the death for my hand. Isn’t it romantic? I demand blood, and if they want me, they shall spill it.”

“You sound like a heroine from one of your Muggle films,” Benedict said. “The kind who ends up dead on the stairs.”

Rosalind laughed. “Please. I’m far too clever for the stairs. I’ll drink the poisoned champagne instead.”

Some days, poisoned champagne sounded like the only decent option.

“Besides, I doubt Paris could hold his own in a fight with Basil. Who was the other woman?”

“Nott’s mother. He’s more bookish than duelist.”

“Looks like it’s Basil, then,” Benedict drawled. “Better at Quidditch anyway.”

“I suppose not everyone’s born a Quidditch prodigy, are they?”

“To matchmaking season,” Benedict said, raising his glass.

A sharp, disapproving throat-clear interrupted their moment of triumph.

Octavia Sallow stood before them, arms crossed, one elegant brow arched in unmistakable judgment. The candlelight shimmered against the deep red of her gown, her golden-brown curls catching the movement as she tilted her head. A picture of poise and beauty, meticulously arranged for maximum disapproval. Her eyes locked onto the champagne glass in Benedict’s hand.

She snapped her fingers and held out her palm.

Benedict surrendered the glass without hesitation. 

“Rosalind made me do it,” he said.

“Hey!” Rosalind cried. “I didn’t hold my wand to your throat.”

“She’s a terrible influence,” Benedict added, barely hiding a grin.

Octavia frowned, but it didn’t last. She sighed, rolling her eyes. “You two are so like me. Heaven help us.”

“Oh, come on. It’s Christmas,” Rosalind said, grinning.

Octavia, already tipsy, scrunched her face in mock displeasure. “That might work on your father, but not on me.” She tapped Rosalind’s nose. “You’re pink, darling.”

Rosalind groaned and took a half-step back. “Hardly.”

“No more drinks,” Octavia said. “At least until we speak with the Minister.”

“He won’t care,” Rosalind muttered. “He’s probably half in the bag already.”

Octavia gave her a pointed look. “Yes, well. Call it a new rule. You know how I dislike making rules, Rosalind. Just follow this one. For me?”

She and Benedict exchanged a look that said: she absolutely would not.

“And if you’re going to corrupt your brother,” Octavia added, narrowing her eyes, “don’t get caught. The buffet, Rosalind? Really? At least sneak around, like your father and I.”

With that, she turned sharply, red silk sweeping behind her like a stage curtain.

Rosalind shot Benedict a look of theatrical despair. He just gestured her forward with a flourish. By the time they joined the Sallow clan at the head table, Rosalind already had another champagne flute in hand.

Octavia huffed but didn’t take it. She turned instead to straighten Benedict’s slightly askew tie.

“Don’t push your luck with your mother,” Ominis murmured. Her father, newly appointed Head of International Magical Relations, was still settling into the role, quietly competent, well-liked, and named personally by Minister Moon.

“I’ve already been scolded for having too much mulled wine,” he added, grinning.

“Have you?” Rosalind asked, peering into his cup.

“Of course.”

Her grandfather, Sebastian, slung an arm around Benedict’s shoulders, undoing Octavia’s efforts in an instant.

“I just fixed him,” she grumbled at her father-in-law, though she smiled as she tried to flatten Benedict’s waves. He fought her off like he always did.

“Honestly, woman,” he groaned. “Get off of me.”

“He’s a Quidditch player,” Sebastian insisted, tousling him again. “Benny looks good with that wind-swept look. Gets the birds going.”

“Is that your personal experience?” Rosalind asked, smirking.

“Ask your grandmother,” he said proudly. “She couldn’t keep her hands off me.”

“Don’t be a pig,” Selene said dryly.

Selene Sallow was one of the most powerful witches alive—and she looked it. Silver hair in a chignon, eyes glinting, the posture of someone who’d survived more duels than most Aurors. Only eight months ago, she’d retired from the Department of Mysteries after felling Aurelius Vane, Grindelwald’s third-in-command.

She was a war hero. A legend. And looked like she might hex someone for looking at her sideways.

“So you weren’t swooning over his Quidditch hair?”

Selene plucked the champagne flute from her hand without comment.

“I was too busy with my studies to swoon,” she said coolly.

“Studies, right,” Rosalind murmured, lips quirking.

They shared a smile, one of those rare moments where Rosalind felt truly seen.

“We’re up next,” Octavia said, releasing Benedict’s tie. “Don’t say anything stupid, you two.”

Rosalind slipped her hand into her mother’s and smiled with practiced ease. “Minister Moon finds us charmingly irreverent. Like show Hippogriffs.”

“Show Hippogriffs who might stomp your toes,” Ominis added, resting a hand gently on Rosalind’s back.

Selene led them toward Minister Moon, who stood near a towering Daily Prophet display of the year’s accomplishments: the war’s end, reforms in Magical Law Enforcement, the purging of Grindelwald sympathizers from the Wizengamot.

“Oh, if it isn’t my favorite family!” Minister Moon boomed, his voice cutting through the din. He was a portly man with graying hair and kind, wide eyes. His daughter, close in age to Rosalind’s parents, smiled faintly as they approached. As Rosalind had predicted, his wife was already tipsy, gripping his arm for balance.

“It’s good to see you, Leonard,” Selene said, kissing his cheek. “How are you, Renalda? Isladore?”

Both murmured their greetings.

“And look at the two of you!” Moon exclaimed, eyes sweeping over Rosalind and Benedict. “They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir,” Ominis said, nodding. “Too fast. Rosalind sits her N.E.W.T.s in June.”

“Is that right?” Moon said, beaming at her. “And aren’t you a lovely little thing? All your looks from your mother, I expect.”

Rosalind mastered the blush on command. She let it bloom now.

Octavia smiled, laying a hand lightly on Rosalind’s back.

“Not from my father, that’s for sure,” Rosalind said dryly.

Her mother gave her side a squeeze. Reprimand, stage cue, reminder. She was supposed to blush, look down, and pretend not to know she was beautiful.

But she was beautiful. Pretending otherwise felt false. Pointless. Boring.

“The spitting image of her mother,” Ominis added, full of pride.

“As you are of your father, boy,” Moon said, turning to Benedict. He looked bored already, eyes drifting past the Minister for friends or an exit.

“You’re a Quidditch star, I hear?”

“That he is,” Sebastian said, clapping a hand on Benedict’s shoulder. “Set the school record for most points last year. As a fourth year, no less.”

“Have you gotten his name out to the league teams?” Moon asked, suddenly animated. “I’m sure they’ll send scouts this year.”

Sebastian said, “It’s the Magpies or bust,” as Ominis said mildly, “We’ve had a few inquiries.”

Benedict beamed.

“Ballycastle Bats might have a case,” came a smooth voice behind them.

Rosalind tensed.

The Lestranges had arrived: Edmund and Miranda, her maternal grandparents. Cold. Ornamental. Behind them trailed her uncle William, his wife Emilia, and their son—

Ares.

Rosalind and Ares locked eyes like they always did. She didn’t know who started glaring first.

He was a Slytherin in her year. Technically her cousin. Practically a headache. Rivals at best. Enemies at worst.

“Happy Christmas, Mother,” Octavia said tightly, kissing Miranda’s cheeks. “Father.”

“Favor the Bats, do you, Edmund?” Minister Moon laughed, shaking her grandfather’s hand. “We’ve got a family rivalry brewing, then.”

A gentle way to put it.

Octavia had never quite fit into the Lestrange mold. Marrying Ominis—a pureblood, yes, but politically progressive—had never sat well. She’d tried to keep things cordial over the years, but wartime had frayed what little thread remained.

Whether the Lestranges had supported Grindelwald outright was unclear. Ominis always said yes. Octavia said no.

“Ares, dear boy,” Moon said, turning toward him. “How strong you’ve gotten. Thinking of joining the Aurors?”

Ares puffed his chest. Rosalind and Benedict both snickered.

“Actually, sir,” he said smoothly, “I’m planning to join my father in Magical Transportation. Once I’ve completed my N.E.W.T.s, of course.”

Moon nodded. Then his eyes swung back to Rosalind. “What about you, Miss Sallow? Will you follow your grandmother’s footsteps? A future in the Department of Mysteries, perhaps?”

At least two Lestranges snorted. Rosalind didn’t look to see which ones. She bit back the urge to roll her eyes. Or snap.

But Selene answered first, calm as ever. “Rosalind is still considering her options. She’s taking an ambitious slate of N.E.W.T.s—nearly enough for any Ministry post come autumn.”

Rosalind didn’t show her flinch.

She was still uncertain, still weighing her options. The future she was meant to walk into felt like broken glass. Her grandmother’s words, though kindly meant, had sounded like prophecy. What if she wanted something different? To travel. To vanish into a Muggle city. To make something strange and cinematic of her life.

She didn’t know what she wanted, only that it wasn’t this. Wasn’t courtship, parties, a legacy pressed into her palm like charity.

Something in her always twisted away from all of it.

“Remarkable, indeed,” Moon chuckled. “Are you prepared for such expectations, my dear? The Ministry isn’t for the faint of heart. Especially not for a young woman. Your grandmother’s legacy is quite one to live up to.”

Expectations. Legacy. Exhausting words, tossed like confetti.

Rosalind forced a smile. “I suppose I’ll find out when I get there, Minister.”

“Of course, of course,” Moon said warmly. “A bright young woman like yourself has plenty of time to decide.”

Ares snorted.

Rosalind’s cold glare was met instantly by Miranda’s. Her grandmother had never approved of ambition in a witch. A career? Unthinkable. Octavia’s work in the London Wizarding Theatre was scandalous enough.

And then there was the matter of the proposal.

Two days ago, she’d overheard them whispering in the library. A marriage proposal. For her. From the Lestranges. To marry Ares. The thought made her nauseous. They weren’t the Blacks, she wouldn’t marry her cousin.

Her mother had been just as furious.

She needed a cigarette. Another drink. A broomstick to the fucking moon.

Mercifully, Moon’s attention turned to the family behind them.

Rosalind caught her mother’s eye. Octavia gave a subtle nod and leaned in. “Stay out of trouble the rest of the night, won’t you?”

She only smiled.

-.-

On the balcony off the Head Auror’s office, Tom Riddle smoked as the city sprawled beneath him—its lights flickering like distant, dying stars.

The cold stung his skin, but he didn’t feel it. He was long used to the chill of the weather, and of the frozen place inside him that had never thawed.

London had always been a contradiction. As a boy, he’d hated it. Wool’s Orphanage had been a cage. His fellow orphans were pathetic. Spiteful. Dull. But Hogwarts had changed everything. There, he’d been invited into London’s elite magical circles. And here, he’d learned what real power looked like—how it moved, masked itself, bent when pressed in the right place.

He was patient. Everything he wanted would come to him in time.

The ember of his cigarette flared, then vanished as he flicked it into the dark.

The invitation had come through Abraxas Malfoy—vain, obsessed with bloodlines, but not stupid. His family’s library made him valuable. His father held a senior post in Magical Law Enforcement. The Malfoys had influence, and for now, Tom needed influence.

He liked Abraxas well enough—the most he’d liked anyone, if that counted. Abraxas knew when to shut up, when to fall in line, and when to let Tom speak first. That mattered.

The Ministry was a rotten tree propped up by bloodlines and gold. He planned to gut it and build something better. But first: roots.

At the party, Abraxas had paraded him around like a prize. Tom played the part—gracious smile, firm handshake, razor-edged eyes. Every name. Every glance. Every flicker of recognition. Logged. Filed. Sharpened.

Have you met Tom? Yes, he caught that awful student—the one with the monster that killed the girl. Terrible business. He’s a hero, of course. Saved us all.

A useful lie, and they all believed it.

The rest of his friends were, as usual, disappointing.

Rosier sulked with a flask. Lestrange puffed himself up. Avery necked his girlfriend. Nott lectured a Junior Ministry witch. Mulciber lifted purses in the shadows. A sorry collection. But tools, nonetheless.

He turned from the railing, and the balcony door clicked shut behind him.

The Auror offices were dark and empty, lit only by flickering lanterns. The air smelled of parchment, old ink, and half-eaten food. The desks were cluttered with abandoned case files.

He moved to Alistair Graves’s desk. The new Head Auror, installed after Grindelwald’s fall to purge sympathizers, had already dismissed several purebloods.

A Prophet clipping sat on the desk: Frederick Rowle Removed from Duty.

He rifled through the papers. Palmed a few files. Shrunk them with a flick of his wand and slipped them into his pocket.

It was a habit he’d never broken.

Wool’s had taught him how to take. Hogwarts had taught him how to use.

He moved from desk to desk, fingers skimming across papers. Most were mundane—petty hexes, minor raids, but a few shimmered with potential. Escaped loyalists. Surveillance memos. Internal rot.

Threads.

He took those, too.

Back in the corridor, he cast a Disillusionment Charm and took the stairs. The spell shimmered, light warping, footsteps hushed, the world bending to let him through.

On the main floor, he slipped into the toilets, dropped the charm, and adjusted his collar. Smoothed the line of his jacket. Tilted his head, just once, to study his reflection. 

Handsome. Tidy. All put together.

The light overhead flickered. He didn’t blink.

When he emerged, the party had swelled louder. Brass horns wailed, champagne clinked, and laughter shattered against the marble walls.

That’s when he saw her.

Rosalind Sallow, slipping toward the stairwell, moving like the night had been built around her.

Her heels clicked like a metronome. Candlelight turned her silhouette to silver. A Muggle movie star on her way to ruin someone. Or just finished.

He stopped and watched, leaning against the gilded wall, expressionless.

Their eyes met.

She scowled.

Most girls smiled at him. Sallow seldom bothered.

He watched her for a moment longer, calculating.

Rosalind Sallow. Daughter of Ominis and Octavia. Granddaughter of Sebastian and Selene. Selene—the girl who supposedly saved Hogwarts from Ranrok’s rebellion at fifteen. A legend. Tom had always found that story suspect. No one had that kind of power at fifteen. Not even him.

And her father. Ominis. Tom’s great-uncle had been Ominis Gaunt. Blind. Dead young, at Hogwarts with the Sallows. Perhaps their son was named for an old friend. Or an old enemy.

She was still scowling, but surprisingly, she hadn’t slipped away yet. That was the thing about Rosalind Sallow—she always drifted.

He’d watched her at school, at parties, gliding through corridors like they bored her. Laughing one moment, gone the next. She never lingered, never gave more than a glance. Everyone else orbited. Sallow evaded.

Suddenly she masked her irritation with polite indifference. But she still hadn’t left.

“Miss Sallow,” he called. “Isn’t this a bit far from the champagne?”

Her eyes narrowed just so. Tom pushed off the wall and approached her. She took two measured steps toward him.

“Enjoying the party?”

“Very much so,” she replied, dry as vermouth.

Her lips were stained like cherries. Her cheeks flushed with drink—or temper. The silk of her gown clung to her hips. Tom considered what they might feel like under his hands.

“Didn’t expect to find you skulking,” she said.

“I might say the same.”

“Escaping,” she replied, with a sigh. “And now, apparently, getting caught.”

He smirked. “I doubt you’re up to anything worth gossiping about, Sallow.”

“You can call me Rosalind, you know. We have known each other long enough.”

“Rosalind, then.” He said it slowly, letting the shape of it settle on his tongue. It felt expensive. Intimate. Slightly profane. 

He liked it instantly.

She blinked. Once. Then slipped her expression back into place, all poise and polite indifference—like it hadn’t touched her at all.

“So,” she asked, “you weren’t escaping this unbearable ordeal? Just lurking near the stairs for sport?”

“What’s so unbearable about tonight?” he asked lightly. “Surely you don’t find such esteemed company unpleasant.”

“I’ve had enough Ministry pleasantries to last a lifetime, Riddle.”

“Tom,” he corrected. “Since we’ve known each other long enough.”

“Tom,” she repeated, turning it on her tongue like a cherry pit she meant to spit out.

He smiled. Slowly. And something in him sharpened toward her.

“Is that all you do at these things?” she asked. “Watch people like exhibits?”

“Do you not enjoy the attention?”

Rosalind sighed. “I didn’t mean me.”

But she had.

His Knights spoke of her constantly—Avery, Lestrange, Nott, Mulciber. Who’d had a shot, who hadn’t, who swore she’d glanced at them in Potions and it meant something. Even Rosier had a remark. Even Malfoy, who pretended to be above it, once asked Tom what he thought of her.

They’d tear each other apart for a night with Rosalind Sallow.

Tom liked beautiful things. He took what he wanted, their ownership irrelevant. Besides, a pretty girl was hardly rare.

But this one—

This one stood before him with Bacall eyes and that cool indifference men always mistook for permission.

He’d always thought her too slippery to bother. Beautiful, yes, but the sort to vanish mid-sentence. The kind of girl who stayed only long enough to get what she wanted.

But this version—composed, clever, pressing back—

This was different. This was performance.

This was something to ruin.

“I observe. I learn,” he said. “It’s hardly an act.”

A strand of hair slipped behind her ear. Her eyes glittered.

“If you must know,” she said, “I’m sneaking out for a cigarette. And I just happened to have forgotten my own.”

He laughed. Bacall indeed.

“How rebellious of you.”

“Come on, Riddle. I know you’ve got some in that fancy little case.”

He pulled his fancy little case from his pocket. It was slim and black. He’d bought it himself in London over the summer, with some money he’d gotten pawning off an old Malfoy ring.

“Imperial Golds?” she guessed.

“No. Nothing you’ve heard of.”

Her face lit up. “A Muggle brand?”

He nodded. “They do some things right.”

“Of course they do,” she murmured, taking one. Their fingers didn’t touch, but it was close enough to count.

Much to his dismay, she didn’t put it to her lips. Instead, she tucked it behind her ear.

Something in him tightened low anyway.

“Thanks for the chat, Tom,” she said.

He nodded.

Then, she said, as if it was nothing at all:

“I like the suit. Handsome.”

And she turned around, hips swaying, silk catching the light. Tom fought the urge to follow.

It might have sounded like nothing to someone else, but Tom had watched Rosalind Sallow for years. She didn’t hand out compliments like hors d’oeuvres.

That had been a card, slid casually across the table.

An invitation to play.

He was still wrapping his mind around it—the nerve, the mouth, the legs—when Alphard Black slipped past him into the stairwell. He felt a sharp flicker of irritation, gone as quickly as it came.

He turned away, adjusting himself, still half-hard.

Rosalind fucking Sallow.

Fine. He could play too.

-.-

Rosalind kissed Alfie harder.

Anything to stop herself from thinking about that look Riddle had given her.

Merlin, he was gorgeous.

Her fingers twisted into Alfie’s hair at the nape of his neck.

“I can’t believe it’s been two months,” he murmured against her mouth. “Please don’t make me wait this long again, Sallow.”

One hand braced them against the shelf, the other cupping her arse. Her dress had ridden up, hem bunched at her hips. They were pressed together in a closet off Magical Games and Sports. A prototype broom dug into her back, but she didn’t care.

“You could’ve come to Hogsmeade,” she whispered, kissing the column of his throat. “We could’ve done this in the broom closet at the Three Broomsticks instead.”

He laughed as she unraveled his tie.

“Try the Hog’s Head, sweetheart.”

She wrinkled her nose. “It smells like rubbish in there.”

They’d been seeing each other for six months now. It had started that summer, when Selene brought her to the Ministry. It was hard to focus on ‘career observation’ with Alfie Black showing her around Magical Games and Sports.

He was two years above her at Hogwarts. A Slytherin, but not Slytherin-y . Easier to stomach. Handsome, yes—but kind in a way that surprised her.

Her grandmother had been pulled into an emergency meeting with the Department of Mysteries, leaving Rosalind stranded for an hour. Alfie had filled it with charm, Quidditch banter, and just enough flirtation to keep her interested. He’d owled her that evening, asking her to dinner.

The relationship stayed secret. Not out of shame, she told herself, but convenience. With Alfie’s sister’s broken engagement to Basil Rosier still a scandal, the Blacks wouldn’t accept a Sallow any more than a Rosier.

And yet, he’d picked her. That mattered. Well, it felt like it mattered.

Alfie, for his part, had been fun. Proper dates. Long nights in his flat, tangled in sheets all summer. For a brief, glowing stretch, she’d felt like a grown woman.

When she returned to school, they’d planned to meet in Hogsmeade whenever possible, but Alfie’s work hours had tripled with the Quidditch World Cup looming. He’d only made it once, to the Slytherin-Ravenclaw match in October. He’d kissed her breathless behind the pitch, hands in her hair like he’d been starving.

Now, finally, he was here. And so was she. It still thrilled her. She liked the way he touched her, liked being chosen.

“Isn’t there an inn somewhere nearby?” she asked, undoing his tie completely and popping the buttons on his shirt. “We could pay by the hour.”

“You’re not that kind of girl, Sallow,” he said, tugging her dress higher. He dropped to his knees, wandlight casting a hungry gleam in his eyes. “I can’t pay by the hour for a witch like you.”

“Oh? But you can screw a witch like me in a broom closet?” she asked. But his kisses trailed up her thighs, and her retort—and Riddle—vanished.

“Desperate times, darling,” he said, pressing a kiss to the front of her lace panties. “I wish I could see these in the light.”

“Promise me you won’t destroy them like you did my little blue set?” she teased, but he was already yanking them down, and all thoughts of preservation dissolved. He kissed between her legs, then scooped one of them over his shoulder. She gripped the shelf to steady herself, pleasure surging through her.

For a moment, she felt untouchable. Worshipped. Or maybe she was just pretending again.

Either way, it worked. Alfie Black and a little release.

As he worked her with his mouth, she told herself not to think about how she’d lured him here, how he hadn’t written last week. 

How he never used her name.

-.-

Rosalind hovered over the buffet, devouring finger sandwiches with a burning hunger, when Selene appeared at her side.

“There you are,” her grandmother said.

Rosalind shoved a cucumber sandwich into her mouth and grinned.

Selene scowled in mock disgust. “You children are foul. No manners at all.”

“Got it from Grandad,” Rosalind mumbled through her bite. “Speaking of, where is he?”

“Moon dragged him into his office. Likely something about a succession plan,” Selene said, rolling her eyes. “He’s planning to retire next year.”

“Is he?” Rosalind raised a brow. “And you’re not—?”

It was an open secret that Selene Sallow had been courted for Minister three elections running. The Prophet loved to pit her against Dumbledore in their wildest editorial fantasies.

“Not a chance,” Selene said crisply. Her gaze turned flinty—an old ghost surfacing—then vanished again. “Your grandfather enjoys the attention. You know Sebastian. Flattery’s his favorite drink.”

Rosalind nodded, grabbing a carrot.

Selene’s eyes sharpened. “Your strap’s twisted, darling.”

Rosalind flushed as her grandmother reached up to fix it, fingers warm but surgical, as if she couldn’t help correcting what didn’t fit.

“I just hope whoever you’re with respects you,” Selene said smoothly. “And isn’t trying to defile you and hide you away.”

At the word ‘defile,’ Tom Riddle’s face flashed behind her eyes. Rosalind stiffened, banishing the thought. Alfie. 

“It’s not like that. He’s great. It’s just… complicated.”

Selene sighed softly. “It’s always complicated. Don’t let him convince you otherwise.”

Rosalind tried to offer a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Selene changed tones with alarming grace. “Speaking of complicated. How do you feel about adventure?”

Rosalind blinked. Her grandmother’s eyes twinkled, a gleam that always meant something unhinged was coming.

“Of course,” Rosalind said carefully, unable to say no. “Where are we headed?”

“A ruin out in Caer Fawr.”

“Wales?” Rosalind gaped. “Are we flying, or—?”

“Apparition, of course. It's the perfect night to push your distance.” Her smile tightened. “Your lessons are never really done, are they?” 

She didn’t need to say which kind.

Rosalind forced a smile. So much for a lazy holiday. Tomorrow was meant for the cinema. She wanted to see three films before the term started. The Lost Weekend, for one.

No rest for the wicked. Certainly not for her.

She and Selene shared one buried truth: the real story of how Selene Sallow became what she was. And why Rosalind was so beautiful, it hurt to look at her.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she lied.

Selene smiled, as if she could see through it, but didn’t care one bit.

Chapter Text

January 1946

Somewhere in the Forbidden Forest…

Rosalind came to with her face in the snow.

The cold slammed into her lungs. Her limbs felt all wrong, like she’d stepped into someone else’s body and found the seams misaligned. She pushed herself up clumsily, soaked to the bone and freezing, blinking hard against the dark, already cursing.

Fuck. Fuck! Fuck!

When she woke in the night, it used to be Gwen murmuring nonsense in her sleep. Or Camille, her cat, wedging herself between Rosalind’s legs. Not bone-deep chill in the middle of the fucking woods.

She was in the Forbidden Forest. Again. Dressed in just her uniform. Again . 

And as she inspected herself, she thanked Merlin that at least she had on her good riding boots—highland leather, perfectly tailored for a girl cursed with a chronic, magic-laced sleepwalking disorder.

Her stiff and uncooperative fingers groped for her wand. The desperate warming charm sputtered once, then again. Her teeth knocked together in the cold. On the third try, a thin heat bled into her limbs, like a second tea made from a spent bag. It helped a little, but she was still out here, very much not in her bed.

Time to remedy that–

She turned toward the castle. Then the thing in her chest stirred.

It was hard to describe what it felt like. Smoke, slipping in and out of her limbs. A thread both pulling and pressing from her sternum. A rampant aching for action. Usage.

Blasting something to bits.

That was ancient magic.

Or at least, the kind that lived inside Rosalind Sallow.

She rolled her shoulders, and there it was: a silhouette through the trees, a ruin of jagged stone, half-swallowed by the earth.

Ancient magic’s favorite kind. 

Like clockwork, the magic in her chest jerked forward, as if a hook had lodged behind her ribs.

“Let’s get this over with,” she muttered, already giving in. 

When ancient magic sleepwalked her to the middle of the woods, it was hard to tell it no. It didn’t exactly hurt so much as itch. A maddening reminder that she shared her body rather than owned it.

Her boots scraped against frost-laced rock, and one hand skimmed the bark of a tree for balance. Her breath curled in the air. The magic tugged again—slower this time, but hungrier—like it knew she was contemplating fleeing at any moment.

It certainly was an impatient bastard. Some days it sang lullabies. Others, it pressed a knife beneath her ribs. Most days, it was something in between.

Vines covered the entrance to the ruin, dead now in the middle of winter. Rosalind raised her wand and cast a fire charm at it. They shrank into flame, and ash fell to her feet. Her wand lit. She crossed the threshold.

A low hum threaded beneath her skin, vibrating her bones. The ruin held its breath. The floor sagged beneath her weight. At the room’s center, a pit opened where a table might once have stood. Beyond it, in the mouth of a collapsed alcove, something shimmered silver-blue.

Not water. Not light. A pool of raw and pure ancient magic.

Beautiful. Terrible. Selene spoke of ancient magic as if it were sacred. Holy bloodline nonsense, passed down like an heirloom. A blessing. 

It didn’t appear to just anyone.

It was something bestowed upon a god—with a very deliberate lowercase g.

But Rosalind knew better.

Ancient magic never appeared on altars. It bled into the aftermath, into ruin. It gathered in places people broke things, on purpose, by accident, or out of love. It wasn’t a gift. It was residue. 

Someone’s last scream.

She stepped into the pool without thinking. Thinking only delayed the inevitable.

Absorbing ancient magic required no incantation. There was no defensive spell. Only a quiet, instinctive thought— take it —and the magic answered in kind.

It felt like dying.

Pain cracked through her chest, and heat licked her veins. She doubled forward, choking on her scream, teeth clenched so tightly her jaw trembled. Every nerve lit white-hot. Then came the deep and arresting cold, like a plunge beneath ice, the kind that left no breath.

And then—

Pleasure.

An uninvited and absolute jolt. It slammed into her spine, crashed up through her throat, and left her gasping. Her knees buckled. She caught the wall just in time, fingers scrabbling over damp stone.

It didn’t stop.

Her body arched in revolt, but the sound that left her mouth wasn’t a scream—it was a moan, low and helpless, dragged from someplace feral. She tried to swallow it back and failed. A sob tore loose.

It was like the best come she’d ever had. alone and quiet, her fingers in the dark.

She never knew in these moments if she was breaking apart or coming back together. Or if there was even a difference.

Then finally— 

Stillness.

The ruin went quiet. The pool behind her stilled and emptied. 

The magic was now rooted inside her, beating against her skin. She couldn’t tell the difference between the magic already within her and this new magic. The starving thing inside her never rejected its own; there was no conflict, only the well of power swelling larger. 

Heavier.

She pressed one hand to the wall and exhaled.

Two summers ago, it was a simmer beneath her skin—something she could mostly ignore. Now it devoured her, a bonfire fed too fast. What was next?

At the room’s edge, stone had collapsed into a crumbling stairwell. She raised her wand, light spilling as she climbed. And there they were: two more pools humming and waiting. Ancient magic always came in threes. Like the remnants of someone blown apart—splinters still clinging to life, desperate for a new body to bury themselves in.

She gave them one.

The second pool took her with less violence, but not less pleasure. She was cracked open, numb and raw. The third blurred everything.

By the end, she was trembling and radiant. Silver-blue magic shimmered through her pores, glowing from the hollows of her throat. 

Rosalind knew that if she stood before a mirror right now, she’d blaze like some otherworldly being, set upon earth to bless or burn, depending on who asked.

She stumbled from the ruins, heart still echoing, and Apparated just outside the Hogwarts gates.

The landing was brutal. Her knees cracked against the gravel, her palms ripped raw. For a moment, she stayed down, hunched and motionless, spine curled inward.

Then her stomach turned. She pitched forward and vomited into the snow.

Half-magic, half-acid, steaming where it hit the snow, as if it might claw its way back into her. Her chest spasmed with each gasp. She blinked through the blur, strands of hair pasted to her lips, mouth slack like she might be sick again.

So much for grace.

Rosalind wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Kneeling before her own sick in the snow, she had never felt more like something holy.

Lower case god, indeed.

How much longer could she keep doing this?

She didn’t wait for the answer. She pulled herself to her feet, spat into the snow, and vanished, her Disillusionment Charm catching the moonlight.

-.-

She liked the castle best like this: hushed, no bells, no chattering portraits trying to guess who she was sneaking with. And what for.

Just her and the ghosts, and even they kept their distance. Sometimes, beneath Disillusionment, she pretended she was one of them. Not alive, not dead. Drifting in silk and stockings, too pretty to haunt properly.

It was always smarter to slip in through the west side, far from Central Hall, where overzealous prefects staked out their posts like hired security trolls. But Rosalind was exhausted, and not the charming kind you could fix with strong coffee.

And the prefects on patrol tonight were idiots. She could sneak past them with an alarm blaring on her forehead.

She’d only been caught out of bed once. In the fourth year, after a very educational study session with Fabian Rice—tongue down his throat behind the Arithmancy shelves—Walburga Black handed her three nights of detention like it was her birthday wish. Bitch.

Her thoughts drifted to Alfie, unfortunately, Walburga’s brother. The kind of mistake she didn’t make twice. More like a dozen, until it meant something.

Her legs ached, her ribs still hummed from the magic. She needed her bed. She slipped through the side doors, careful of the hinges, and melted into the hall.

Joseph Mallow—seventh-year Hufflepuff, tragically earnest—was posted at the unicorn-and-mermaid statue, inspecting his wand like it might confess something. On the far end of the corridor, Paloma Wind stood with her arms crossed and her chin tilted high, insufferable as ever. She’d called Rosalind a slag at least twice, probably more, when no one was listening.

Though that might have been because in the fourth year, she overheard Rosalind call her a boring cow.

If Paloma saw her, there’d be no charming her way out of detention, not even if she flirted with Mallow. 

Rosalind crouched behind a display case, wand in hand, and waited. Her magic stirred—the scent of trouble waking it. Trouble, of course, was subjective. Ancient magic would’ve found this delightful.

If she timed it right, she could cut across the corridor, slip toward the Defense staircase, and climb back up to Ravenclaw Tower.

Safe. Undramatic. Boring. But smart. 

She was already resenting it. But then—

A door creaked open at the far end of the corridor. 

A flicker of movement—pale skin against stone, a hand half-swallowed by Disillusionment. Bone-white wand. Gold ring, black stone.

She didn’t need the rest of him to know who it was.

Tom Riddle.

His charm was nearly perfect. Nearly. For a heartbeat, his elbow slipped free, enough for the lantern light to catch his jawline, the sculpted cheekbone, the stupidly elegant flop of hair across one brow.

Fuck, he was fit. He moved like he knew it, like he knew exactly what kind of damage he could do just by existing.

He was already halfway across before she registered he’d seen her.

Their eyes locked.

The feeling landed deep in her belly. Hot. Magnetic. 

Fun. 

Her magic flared beneath her ribs, twisting sharply toward him with a dangerous curiosity.

He smirked. She smirked back.

Riddle tilted his head. A nod so slight it barely qualified, but she understood it all the same. Wait.

So she did—though not without giving him a tilt of her own. Why?

Then a bell rang, sharp and sudden, loud enough to make her flinch—and both prefects startle.

“What was that?” Mallow barked, stepping around the fountain. “Who’s there?”

“I don’t see anyone,” Paloma snapped, heels already clicking in that graceless way she always had.

Rosalind didn’t stop to consider. Riddle did that for her.

She sprang from behind the display case, breath caught tight in her throat. Up the first flight, low and fast, magic skimming beneath her skin. Cold stone, heavy limbs, heat still throbbing in her ribs. All of it blurred into motion. Another corner. Another breath. A flicker of sound behind her.

She glanced down over the railing.

And there he was.

Riddle, standing at the base of the stairs, was just in her eyeline. Charm dropped. Perfectly still. He looked like he’d been plucked from a film set, hands loose at his sides, coat open. Calm as a god, calculating as sin. 

He didn’t do this to help her out of some kindness, only to prove he could. Some power play. Some…

Flirtation.

The thought washed over her.

Riddle was flirting with her.

“What was that?” he asked, voice smooth as glass.

Both prefects turned at once.

“Oh—uh, Riddle,” Mallow stammered, blinking. “Didn’t see you there. Thought we heard someone—something—”

“If there are students out of bed,” Riddle said, barely glancing up, “I assume you’ll do your job and catch them.”

Not a question, just cold condescension that nearly made Rosalind laugh.

“Yes, of course,” Mallow said. Paloma was beside him now, smoothing her skirt, smiling. Rosalind watched her tilt her chin and try to blink prettily. She also watched Riddle ignore it with smug satisfaction.

“Good,” he said, already turning. “I’ll expect a report tomorrow.”

Then Riddle started up the stairs.

Rosalind moved. 

Up the next flight of stairs to the landing above Central Hall. She leaned against the wall and let her Disillusionment Charm drop. Paloma and Mallow were too far away to see her, and she was tucked behind a suit of armor anyway. Plus–

She wanted to see him.

He climbed like he had nowhere better to be. One hand brushed the rail, the other in his coat pocket, as if it were all very boring. He didn’t look at her, but she felt the attention anyway. At the base of the stairs closest to her, she caught the scent of his cologne. It smelled of smoke and brass, like a jazz club. 

It felt criminal.

He didn’t slow as he passed, but his head turned toward her. Finally.

His eyes were the color of good whiskey. His face was as handsome as a fallen angel—

And she had the sudden urge to ruin his life.

“You’re welcome, Sallow,” he murmured, just for her. Then his eyes swept over the length of her.

Her magic stirred at once, pleased, attuned, far too interested.

Once he looked in her eyes again, she only smiled. Sweetly. 

Well, it wasn’t exactly sweet.

He made an amused noise and kept walking. His footsteps echoed up the stairwell behind her, like he really might own the place. Maybe he did. He was Head Boy, after all.

She smiled to herself. This was fun. 

Like the Christmas party. The cigarette. The cut of Riddle’s suit. The way he’d looked, like he’d already heard every filthy thing people whispered about her and was wondering which ones were true. 

Which ones he wanted to confirm for himself.

He hadn’t flirted, but he hadn’t not, which was always the trouble with Riddle. She knew the type. She was the type. The kind people stared at from across a room—hungry to touch, desperate to be touched—but never to know. Too polished, too beautiful, too armored for anything honest

He was just like her in that way. Helpful, but only when it suited him.

Trouble.

Rosalind trailed after him.

He lingered at the base of the Grand Staircase. Rosalind passed him again, hopping on just as it switched, carrying her higher toward Ravenclaw Tower.

Their eyes held as the staircase rose, an electric silence between them. Only once she drifted further away did Tom Riddle turn and head back the way he came.

Chapter Text

When her grandmother, Selene, was at Hogwarts, she completed four ancient magic trials. Or so she claimed.

They were designed by four ancient professors, now trapped in portraiture beneath the castle. Very ominous.

Selene told Rosalind this sacred knowledge the summer her magic first cracked open. It was all so dramatic, though Rosalind’s awakening hadn’t exactly been low stakes either.

Rosalind, body aching, mind scrambled, laughed in her face. Her grandfather had always been full of stories, most of them charming lies. She’d assumed this was more of the same. Magical rites. Hidden trials. Portraits of long-dead professors, all brimming with opinions.

Sometimes she wondered if laughing had only proved her unworthy, because Selene had only looked at her, long and unreadable, and said, “Shall I prove it?”

And then she did.

That summer, under the pretense of tea, Selene dragged her to Dumbledore’s office. They slipped through the walls like they owned them, down corridors, through stairwells, deeper than Rosalind had known Hogwarts went.

Eventually, they stopped. The floor was glowing. It was… the Map Chamber.

Rosalind didn’t say anything, but she did stop smirking. Four massive, grim portraits were waiting. Former professors. Allegedly wise.

They had a lot of questions.

How had her magic manifested? Why could she cast regular spells before fifteen? Who else knew? Could she prove it?

They argued, because that’s what portraits do. Selene argued, too, that Rosalind should complete all four trials, just like she had. The trials were an important path to controlling ancient magic. Essential, inevitable, ordained. Blah, blah, blah.

The trials were designed to protect Pensieve memories—lessons about ancient magic and why using it alongside dark magic always ended badly. By then, Rosalind had already seen the memories. All of them. A week in her grandparents’ cottage in Feldcroft, face-first in the Pensieve, watching powerful people make terrible decisions in ever more dramatic lighting.

They debated it for what felt like hours, but was likely only five minutes.

Truthfully, Rosalind had barely listened. 

Because of the repository. 

A giant reservoir of raw ancient magic, sealed below the chamber, locked up by Selene after her battle with Ranrok. It hummed. It called. It whispered absorb me, Rosalind. Be the strongest witch to ever live…

She’d ignored it. Sort of.

Eventually, the Keepers said she could do the trials if she wanted. There were no secrets to protect, no memories to bestow. Rosalind didn’t need to complete the trials to claim some relic that might—or might not—grant unstoppable power. And now that it was a choice…

Selene lost.

Rosalind had never been good at doing what she was told. So she didn’t take the bait. She didn’t chase the magic. She went back to her life. It wasn’t cowardice. She chose to call it control. Normalcy.

It frayed something between her and Selene. Her grandmother never said a word, but the disappointment was there—in the quiet, in the pause after her name, in the little sighs she didn’t bother hiding. Like she couldn’t believe Rosalind had been handed the crown and chosen not to wear it.

It got under Rosalind’s skin. Some mornings, she woke aching. Like her bones remembered a version of her she never became.

She didn’t want it. Not the trials, not the attention, not the burden of being extraordinary.

And yet.

Sometimes—when the magic throbbed in her chest, yanked her out of sleep, or hissed in her ear about power, about hunger—she wondered:

If she’d said yes, if she’d done the trials… would she have control now? Would it still feel like a possession? A parasite?

She’d made her choice, and Selene had never forgiven her for it.

But neither had the magic.

-.-

The magic might still resent her—but at least it let her smoke.

During lunch, Rosalind holed up in her favorite hideaway, a narrow stone alcove in the Transfiguration Courtyard. Good for smoking. Better for scheming. Best for avoiding.

Parisa Eldridge, one of her best friends since the first year, sat beside her, book open on the stone ledge. She, too, held a cigarette between her fingers, inhaling like someone might steal it. Classic Parisa: wired, starving, and three sleepless nights from blowing something up.

They had reason to be stressed about classes. Revisions were killing them. Professors expected the impossible.

That morning, Professor Dumbledore had tasked them with self-sustaining transfiguration. They’d turned objects into living things before, but never ones that could survive independently, without a constant feed of magic. Not a single student had succeeded.

Not even Tom Riddle, who’d sat still for a full five minutes afterward, as if he could solve the failure by glaring it into submission.

She hadn’t looked at him when it happened, but she felt it: the failure rippling off him. He didn’t like losing.

It was weird that she knew that, right?

Parisa was taking it worse than most, snapping through pages of her textbook, though it contained nothing remotely helpful.

“It’s ridiculous,” she said, waving the cigarette around violently. “This is academic malpractice. I’m writing to the Prophet.”

“It’s probably a test,” Rosalind said, shrugging. “Like Occlumency. Do you think every student who’s passed their Defense N.E.W.T.s has managed to shield their mind?”

“I’m not going to find out,” Parisa snapped. “I will figure this out–and Occlumency–if it’s the last thing I do. I won’t sleep. I won’t eat. I—”

She trailed off, took another drag, and dove back into her textbook.

Rosalind nodded solemnly. Students hurried between the castle’s doors, shielding themselves from the downpour. Some older students managed passable umbrella charms, while the younger ones looked like drowned rats.

It was one of those rare winter days warm enough for rain instead of snow, the old drifts dissolving into slush. At least two students had slipped already, rising with soaked robes and disappointed expressions.

Rosalind happily watched them fall.

“Maybe it’s not about giving it a soul,” she mused. “Like a plant. Plants are alive, but do they have souls?”

Ancient magic didn’t have a soul either. It lived without one, like a patient parasite.

“This is madness,” Parisa muttered. “I’m going to the library tonight. Maybe there’s something on sustaining life.”

“You? At the library? Unheard of.”

Parisa’s father was the head librarian at the Wizarding Library of London. She’d grown up in the stacks, devouring books the way others devoured meals. If Rosalind had a question, Parisa usually had either the answer or a recommendation.

But for all her worrying, Rosalind wasn’t particularly stressed about the practical exams. Ancient magic gave her an advantage. Even though she hardly used it, it was there, a deep, waiting well beneath the surface. If she failed to transfigure a flower into a field mouse, she figured she could just let the magic do it for her.

It was risky, though. Too obvious. Her peers and professors had seen her as a capable but normal witch. If she suddenly became a magical savant, people would start asking questions.

Before she could spiral further, a voice cut through.

“Are you two smoking?”

Gwenore Weasley stood before them, eyes narrowed, wand steady in a perfect umbrella charm, books pressed to her chest, a small brown paper bag tucked beneath her arm.

Rosalind smiled and took a drag. “Field test on combustion transfiguration. Results inconclusive—like your taste in men.”

Gwen’s pink cheeks deepened to scarlet.

“Otis is sweet ,” Gwen insisted. Otis Thistlewood was her new Gryffindor boyfriend. With a sigh, she pulled two sandwiches from her satchel. “I’ve got cheese and ham.”

“Cheese.” Parisa swapped her cigarette. Gwen took a long drag in exchange, stepping further into the alcove. It was cramped with the three of them squeezed together, and Gwen ended up nearly tucked under Rosalind’s arm.

“Are you already studying for Transfiguration?” Gwen asked, peering at Parisa’s textbook. “We have three months to figure it out!”

“If we don’t start now, we’ll fall behind,” Parisa said through a mouthful of bread.

“We’re seventh years! Half our schedules are free periods for studying.” Gwen gestured with reckless emphasis, the cigarette coming dangerously close to Rosalind’s hair.

Rosalind swatted at Gwen’s hand and said, “Speak for yourself. Some of us have full schedules.”

“Rosalind Sallow—single-handedly keeping Magical Theory alive.”

She hadn’t chosen the course, Selene had. A letter straight to Merrythought, and suddenly her Friday afternoons belonged to Professor Thiswell’s nasal drone.

It was always a tug-of-war with Selene. She refused the trials? Selene took her on field trips through caves and ruins. Rosalind dropped Beasts class? Selene made her take magical theory instead.

“How long until Potions?” Parisa asked.

Rosalind glanced at her wristwatch. “Half past twelve.”

“Shit,” Parisa cursed, already stuffing her book into her bag, wand raised to cast an umbrella charm. She and Gwen stepped out of the alcove as Rosalind took one last drag. “Rosalind, let’s move.”

Rosalind flicked her wand, conjuring a limp umbrella charm. The rain still got her ankles. Typical. Even her umbrella charms were moody.

-.-

They raced back through the castle. Parisa was still ranting about self-sustaining transfiguration, punctuating every word with a wave of her half-eaten sandwich. They passed Varinia Tugwood, Gwen's cousin and their closest friend outside of Ravenclaw, running late to Muggle Studies, weaving easily through the crowded corridor.

"Aren't you late for class?" Gwen asked. "Vee, you can't afford another detention."

Varinia only grinned, then leaned in to take a giant bite out of Rosalind’s sandwich.

"Hey!" Rosalind said, trying to swat her away. But Varinia was already moving, chewing, crude and cool in the same breath.

"Thanks, Sallow.” She winked and was gone.

"She's a lunatic," Parisa mumbled, before diving back into her ramble. Gwen snorted. Rosalind eyed her half-gone sandwich and only shrugged.

They ran into two Slytherin seventh-year girls in the toilets, Nicasia Parkinson, the Head Girl, and her ever-loyal friend, Veronika Mulciber. They leaned into the mirrors, adjusting their makeup with matching haughty glares. Rosalind waited near the door for Gwen and Parisa, though her eyes strayed toward the girls in the mirror.

And maybe she was smirking. Maybe.

“What are you looking at, Sallow?” Nicasia snapped, breaking the silence.

“Not a thing,” Rosalind said, flashing a false smile at the reflection. She didn’t say it—do you apply lipstick with a trowel?—but it was close. She didn’t have a death wish, though sometimes it felt like she did. She just couldn’t resist needling Nicasia.

“Nice earrings,” Veronika sneered, leaning closer to the mirror. “Take it off, do you turn into an old hag? Warts and all?”

Veronika always aimed to cut deeper than necessary. She liked the retaliation.

Rosalind shrugged. Enchanted beauty was easier to manage than the truth, especially when the truth hummed beneath her skin, silver-blue and wild.

The stall door creaked open, and Gwen stepped out, eyes locking on Nicasia and Veronika. Without missing a beat, she muttered, just loud enough: “I didn’t realize this was the trolls’ toilets.”

Nicasia’s head snapped toward her, her lips curling. “Watch it, Weasley. I’ll give you detention for a week.”

Rosalind’s snicker slipped out before she could stop it.

Gwen said nothing, only washed her hands as if the confrontation hadn’t happened at all. Rosalind loved it when Gwen went cold.

Parisa, emerging from the stall a moment later, looked at the scene and muttered, “Merlin, this place stinks like trolls.”

Rosalind cackled, and Gwen smiled.

Nicasia’s patience snapped. She turned, Head Girl badge gleaming. “I’d watch yourselves this term,” she warned.

Rosalind hated to admit it, but Nicasia was lovely, with silky dark hair, cheekbones cut like every well-bred Slytherin girl. She adjusted her Head Girl badge with pride. “I went too easy on you little rats last term, I think.”

Rosalind sighed, giving a dramatic roll of her eyes. “Yes, we get it. You’re in charge, Parkinson. We’re vermin.”

“I outrank you, Sallow. I could ruin your month if I felt like it.”

Rosalind only smiled, a slow, curling thing, daring her to try.

They always struck first, Veronika with cruelty, Nicasia with authority. Rosalind didn’t need to win. She just had to make them bleed a little.

Veronika scoffed, icy hair slipping over her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Nicasia. You can do better than prefect shifts on a Saturday. Detention, maybe. Sallow can’t help herself. She’ll be on her knees for some Mudblood by tomorrow. Supply closet, if history repeats.”

At the slur, Rosalind’s magic stirred. Gwen stiffened, hand to her wand.

“Is that the best insult you’ve got?” Rosalind asked, eyebrow raised. “Creativity isn’t your strong suit.”

Veronika’s sneer wavered, but Nicasia stepped in, arms flung up in exasperation. “Oh, for Salazar’s sake, not now. We’re late for Potions.”

With a last glare, Nicasia and Veronika stomped out.

"They're so nice," Gwen quipped as Rosalind let out a breathless laugh. “I think they like us.”

Parisa stood rigidly at the sink. “That was stupid,” she muttered. “I shouldn’t have said anything. We can’t study for N.E.W.T.s from detention.”

“They did call me a slag,” Rosalind said mildly. The magic hadn’t settled. It coiled in her ribs, still tasting blood. She breathed through her nose. She couldn’t afford to slip. Not now.

“Yes, but we did call them trolls first,” Parisa sighed. “I can’t get caught up in house rivalries. Petty drama is so… beneath us.”

“Relax, P,” Rosalind said, sliding her arm through Parisa’s and tugging her toward the door. “Nicasia is all bark, no bite.”

“You say that now,” Parisa muttered, tugging at her sleeves. “Just wait—she’ll be handing out detentions like she runs Azkaban.”

“Let her,” Rosalind said, eyes narrowed. “I’d look excellent in chains.”

-.-

Rosalind stared down at her cauldron. It wasn’t even bubbling. Just… sulking.

She’d checked twice that the burner was lit. The liquid was pale yellow, faintly mildewy. Only step two—powdered asphodel—and already something was horribly, humiliatingly wrong.

Parisa was deep in focus beside her, hair twisted into a bun, chewing the inside of her lip, already on step three. Gwen sat at a different table; too many whispered conversations had earned them a separation. The third at their lab table was Euphemia Austen, who stirred as if churning butter, glasses slipping down her nose.

Ancient magic wouldn’t save her from this. 

Well, maybe it could, but she didn’t dare.

She reread the steps, trying not to panic. They weren’t even complicated, just finicky. Draught of the Living Dead was notoriously touchy. Only one student had ever finished it inside the hour last year—no need to guess who. That time, Rosalind had made it to step four.

Professor Slughorn drifted through the classroom, doling out praise and booming chuckles. He stopped beside their station, beaming at Parisa.

“Miss Eldridge, very close. Very close indeed…” Parisa beamed, sweaty and triumphant, before ducking back over her potion. Rosalind groaned inwardly as he turned to her.

“Miss Sallow,” he said kindly, peering into her cauldron. “I fear you’ve gone a bit off course.”

“Yes, Professor,” she said glumly.

The cauldron responded with a low, mournful blorp.

“ Let’s have some help over here. Tom—yes, Tom, my dear boy—would you kindly help Miss Sallow back on track? She’s added far too much wormwood.”

Humiliation hit her like a Bludger. First step. Wormwood. Amateur hour.

And now, Tom Riddle, of all people, was striding toward her like he’d been summoned from Olympus.

Gone was the shadow of the night before. This version was immaculate—polished shoes, perfect part, uniform crisp enough to cut glass. He looked like someone who’d never even heard of a Disillusionment Charm.

Even his smirk looked rehearsed.

“It’s no worries, Rosalind, dear,” Slughorn said gently. She flushed scarlet. “Easiest fix in the book! If you’d added too much sopophorous bean juice—now that would be a story…”

He chuckled, clapping a hand to Riddle’s shoulder. Riddle’s eyes met hers. A flash of a smirk, gone before she could react.

“May I?” he asked, voice smooth as silk.

“Yes.”

Rosalind stepped aside. He moved in—too close—stirring slow and confident, already reaching for her ingredients.

Slughorn lingered. “How was your Christmas, Rosalind?” he asked warmly. He’d always liked her, more than her skills warranted. She wasn’t a brilliant potioneer, passable at best, but that never mattered to Slughorn. “And how is your family? Your grandmother was always one of my favorites to follow.”

Riddle’s eyes flicked toward her for a second, then back to the cauldron.

“It was lovely,” Rosalind said, watching him from the corner of her eye. His hands—slender, pale, infuriatingly precise—moved through her ingredients like they belonged to him. “We spent it in London.”

“Oh! How elegant!” Slughorn beamed. “Your grandmother—does she enjoy her retirement?”

“Not at all, sir,” Rosalind laughed. Not unless “retirement” now included dragging her into cursed ruins and offering up ancestral trauma like it was a trust fund. “She’s far too restless to sit still. Had me out of the city half the days.”

Riddle set the ladle down and added more wormwood. Rosalind watched, tense. She considered asking what he thought he was doing, but didn’t. He wouldn’t sabotage her. Not with Slughorn watching.

Probably.

Then again, they had seen each other the night before. Was he suspicious? She hadn’t thought of that.

“To teach the granddaughter of Sebastian Sallow and Selene Alderton—what a legacy! You’ve much to live up to, my girl.”

Slughorn laughed, delighted by his own mythmaking. Rosalind swallowed the urge to grimace.

“And I’m sure you will,” he added. “Great things, Rosalind, dear.”

There was a sound, soft but unmistakable: Riddle’s barely audible scoff.

Slughorn didn’t react, or didn’t hear. Rosalind turned to look at him, and there he was: smiling blandly, face carved in marble, eyes too dark to read. She straightened. If he thought she’d wilt under praise she hadn’t earned, he was more arrogant than she’d credited.

“All fixed, sir,” he said mildly.

“Tom, my boy!” Slughorn cheered, clapping him on the arm. “Always a pleasure. Two exemplary students before me! You’ll both be at the Slug Club on Sunday, yes? I’ve a new French wine I’m simply dying to open.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. A loud boom erupted across the room. Fleamont Potter’s cauldron had belched orange smoke directly into his face.

“Potter!” Slughorn cried, robes billowing as he rushed off.

Rosalind turned back to her cauldron. It was bubbling now. Pale lilac. A parody of competence.

“It is customary,” Riddle said, tilting his head, “to thank someone when they salvage your brewing disaster. Just a thought.”

She glared. He blinked, unmoved.

She ground the words out like broken glass. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head, gaze steady. “You’re welcome.”

Her cheeks flushed hot. Merlin, he was insufferable.

And worse, he was stunning. Up close, it was harder to pretend she didn’t see it. The symmetry. The stillness. The deliberate charm of someone who never needed to raise his voice to command a room. She’d watched other girls flounder under that gaze and sworn she was above it.

But this… this she understood now. He was good-looking, the way a blade was beautiful. Clean. Dangerous. Made to cut.

As Riddle looked down at her, with those fathomless eyes and that near-smile, a memory flashed:

Tea in Dumbledore’s office, fifth year, just the two of them. A warning tucked between stories of her teenage grandparents. 

Stay away from Tom Riddle at all costs.

Her magic didn’t seem to agree with the warning. It stirred low in her chest, curious, excited, the same way it had outside a ruin, just before a flare of ancient power.

She wasn’t swooning. Maybe just overheated? Cornered. Irritated. Intrigued. Possibly hexed.

Truthfully, she’d felt it before at the Ministry, standing too close, sharing polite lies. It felt like a betrayal. Of Alfie. Of common sense. 

But it was a fact of life: Riddle was beautiful. And Rosalind was a shameless flirt.

“My sincere apologies for keeping you from your work,” she said, cool and clipped. “I won’t delay your potion any longer.”

Riddle’s mouth curved fractionally. Amused. 

“I’ve brewed this draught for Professor Slughorn many times,” he said. “I was excused from the assignment.”

Of course he would be so skilled, so smug, so disgustingly helpful. Her heart gave a reluctant flutter. She crushed it beneath her heel.

They’d shared classes since their first year. He was always top, Parisa close behind. Flawless. Composed. She’d always wondered what he’d look like cracked.

She flirted with him once, last spring, drunk and bored at a Slug Club party, high on champagne and spite. A comment. A look. Her fingers brushed his sleeve. He hadn’t taken the bait.

She hadn’t tried again.

“You must get tired of being everyone’s example,” she said, turning back to her cauldron. “It sounds exhausting.”

Riddle bowed his head, still amused. Rosalind forced her eyes to the page, tracing her finger over the second step.

She reached for the sloth brain. It was slimy and cold. Completely unpleasant. He could have dropped it in for her. But of course, he didn’t.

“It’s Tom,” he said. “And, Rosalind, you still need to stir twice counterclockwise.”

At the sound of her name on his lips, her magic flickered inside her. Almost reaching for him, curious, as if it wanted to hear more.

And Rosalind? A shiver crawled up her spine. Gooseflesh rose along her arms. Her cheeks flushed, hot and helpless, the exact red of Gwen’s hair. She told herself it was embarrassment at getting the next step wrong, and not at all the feeling of being under his attention.

Riddle added, lightly, “Just a friendly reminder. From one exemplary student to another. Good luck.”

Her magic swirled, almost giggling inside her. Pleased. A little drunk. She had to will it still, had to not lean in. He was too close. Too warm. She could feel the faintest brush of his sleeve against her arm as he stepped away.

And for just a second, she wondered… Did he know? Did he feel it, too?

“So helpful,” Rosalind said flatly. “I’ll be sure to credit you in my inevitable success.”

Riddle didn’t look back. “You’d be surprised how often I’m helpful.”

“I look forward to finding out,” she replied, unable to stop herself.

That made him pause for a second, then he kept walking. His retreating back was a mercy.

She slumped over her potion, heart still pounding, and stirred twice counterclockwise, just like he said.

Parisa glanced over, brows drawn. “What is wrong with you?”

Rosalind stared at her, helpless. “I think I’ve developed a life-threatening allergy to cheekbones.”

“You should get that checked out,” Parisa muttered, returning to her ladle.

Rosalind snorted, recovering fast. When she looked up, Riddle was watching her. 

She smiled—then ruined her potion on purpose.

Chapter Text

The Ministry didn’t bury its failures. It filed them.

Tom flipped to the next page of the stolen Auror reports. The parchment crackled under his fingers. A faint frown creased his brow, and his quill hovered in his other hand, gouging slow, perfect circles into the corner of his notebook, darkening the paper to a near tear.

The most volatile file was from Graves’ desk: Frederick Rowle. Dismissed Auror. Unmanageable from the start, and now, a stain.

The photograph clipped to the file twitched under his gaze. Rowle smirked up at him, jagged scar, cropped hair, the kind of man who looked like he’d rather bite someone than answer a question. His eyes shifted, twitchy and paranoid, like they knew who was studying them.

Tom tilted the file toward the light. Rowle was in his early thirties. He had exceptional field dueling scores and was top of his class, technically, though not the kind of top they liked. Rowle was too reckless. Too sharp-edged. So they assigned him to a desk straight out of training.

The file detailed numerous infractions, complaints, and instances in which Rowle side-stepped ministry protocol for his own favored approach.

DMLE leadership couldn’t break him, so they boxed him instead. And look how well that went.

Tom kept scribbling the same circle. Tight and methodical. Over and over again.

A familiar voice broke the quiet. “He’s mad, you know.”

Tom didn’t look up. “According to whom?”

Abraxas Malfoy unfolded himself from the opposite bed and crossed to Tom’s side. He leaned over his shoulder, eyes flicking across the file.

“My uncle,” he said lazily. “Freddy Rowle was in his year. Said he was brilliant. Also said he couldn’t follow orders for shit.”

Tom made a noncommittal sound. “What else?”

Abraxas shrugged, gaze still on the photograph. “Got into fights. Hexed a professor once, I think. Thought he was smarter than everyone else.”

“Was he?” Tom asked.

Abraxas smiled faintly. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Tom hummed.

Abraxas leaned back against the edge of Ares’s bed.

Tom stayed hunched over the file, eyes scanning every word, cigarette burning low beside him in the ashtray.

“What else did Arcturus say?” he asked, still scribbling. The circles he’d been drawing had worn straight through the notebook.

Abraxas shrugged, his eyes flicking toward the page, then to the ruined spot on the desk. “Didn’t seem to like him much. Hardly anyone did, from what I gather. Rowle was always too eager to stir up trouble. Had sticky fingers.”

Something they had in common. He was still using Leo’s favorite quill. It left a satisfying scratch when he pressed too hard.

The file claimed Rowle had been dismissed for theft—a weapon from the evidence room, an object called the Silent Dagger. A dagger that swallowed the sound of its victims. The Aurors had found it on him and sacked him that same night. 

He shouted “For the Greater Good” during his dismissal. Grindelwaldian romantic nonsense—unless, of course, you meant it.

Tom passed the sheet to Abraxas without a word.

Abraxas read it, mouth curling faintly. “Sounds like Rowle. Desk job, huh? Punishment.”

“Obviously,” Tom murmured, finally setting Leo’s quill down.

Abraxas lingered. “There was another thing. Arcturus said Rowle was terrified of Boggarts.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” A slow smile. “How very… delicate.”

“They had one in their dormitory that year,” Abraxas said. “Rowle slept on the sofa in the common room for months. Arcturus wouldn’t let anyone get rid of it. Said he liked watching him flinch.”

Tom’s eyes flicked up, interested now. “What was the Boggart?”

“My uncle wouldn’t say. Certainly must’ve been humiliating.” Abraxas grinned wickedly. “Wish I’d seen it. Whatever it was.”

Tom leaned back slightly, his fingers still idling along the corner of the folder.

A dangerous combination. Emotional volatility disguised as drive. For some, it broke them. For others, it made them sharp. Erratic, but sharp. A weapon, if handled correctly.

Or if wielded by someone more competent.

His gaze returned to the other reports—half-organized summaries of recent raids across the country. Low-level dark magic incidents. Forgotten towns. Recovered artifacts buried under paperwork no one had bothered to read.

It didn’t escape Tom’s notice that several objects had been logged, seized, and then, somehow, disappeared.

He smiled faintly.

Cursed Muggle spoons, mailboxes, pocketwatches that whispered obscenities in Ancient Greek. And beneath those—Greenshields pieces, like the Silent Dagger. Rare. Real. The Eye of the Forsaken. The Silk of Oblivion.

Tom liked the sound of them. He liked the power buried in names. He liked that Rowle was doing the collecting for him.

He closed the folder, fingers resting lightly on the cover. He didn’t need to write anything down.

Beside him, Abraxas was already moving.

Tom glanced over, eyes gleaming. “Shall we?”

-.-

The year prior, Tom had realized the common room no longer sufficed. It was too loud, too visible. Too full of other people’s concerns. Tom needed something quieter, unwatched, a place where they could speak freely, or not speak at all.

There were seven of them, for now. They weren’t disciples, at least not yet. Just boys with sharp bloodlines and sharper ambitions, orbiting the same center. A tight circle of trust. They’d hex each other for sport and bleed for each other the next day. That was the shape of it.

Exactly Tom’s design.

They called themselves the Knights of Walpurgis.

The name had been his. A nod to the old myths—Walpurgis Night, when witches and demons met in secret, hidden from God and man. It gave the group an air of dark tradition, gravitas, legitimacy. A lie, in other words. The truth was more straightforward: they were the beginning of something new. A brotherhood built on blood and vision. On hunger.

So he searched.

Hogwarts had always answered him. A strange kind of attentiveness, for a place so old, so thick with memory. It didn’t listen to everyone. But it listened to him.

Here, he had clawed his way out of Wool’s. Out of silence. Out of nothing. His magic had bloomed early—slow and foul, like a corpse flower breaking open in the dark. Seemingly unnatural, but impossible to ignore. The professors noticed. The students noticed. And so did the castle.

He’d read about a room that appeared only when summoned by precise, purposeful need. The kind of need magic respected.

So he tested it. He set out to walk the seventh-floor corridor three times. He barely made it to the second pass before the door appeared. Inside was a fireplace, a long table, seven chairs, with one set slightly above the rest

It was called the Room of Requirement. It had been his ever since.

The room changed for him. It bent to his will. A war room. A reading room. A private chamber to practice Legilimency on his Knights. Whatever he wanted, the castle provided.

The door gave way with a soft groan, and Tom stepped inside, Abraxas following behind. The Knights were already gathered, mid-conversation.

“I don’t know what my mother’s problem is,” Paris Rosier said, sinking into a plush armchair with a sigh. His soft blue eyes and sculpted features gave him a look that might have passed for pretty if he hadn’t sounded so petulant. Paris wore resentment like perfume: expensive, unmistakable, and always a little too much. “She should worry about Basil’s disastrous engagement, not me.”

They paused as he entered, glancing up one by one. Leopold Nott stood and gave a theatrical little bow: half a joke, but only half.

Tom let the silence stretch. The room still smelled faintly of cedar smoke and firewhiskey. Comfortable and predictable.

He smiled, faintly amused. “Carry on.”

He crossed to his chair and lit a cigarette. The smoke curled slowly and silvery, softening the edges of the room as he sat.

The Knights were arranged loosely around the fire, each sunk into an armchair like kings of nothing. A small table sat between them, covered in glasses, ashtrays, and leftover chocolate from the Christmas haul. Bookshelves lined the walls, overloaded and poorly sorted. A narrow window looked out over the north grounds, black with rain.

He’d spent many nights by that window. Smoking. Thinking and making plans.

There was no agenda tonight. He’d called the meeting purely to keep the habit. Weekly. Familiar. A rhythm he intended to maintain long after Hogwarts.

The moment he sat, Ares Lestrange picked up where Paris left off.

“Well,” Ares drawled. “Basil can still find himself a wife, and he’s practically an invalid. You couldn’t pull a fifth-year.”

Ares looked like he’d been sculpted to match a family portrait: dark-haired, perfect-featured, all effortless charm on the outside. But even now, smirking over the insult, he had the air of someone hoping it would earn a laugh.

Paris barely mustered a glare. “It’s humiliating,” he muttered. “Cornering every moderately attractive pureblood girl. I had to watch Artemis Diggory drool all over herself. Artemis. Diggory. All that effort, and for what? Some girl with skin like a soup bowl.

“I dunno, mate. Bit of spellwork, lights off, you’d survive,” Marcellus Avery said, lounging low in his chair. His long hair fell half into his eyes, and he grinned without blinking, too pleased with himself, or too bored to care.

Mars never missed a chance to wound. He was chaos in wool and sweat. Useful in the right mood, dangerous in the wrong one.

Paris slumped further in his chair. “She’s fourteen. And actively molting.”

Leo gave a quiet snort. “She’s got a vault and a pulse. What more could you want?”

He was the least striking of the group, wiry and pale, with twitchy hands and wire-rimmed glasses that slipped down the bridge of his nose. Not as tall as Ares or Abraxas. Not as polished as even Paris or Mars, but sharp in his own way. Watchful. Always listening like he meant to remember it all—if he ever felt brave enough to say it, and make it hurt.

Abraxas had taken the chair to Tom’s right, as always, legs stretched, glass in hand, looking like he’d grown up knowing he was meant to sit above everyone else. Malfoy beauty, Malfoy arrogance, Malfoy certainty. Tom kept him close. You didn’t leave your sharpest knife in the drawer. “You’ll change your mind when she hexes your trousers off.”

“Or just carve her a new face,” Ivander Mulciber said quietly. “One you could stand to fuck.”

He sat slightly apart from the others, long-fingered and tanned despite the winter, the collar of his uniform darkened at the edges with something that might’ve been ink…. or something else. Ivander had no use for charm. He was a scalpel. He had his uses in ways other than the ballroom.

“You’ve always had standards, Rosier,” Tom said, mildly. “They just tend to dissolve after your third glass.”

The others snorted. Paris didn’t flinch, but he went very still. Tom watched the tightening jaw, the silence, the careful control.

Paris exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he said coolly. “At least I’ll be getting consistent pussy then.”

That earned a chorus of low oohs from the others. Ares barked a laugh. Abraxas smirked into his glass.

When the noise faded, Tom continued, as if there’d been no interruption. “She’s not going to stop asking, you know.”

Paris blinked at him.

“Your mother,” Tom said, gesturing vaguely toward the fire. “Until you give her a reason to.”

“And here I thought you didn’t believe in love, Tommy,” Mars said. “Surely we’re not planning weddings now.”

“Dimwit,” Tom said, flicking his wand. Mars’s drink splashed across his shirt. The room laughed. Mars included.

“I’m saying you could take some of this future into your own hands, Rosier.”

Ares grinned, tipping his glass. “Or you’ll end up with someone worse than Artemis Diggory. At least Diggory women have big tits. Have you seen her mother?”

“Or better?” Abraxas asked. “Maybe you should have more faith in your dearest mother, Rosier.”

“My mother,” Paris snorted. “She cornered Rosalind Sallow at the Ministry party. Sallow practically stomped on her throat.”

Ares made a strangled little scoff. The others leaned in, elbows brushing, breath held. Tom said nothing. They always turned feral when Sallow came up.

He took a long drag and let it sit in his chest. The smoke helped obscure how boring they were when they thought they were being clever.

“Don’t worry, Rosier,” Abraxas drawled, flicking ash from his sleeve. “She wouldn’t touch you with a fifty-foot Quidditch hoop anyway.”

The room laughed. Paris didn’t flinch. 

“Please. She was looking at me at the Christmas party.”

“She was looking at the exit,” Leo muttered. “Probably measuring her odds.”

“Did she ever fuck Prewett?” Mars asked, eyes gleaming. “Or was that just his pathetic little fantasy? Because I heard she fucks and doesn’t kiss.”

Abraxas gave a vague hum, noncommittal.

“She’s pretty, sure,” Paris said. “But not worth the effort.”

“She’d be easier dead,” Ivander said, almost absently. “Less complaining.”

That got a pause. Abraxas winced. Leo just looked away.

Mars just howled. “I’d bury my face in that bush like it was cursed treasure.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Abraxas muttered.

“Fuck off, Mars,” Ares bit out.

Tom liked seeing where the line was and who came close to crossing it. Usually, it was Mars.

“I’m gonna fuck your cousin, mate,” he said, too pleased with himself. “And she won’t walk straight till summer.”

Ares surged forward in his chair, mouth twisting like he was about to lunge across the table, words or fists, it didn’t matter.

But Abraxas raised a hand, bored. 

“Alright,” he said, eyes still on his glass. “We get it, Avery. You’re very proud of your cock. Lestrange, sit down.”

Ares sat back, jaw clenched. “She’s still my cousin, you fool. Talk about her with some respect.”

That did it. The room cracked, laughter, jeers, and a few spit takes. Even Leo looked up from his drink.

Respect. As if that word meant anything here.

Tom said, “She’s dating Alphard Black anyway.”

Silence fell.

Ares blinked. “There is no fucking way.”

Tom smiled, barely. “Of course there is. I saw them at the Christmas party.”

The silence continued. Ares looked a bit sick. Everyone else looked utterly bored with the news. They didn’t care who Sallow dated, only the idea that they might be the one to fuck her in the abandoned greenhouse on a random Tuesday afternoon.

“Well, she’s not the only one,” Paris said. “Druella’s been seeing him too.”

Tom tapped his finger on the armrest of his chair.

Paris was learning. He’d watched Abraxas redirect conversations with the precision of a duelist: subtle, effortless, never breaking a sweat. This was sloppier, but the instinct was there. Shift the spotlight. Get a laugh. Regain control.

“Speaking of Druella,” Paris added. “Can you all please stop fucking my cousin?”

Mars didn’t wait a beat. “Aren’t you fucking your cousin? It’s a fucking harem. We’re all fucking your cousin.”

The room cracked up. Laughter echoed. Paris flushed, but didn’t rise to it.

He wasn’t fucking Druella. He was fucking Quinn Bellamy, a Hufflepuff with no future. And once, last summer, he’d let Mars bend him over a bench in the Malfoy greenhouses. They’d all seen, the pack of them, smoking cigars and drinking straight gin. 

That had been Mars’ point.

Paris snapped before he could stop himself. “How does Amalthea feel about that, Mars? Or are you hoping she doesn’t ask?”

Mars shrugged, unbothered. “It’s not in ink yet.”

That got the reaction he wanted. Half the room broke into layered, mocking laughter. It rang off the shelves. Tom let it wash over him, just barely smiling.

“What did you think of Tuft, Tom?” Abraxas asked, just as the laughter died. His tone was casual. The timing was not.

Abraxas knew exactly where to cut. A clean pivot. The room had been close to splitting open—sex, blood, and too much drink—and now it followed something quieter. Something Tom liked better.

Tom exhaled a stream of smoke, eyes half-lidded. “She’s clever. Cautious.”

“She liked you,” Abraxas said, sipping his drink. “At the Ministry party. Couldn’t stop staring. Gave you her Floo address, didn’t she?”

“Or maybe she just wants to fuck you,” Mars added, crooked grin. “I’d let her. Have you seen the arse on that woman?”

“She kept her seat after Moon gutted the Department,” Leo offered. “That takes effort.”

“Or silence,” Tom murmured. “She’s useful enough to them for now. Keeps your fathers towing the ministry line.”

Ares snorted. “She’s rewriting history. My dad had her over for drinks last year, and let’s just say she admired the Grindelwald poster he had up in the liquor cabinet.”

“You’d think it would be someone a little more outright, anti- Grindelwald,” Paris said. “Someone with Moon’s policies.”

Tom leaned back in his chair. “Dumbledore won’t touch it. Power makes him nervous.”

“Sallow won’t take anything that makes her move in the open,” Abraxas said. 

“She prefers to pull strings from the balcony,” Tom said.

“Moon enacts every one of her ideas. He calls them reforms. She calls them suggestions,” Abraxas added, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. “My father says Tuft is... persuadable. Behind closed doors.”

“Sucks for votes, then?” Mars grinned. Ivander’s mouth twitched toward a smile.

“No,” Abraxas said flatly. “It means she agrees with us. She just won’t admit it in the papers.”

“I like Sallow,” Ivander said. “She’s got that look in her eye that she’s killed people, you know?”

“Still think Tuft’s the better lay,” Mars said, slouching further into his chair. “Sallow's tits are too saggy now.”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t fuck a grandma,” Paris replied.

Abraxas chuckled. “Maybe even Mars has limits?”

And just like that, they fell back in.

Nicasia’s tits. Lucretia’s thighs. Ares bragging. Mars howling. Leo said Euphemia could hex his cock off if she asked nicely.

Tom said nothing more.

Let them posture. Let them play the little game of bloodlines and gossip. That was their inheritance. Power assumed. Automatic.

His would be different. Earned. Tactical. Over before anyone knew it had even started. Tuft didn’t matter now. But later? Maybe. She was cautious and clever. And clever people lasted.  For now, he was content to watch the wind change.

Someone brought up Varinia Tugwood’s tits. And then, of course…

“I swear, Sallow’s mouth was made to be wrapped around a cock—”

This was what they knew: sex, scandal, house gossip. Their fathers played chess with legislation. And they played with each other. It was always noise. But tonight, it grated. Too shallow. Too small. 

He finished the cigarette, leaned forward, and smashed it into the ashtray. They all paused at his sudden movement.

“You’re a bunch of fucking morons,” he said, bored.

Ares shifted. Paris frowned. Leo looked up, startled.

Tom stood. They stayed quiet until he left.

-.-

Rosalind woke with dust on her tongue and Camille pawing at her face.

Her hip throbbed. The moth-eaten sofa beneath her had no give, no mercy, and possibly no remaining cushioning. She groaned and sat up slowly. Her wristwatch read just after one.

Books littered the floor. Her wand was wedged in the cushions. Her notes had crumpled beneath her cheek. The whole sofa still reeked of mildew and whatever ancient curse had been stitched into the stuffing.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Just one more hour of reading. But the day had gutted her, and the sofa had claimed her somewhere around the first fucking paragraph.

“Come here, Cammy,” she cooed, rubbing her fingers together. But Camille had already moved on, stalking something near the far wall, absorbed in some private feline mission.

Rosalind hadn’t meant to bring her either. But once the cat was curious, there was no stopping her.

Rosalind watched Camille prance, tail high, smug as ever—

—and then freeze.

One paw lifted mid-step. Her ears twitched. Her nose tilted toward the far wall.

Rosalind rubbed her eyes, sat up straighter, breath catching in her throat.

The air wasn’t colder. No shadows moved. But the feeling crept in anyway, as if someone had just stepped out of view. She glanced toward the corners. The Triptych. The edges of the old stone. Nothing. Just the usual gloom, the quiet rot of old magic.

Still, the wrongness lingered.

She could almost hear her grandfather scoff: Don’t be daft, Rabbit. The only thing alive down here is the rats.

Down here, meaning the Undercroft. A damp, forgotten chamber tucked off the Defense corridor. You had to crawl through an old wardrobe and tap the frame just right to get in. Hidden. Out of reach. Just hers.

(And Benedict’s, technically. But he rarely bothered.)

Her grandparents had claimed it first. Sebastian said it was once a Slytherin holdout, shared with Ominis Gaunt, one of Salazar’s last known descendants. In the early years, it was all gobstones and contraband sweets. Then Selene arrived. And everything went a little sideways.

Rosalind shifted on the sofa, wincing. She had the sinking suspicion something repulsive had happened right where she’d been sleeping.

That’s when she saw it.

The Triptych was staring at her.

—or no. Not staring. But something had moved.

The three-paneled pastoral scene—Highland hills, sheep like soft white stones—had always been still. Harmless and ordinary. A Muggle painting, probably hung as a joke at Salazar’s expense.

But now?

“Hello?” Rosalind whispered. Her voice barely made it past her lips.

Camille was frozen, ears flattened, tail puffed, back arched in a perfect crescent. Her low growl vibrated through the silence.

Rosalind stepped closer to the Triptych. The portrait didn’t stir.

She waved her hand, but nothing moved.

Then—

A pulse. Bone-deep. Ancient magic that warned. Her power surged instinctively. She hadn’t summoned it—her wand still hung loose in her grip—but her magic moved anyway, leaping forward in fine, silvery-blue strands only she could see. It coiled around the Triptych. Testing. Probing. Searching.

The air held its breath.

Then her magic snapped back, dissolving into the stone.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. Rosalind let out a little relieved breath. Camille’s back softened.

It was only a portrait. Old. Forgotten. Maybe the subject had passed through, some other frame, some other castle corridor. That happened. Paintings moved.

It was nothing.

She told herself that twice.

Still, the air felt heavier now, pressed against her skin, like a door had opened somewhere behind her and hadn’t closed.

She swept her notes into a pile with unsteady hands, grabbed her books, and scooped Camille off the ground.

Then she left the Undercroft behind, fast and breathless, Camille warm against her chest—and the cold still crawling down her spine.

-.-

A few minutes later, Rosalind slipped through the castle. It was too late for patrols, too early for ghosts. The stone was cold beneath her heels, the torches guttering in their sconces. Her Disillusionment Charm clung loosely to her skin, flickering with each step. Camille hung in her arms.

Sleep needled at her. The ache behind her eyes, the slow drag of her limbs, all whispered surrender. But she moved anyway. Past the Portrait Corridor. Down the last gallery. When she reached the Grand Staircase, it had already begun to shift, stone plates groaning, rails unhooking from their sockets, the castle reordering itself.

She jumped as the step beneath her gave way, catching the next, rattling her knees. Camille yowled once, offended.

Then—motion below. A shimmer. A pulse of silver in the stairwell.

Rosalind’s fingers tightened on the balustrade. Camille raised her head.

One flight down, just enough light to catch him—

Tom Riddle dropped his Disillusionment Charm and watched her. The moonlight found the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

The cold in her spine unraveled, and something else took its place.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at her, still and appraising. Then his gaze dropped to the cat.

“Taking him for a walk?” he asked, voice dry, amused.

Rosalind smiled without blinking. “She’s walking me.”

It hung there, the almost-flirtation. Not coy enough to laugh at. Not serious enough to name. It was suspended between them like tension on a string.

The staircase shifted again. Her platform lifted. His dropped. Distance pressed in. But their eyes held. Even as the stone peeled them apart, they looked until the castle finished the job, and all that remained was silence and the echo of something unsaid.

Rosalind glanced down at Camille, whose ears were twitching like antennae.

“We’ll have fun with him,” she murmured, soft enough for the shadows.

Camille purred, smug as ever—as if she'd picked him out herself.

Chapter Text

Rosalind sat in the back row, already counting down the minutes like they were suitors she’d grown tired of. Defense. Double period. Merrythought droning on about mind shields. Death by lecture. A noble end, if one believed in suffering for one’s education.

Her quill scratched out line after line, determined to keep pace, as if Merrythought might reveal the secret to immortality.

On her left, Gwen pretended to pay attention, but only barely. Her chin slumped into her palm, eyes glazed with despair.

Rosalind abandoned all pretense. Her head lolled slightly toward Gwen, her quill drifting in lazy circles over the margin of her notes. Somewhere between mind shield theory and the third repetition of “mental discipline begins with control,” she began sketching a lopsided kneazle with Groucho Marx eyebrows and a tail that looked more like a question mark.

Gwen leaned over, snorted softly, and took the parchment. She added a stick figure beside the kneazle—long hair, ridiculous boots, cape flapping in the wind—and scrawled “Rosalind” in bold, crooked letters.

Rosalind glanced down, arched a brow, and smirked. The boots were accurate. The kneazle, less so.

She reached for her quill, planning to give cartoon-Rosalind diamond earrings and a suitable backstory, when Professor Merrythought materialized in front of their desk like a summoned spirit.

Parisa elbowed her sharply. Rosalind lifted her chin and blinked. Gwen straightened, too, just not quickly enough to cover the parchment.

“...which is why,” Merrythought was saying, already frowning, “you must learn to shield your mind from dark magic attacks.”

Gwen turned scarlet. Her ears practically steamed.

Merrythought tapped the parchment with her wand, expression pinched. “Kneazles have much shorter tails, Miss Weasley.” The tail shrank. “And Miss Sallow is not that short.”

Another flick and stick-Rosalind stretched taller.

Parisa looked personally affronted.

“And what, Miss Weasley,” Merrythought went on, “did Grindelwald’s men rely on to gather intelligence?”

Gwen flipped the parchment over. “Legilimency, Professor.”

Merrythought turned to Rosalind. “And what did I say on the first day of term, Miss Sallow?”

Across the room, Ares, Rosier, and Malfoy had turned to watch like it was a show. Rosalind met her cousin’s gaze and smiled sweetly.

“The only way to protect your mind is with Occlumency.”

“And, Miss Weasley?”

“And a basic mind shield is required to pass our N.E.W.T.s.”

“Precisely,” Merrythought sniffed. “And I hate to break it to you, girls, but when a dark wizard has you at the tip of their wand, an amusing little drawing of Rosalind Sallow being mauled by a long-tailed kneazle will do absolutely nothing to stop them.”

“Yes, Professor,” they chorused.

The boys in the next row hadn’t looked away; most were still smirking. 

And then there was Riddle. He, too, had turned in his seat, but he wasn’t laughing, wasn’t even pretending to. His face was blank, almost unreadable.

Rosalind tilted her head, holding his gaze. Her brows lifted wryly. What? He didn’t answer, turning back to his notes like she hadn’t moved at all.

Merrythought clapped her hands once. “We’ll begin our Occlumency practice now,” she said briskly. “For the remainder of class. Groups of three. Raise and lower your mental shields. Weasley and Sallow, split up. If you need a refresher, see page 977.”

Chairs scraped. Pages rustled. And Rosalind exhaled, already bored.

-.-

Rosalind trudged out of class with Gwen and Parisa, Merrythought’s voice still echoing in her skull. Her head throbbed.

Occlumency always left her raw, like someone had scraped the inside of her brain with a soup spoon. No one at Hogwarts was allowed to use Legilimency, so it was impossible to know if the shields were even working, but still, they drilled it. Raise, lower, hold, break. Again and again until the instinct settled behind your ribs, just like breathing.

Most students would fail. Occlumency was too precise, too unnatural. Even the most gifted witches could barely keep a whisper out. 

But Rosalind had been raised by an Occlumens.

Selene hadn’t offered training. She’d enforced it through relentless sessions. The summer before sixth year, she tested Rosalind daily, skimming her surface thoughts for anything unsecured. A fight with Benedict over the bathroom. The shop girl who said she had wide feet. Rosalind had to relive that one for a week, until she could slam the door shut without flinching.

She never went deeper, but she could have.

The ruins. The sleepwalking spells. The nights the magic took over. All of it just beneath the surface.

That summer was hell. Occlumency at dawn, cursed ruins by dusk, and some time in August, the magic grew restless. It pressed against her spine, crawled through her veins. No longer still. No longer silent. It wanted something from her, and it hurt to hold it in.

She faked being sick for two weeks just to breathe. 

Selene got the message, but never really let go. Twice, she’d said it in passing: “Your shield is thinner than I’d like,”  which, from Selene, was practically an accusation of moral failure.

Rosalind didn’t care. She might not survive a real Legilimency attack, but she’d survive the N.E.W.T.s. That was enough for now.

“My brain feels like pudding,” Gwen groaned, tugging at her plaits. “Thank Merlin that we’re done for the week.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rosalind muttered. “I’ve got three hours of Magical Theory.”

“Merlin’s tits,” Gwen said. “That’s criminal. I’m so sorry.”

Parisa, dragging her bag like it owed her money, didn’t look up. “That’s what you get for taking an advanced course load with no sense of pacing.”

Snow slammed against the windows as they crossed the corridor. All three girls were wrapped in cloaks over their uniforms, each with a tiny mason jar of enchanted flame tucked in their pockets. Parisa’s idea. The warmth was already fading.

“I’m declaring a study ban,” Gwen said. “Tonight, we sneak into the kitchens, eat half a tart, and seduce someone tall.”

Rosalind gave her a look. “You mean Thistlewood.”

“Yes,” Gwen said proudly.

Rosalind laughed. “Is this just an elaborate excuse to snog your boyfriend over stolen pastries?”

Parisa raised a brow. “And am I expected to supervise?”

“Rosalind is on patrol,” Gwen said sweetly. “What else would you be doing?”

She wasn’t sure what was worse—Magical Theory or watching Gwen and Thistlewood make heart eyes over treacle tart.

Rosalind let them bicker. Her stomach was growling. Sandwiches. She was going to eat six. Maybe seven, just to spite Merrythought.

But then—

“Sallow!”

All three turned to find her cousin Ares approaching, flanked—unfortunately—by Marcellus Avery.

Mars was shorter than Ares, closer to Rosalind’s height, with shaggy blond hair and sharp green eyes that gleamed like he was halfway to laughing at something truly foul. He swept a look over Gwen and Parisa with the kind of amusement that made people lock their doors at night, before his eyes dragged straight down Rosalind.

“Sallow,” he drawled. “Still slumming it with the commoners?”

Rosalind didn’t flinch. She’d seen sewer rats with more dignity.

Ares looked irritated already. “Not now, Mars.”

“I was just saying hello,” he said, grinning.

Rosalind glanced at her friends, already resigned. “You don’t want to stay for this. I’ll meet you at lunch.”

Gwen looked mutinous. “We’re not leaving you to deal with them alone.”

“See you at lunch,” Parisa said briskly, already tugging Gwen by the cloak. As soon as the girls turned the corner, Ares and Mars stopped in front of her.

Rosalind wasn’t short, but Ares always managed to loom. His tall, wiry frame made it feel like he was built to cast shadows, and he took full advantage, standing a step above her, arms crossed, gaze a little too familiar.

Still, Rosalind didn’t look away. Her chin tilted up. Their eyes—nearly the same dark blue—met and held.

“Yes?” she said flatly. “I’d like to get to lunch, Lestrange.”

They rarely used first names, not unless they were with family, which wasn’t often.

She didn’t know him anymore. They’d been friendly once—before the war, before he’d turned into exactly the kind of arrogant little heir their family seemed so good at producing.

“You made us look like fools in class today,” Ares said. “Pay attention next time, wouldn’t you?”

“Our family,” she echoed, brittle with disbelief. “Right. That’s what this is about.” She rolled her eyes. “What do you actually want?”

Ares shifted. Rosalind clocked it immediately: his stance, his tone. Something was coming.

“Are you going to the Hufflepuff party tonight?”

She barked a laugh. “Are you going to the Hufflepuff party tonight?”

“Obviously not,” he sneered, like the suggestion had personally insulted him.

“We’re having our own thing,” Mars cut in, puffing out his chest like he thought it made him taller. “Mulciber nicked a keg from the Hog’s Head. You should come, Sallow. Might loosen that stick out of your arse.”

Rosalind had to physically reset her expression back into the scowl she reserved for Slytherin boys and certain Magical Theory professors.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Is that your idea of an invitation?”

Mars grinned. “Depends. Is it working?”

“Enough,” Ares snapped sharply. “She’s not coming for you.”

“Not yet.”

Rosalind’s lip curled. “You’d need a personality transplant.”

Mars laughed like she’d flirted back.

“I have patrol tonight,” she said, brushing past them.

“We’ll get you out of it,” Ares offered quickly. “We know a guy.”

“I’m good,” she said flatly. She wasn’t about to owe them a favor—or end up alone with Mars and a keg. 

But then curiosity got the better of her.

“Seriously. Why are you inviting me?”

“Because…” Ares started, then trailed off like the answer got stuck in his throat.

“You’re practically family,” Mars said instead, too quickly. “Time you and Lestrange got closer, don’t you think?”

That was enough of that.

“Fine,” Rosalind said sweetly. “I’ll come to another party another time. Would that make you happy?”

“Very,” Mars said. Ares didn’t say a word.

“Good. I’m thrilled we could resolve this important matter,” she said, already turning.

Rosalind turned on her heel, making for the stairs, eager to leave them rotting in their smugness. But Ares was suddenly beside her, gliding into step like he’d Apparated there.

“Merlin, Lestrange. My head hurts. Go be insufferable somewhere else.”

He kept pace. “Sorry about Avery.”

That made her glance at him.

He shrugged, eyes fixed ahead. “He’s an idiot.”

Almost involuntarily, she huffed a laugh. “You think?”

Ares cracked a crooked grin, the kind he used to flash before they did something to piss off their grandparents.

It vanished as soon as it came.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Rosalind tilted her head, studying him. The apology wasn’t clean, but it was...something. She almost wanted to accept it. Almost.

But then he said, “What are you planning after school?”

The question came too casually, as if he hadn’t just spent two minutes letting Avery talk about her like she was a piece of meat.

She slowed. “I—what?”

“At the Christmas party,” he said. “Minister Moon asked. You never answered.”

Her voice flattened. “I plan to do something.”

“Incredible,” he said dryly. “Very specific.”

Rosalind scoffed. “What’s your brilliant plan then?”

“Work for my father,” he said with a shrug. “Tour the country. Shake some hands. Sell some brooms. Maybe design a train or two.”

She rolled her eyes. “So, bragging about broomsticks. Testing out train seats with your arse.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Something like that.”

“Maybe I’ll work for my father too,” she said, tone like sandpaper. “Get a desk at the Ministry. Stock up on beige robes. Start using phrases like strategic delegation.”

He groaned. “That’s a waste of fucking time.”

“Why?” she snapped. “Because I’ve got tits?”

Ares stumbled on the next step and coughed. “Because it’s beneath you.”

That stopped her. For a moment, she considered hexing him. Right there on the stairs. Her fists clenched. Her magic flared, restless.

“So what would you have me do, then?” she asked coolly. “Oh, wise Lestrange. Look into your crystal ball and predict the future.”

He shrugged again, slower this time. “Just... not the Ministry.”

She gave a faux-pensive nod. “Right. Maybe I’ll work retail. Push cauldrons at Potage’s. Or tend bar at the Three Broomsticks. Call you sir when you come in. Push my chest up so I can get good tips.”

Then she twirled, walking backward down the stairs, arms spread in mock grandeur.

“Or maybe...” she smiled sweetly, blade beneath the sugar, “...I’ll make it easy for everyone and marry you. Isn’t that what you all want?”

Ares gaped in horror.

But Rosalind wasn’t watching him anymore.

At the top of the staircase, half-swallowed by shadow, stood Tom Riddle. He said nothing. Did nothing. But she felt his gaze pinned to her.

“Or maybe not,” she finished.

She forced herself to turn, their eyes burning the back of her neck. But her smile, as she rejoined the girls, was sharper than before.

-.-

Rosalind hated Magical Theory.

Not in the mild, this-is-boring sense. In the deep, soul-rotting way that made her question whether magic was worth it at all. The class was a tragedy—an ancient discipline gutted by a dithering professor and five students too stubborn, too curious, or too masochistic to drop it.

Five students. That was it.

Even Parisa had abandoned ship last term, declaring it “a crime against intelligent conversation.” Which left: Rosalind, Iris Pemberly, Fleamont Potter, Amalthea Travers, and—because the universe had a sense of humor—Tom Riddle.

It was Friday. The castle was half-iced over. And Rosalind would have rather eaten one of Gwen’s socks than spend the next three hours nodding along to Thiswell’s slurred readings from The Theoretical Foundations of Wandless Transference .

Still, she walked to class. Boots echoing down the corridor like a funeral march. Snow streaked the tall windows. She opened the door and choked—smacked by a wall of incense. She doubled over, coughing. “What the—hell—”

Behind her, Fleamont Potter staggered in and cursed loudly. “Fucking hell, it’s like the Divination Tower in here.”

Rosalind dropped her bag beside Iris, eyes already scanning for the source of the assault.

“What is this?” she hissed.

“No clue,” Iris said.

The door opened. A familiar voice hacked out a string of curses. “What—the—fuck—”

“Ventus,” came another voice. It was smooth and measured, disgustingly calm. The fog vanished in a sweep of conjured wind.

Amalthea Travers emerged, fanning her face dramatically. “Thanks, Tom,” she said, already tossing her hair.

And there he was. Tom Riddle. Immaculate. Indifferent. Moving past them all like the rest of the world was a minor inconvenience.

Riddle took the seat directly across from her, as usual.

Professor Thiswell waddled toward the front, her shawls trailing and spectacles slipping down her nose like they too were trying to escape. “My apologies! My apologies,” she wheezed, waving vaguely in Tom’s direction. “Thank you, Tom. I appreciate you clearing the room for me.”

Tom gave a courteous nod. His fingers curled neatly around the spine of his textbook. Rosalind’s eyes lingered.

His ring caught the light, a gold band with a black stone. It was old. A family heirloom, she presumed. Her breath hitched, just for a moment, only because he had nice hands and—

She blinked. Her magic moved without warning, a slow, electric thrum through her veins. She snapped her gaze to her desk and forced herself to breathe.

Not now.

Thiswell reached her desk and collapsed into it with a sigh worthy of poetry. Rosalind opened her book out of habit, only to be stopped short by the flapping of bejeweled hands.

“Oh no, no, no,” Thiswell said. “We won’t need those today.”

Rosalind frowned. She exchanged a glance with Iris, who looked alarmed. They had never once skipped the textbook. That was the constant in Magical Theory: it was always miserable, and it always came with required reading.

“Professor?” Iris asked gently. “Are you feeling alright?”

Thiswell waved her off with a smile that looked suspiciously manic. “Perfectly fine! Now. Let’s begin reviewing the laws of magic, shall we?”

Rosalind’s lips twitched. Back to basics. Because there was no better way to waste time than by regurgitating things she’d learned at age eleven.

Across the room, Potter slumped forward. “Godric preserve us,” he muttered, head in his hands. “I can feel my brain retreating.”

Rosalind didn’t laugh. But her magic—still alert, still humming—curled tighter in her chest.

“Who can tell me,” Thiswell interrupted, adjusting her enormous spectacles, “what the First Law of magic states?”

Amalthea straightened with a flourish. “The further you meddle with magic’s laws, the more terrible the consequences.”

“Lovely,” Thiswell chirped. “Now—examples?”

“The Warlock’s hairy heart,” Iris offered. “He cut his own heart out to avoid love, tried to put it back later, and went mad. Killed his girlfriend. Died miserably.”

“That’s a children’s story,” Riddle said, barely glancing up.

“Still an example,” Iris muttered, cheeks coloring.

Thiswell clapped her hands. “Yes! Yes, wonderful! Mr. Riddle, something more… historical?”

“Peidearan Greenshields,” Riddle said evenly, eyes on Thiswell. “Seventeenth century. Specialized in artifact-bound cursecraft. Created hundreds of terrible objects, each one more volatile than the last.”

Iris made a face.

“There were documented signs of cognitive decay in his final decade. Physical deterioration. Likely a combination of repeated exposure and... overreach.” He paused, but not dramatically.  “He was consumed by his own work.”

He looked at Iris, but Rosalind had the distinct feeling he was speaking to her.  

“Textbook case,” he added politely. Rosalind saw him fight off the smirk.

“He was an abomination,” Amalthea said brightly.

Rosalind frowned. She’d never heard of Peidearan Greenshields in her life. Dark artifacts? Fine. Mad wizard? Fine. But her brain supplied nothing but a vague image of a crusty, bearded man hoarding trinkets and screaming into the moors.

Potter piped up. “See? This is why you don’t mess with dark magic.”

“This is why,” Thiswell echoed, “the First Law must be respected. Magic corrupts. Especially when misused.”

“Or,” Rosalind said suddenly, “especially when misunderstood.” 

Four heads turned. 

Riddle’s gaze lifted.

Thiswell blinked. “Miss Sallow?” 

Rosalind leaned back in her chair, voice dry. “I’m just saying—madness isn’t always a symptom of dark magic. Sometimes it’s the cost of trying to do something no one’s done before.”

What waas she dnoing? She never spoke in class. Not this clas, not any class. She preferred to twirl her quills or her hair and daydream about Cary Grant.

“Madness is still madness,” Potter said. “The man made—what did you say, Riddle—hundreds of dark, uh, things?”

“Artifacts,” Riddle supplied mildly, eyes fixed on Rosalind.

Rosalind’s fingers drummed once on the desk. Her magic sparked in her chest like a match struck.

“Sounds like this Greenshields bloke wanted control over something that couldn’t be controlled,” she said. “Magic doesn’t like being caged. Put it in a creepy doll, and it starts whispering. Give it to a Muggle and it kills prepubescent girls.”

“So it’s not the magic’s fault,” Riddle said. “But it isn’t the wizard’s, either?”

She smiled faintly. “I said it doesn’t like being caged. I didn’t say it doesn’t bite.”

“And Greenshields?”

“No idea,” she said breezily. “Never heard of him.”

Riddle’s mouth twitched. “That much was obvious.”

She met his eyes and held them, deciding whether to take the bait or let the moment fall flat.

She took the bait.

“Well,” she said airily, “I suppose we can’t all spend our evenings memorizing lists of doomed old men.”

“True,” Riddle said. “Some of us just improvise our way through centuries of magical precedent.”

There was a flicker of something in his voice now. Amusement. Challenge. Rosalind heard it. Her magic did, too. It surged toward him, bright and eager, like a hound straining against its chain.

“I’m improvising quite well, thank you,” she said, crossing one leg over the other with practiced ease. “Better than parroting the textbook and calling it insight.”

Riddle tilted his head. “So what are you arguing, then?” he asked. “That Greenshields wasn’t mad? That magic is never at fault, only misunderstood?”

“I’m arguing,” she said, “that magic reacts. And when someone tries to leash it, it bites.”

“Ah,” he murmured, “so it’s the leash’s fault.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re circling it.”

“And you’re twisting it.”

She smirked. He smirked back.

“And Greenshields, then? What are we meant to make of him?” he asked. “A martyr? A warning? A man ahead of his time?”

Rosalind shrugged. “A man who lost the gamble.”

“But one worth defending?”

“I’m not defending him,” she said. “I’m... theorizing.”

Riddle’s fingers had stilled entirely. Then, with the precision of a scalpel: “No. You’re contradicting yourself.”

She blinked. Her mouth opened once, then closed. 

What a prick, calling her out like that. Still, it was the most fun she’d had in ages.

“I suppose I am,” she said, smiling coolly. “But isn’t that the point of a seminar? ”

Their eyes locked. Her magic surged again, quiet this time, but certain. Something had changed.

The classroom faded. Iris, Potter, Amalthea—they were still speaking, still breathing, presumably still human. But to Rosalind, they blurred into background hum. All she could see was the boy across from her. The sharpness of his gaze. The steady, magnetic pull of him, like he was made of iron, and she’d already been caught.

Her ancient magic stirred again. This time with interest. It liked this. Liked him. It wrapped itself through her veins and coiled in her chest like smoke, purring under her skin.

“Miss Sallow?” came Thiswell’s voice, distant and unhelpful. “Do you believe it’s the man or the magic?”

Rosalind didn’t look away from Riddle.

“Both,” she said, because she truly didn’t have an opinion at all.

Tom exhaled—barely a sound—almost a laugh.

“Very diplomatic.”

“I try.”

Their eyes held. Two simmering smiles. Something charged between them. 

It felt inevitable.

Thiswell droned on. “Good, now. The Second Law—Mr. Potter?”

The classroom stirred. Chairs creaked. Pages turned.

Rosalind let it all slide back into frame. Sank into her usual half-slouch. Let her expression dull. Magical Theory. Back to sleep.

Potter mumbled something about conservation. Iris mentioned scones. Riddle corrected someone with that same calm, slicing precision.

Rosalind tuned it out. Counted bricks behind Riddle’s head. Let her magic settle. Let herself forget the heat of what had just passed.

And then she realized: he’d never actually said anything.

Riddle hadn’t given an opinion. Not about the magic. Not about Green-whatever-his-name-was. Not about madness or corruption or fault.

He’d just let them talk. Baited them. Baited her into contradicting herself.

Well. She hoped he enjoyed it. Because Rosalind could talk herself into a rousing conversation with a wall and come out of it on top, she didn’t care if she contradicted herself or said something foolish. She looked lovely while doing it. Kept his attention, didn’t she?

Let him play. She could play back.

And then—

“You know,” said Professor Thiswell, brightening, “that does remind me of a journal I found from a previous professor’s wife. I can’t remember her name,” she added, rustling through her desk like a rat after crumbs. “Ah, yes. Her surname was Fig… she theorized there was a form of magic that could allow the wielder to create out of nothing—”

Her magic went silent. Utterly, terribly still.

Rosalind’s eyes stayed fixed on her desk. Across from her, she felt Riddle still too, head tilted, attention narrowing.

Of course it would be this class. This godforsaken professor. Today.

Miriam Fig was the late wife of Selene’s mentor, Eleazar Fig. She was the witch who mapped the question of ancient magic onto parchment, thereby starting Selene’s entire journey into the Map Chamber and ancient magic trials. Rosalind hadn’t known she had left a journal.

And if Thiswell had it—

Her stomach twisted. Anyone could read it. Anyone could follow it. Thiswell was the kind of woman who forgot her wand at dinner and wore house slippers to staff meetings. She wasn’t a guardian. She was a walking leak. And if the wrong person found it—if they understood even half of what Fig had written—it wouldn’t just lead to Selene.

It would lead to her. To the name Sallow. To the girl with flickering magic in her veins. To everything Rosalind had been pretending she could control.

She briefly considered using her textbook as a blunt instrument. On herself. Maybe on Thiswell.

This was exactly what she didn’t need right now.

“Let’s take out our textbooks now,” chirped Thiswell, waving a hand as if she hadn’t just set the room on fire. “I’m feeling quite dizzy. A bit of grounding will do us good…”

Rosalind opened her book. Not because she wanted to, but because she needed a cover while she recalibrated the trajectory of her entire day.

She was going to have to steal the journal.

Quickly and quietly, before anyone else got clever. 

The thought was annoying in its inevitability. Like a rainstorm in the middle of a good outfit. Like Nicasia Parkinson becoming Head Girl. Like Selene being right.

She pressed her fingers to the page and sighed. 

Her magic shifted again, restless in her chest. She didn’t have to look up to know what it had noticed, but she did anyway.

Riddle sat with one hand resting on his textbook, finger tapping lightly. Thoughtful. Patient.

The magic inside her leaned toward him, hungry for something. It pulsed beneath her skin with quiet want.

Which was lovely. Really. Fantastic timing.

Rosalind stared down at her book. Inhaled. Exhaled. Counted to ten.

Next to her, Iris started reading aloud. By the time the bell rang, Rosalind was already on her feet. She didn’t miss the way Riddle turned toward her—another silent, inevitable pull.

Not today. She’d play with him later.

For now, she had bigger things to worry about.

Chapter Text

Rosalind woke with ink on her cheek and a quill digging into her thigh.

The common room was mostly empty. A fire cracked low in the grate. One of the second-year students snored from the armchair nearest the window. Her book, Gone with the Wind , had slid to the floor. Her clothes were a mess. Her brain was worse.

She blinked at the fireplace, heart pounding like she’d missed something important.

Because she had. Patrol. 

Shit.

She scrambled upright, shoving quills and parchment into her bag. Her head throbbed. The nap hadn’t helped, only blurred the edges of her dread into something fuzzier.

Miriam Fig’s journal. She’d gone to the common room alone after class, intending to plot how she might steal the journal from Thiswell. But instead, she’d read a page of her book and fallen asleep.

By the time she made it to the Grand Staircase landing, her tie was half-done and her cloak was inside out. She hadn’t touched her hair, which meant she looked half-wild. Possibly rabid.

Truthfully, no one knew why she’d been made Ravenclaw prefect in fifth year. Parisa never failed at anything she attempted. Gwen had an astounding moral compass. Even Candace and Betsy had never once received a detention.

Rosalind, on the other hand, wasn’t a rule-follower or a model student. Or anything that looked good on parchment. She just had the surname.

To quote her grandfather: “Any Head of House that makes a Sallow a prefect must be smoking the wizard’s herb.”

The same logic applied to Varinia, her patrol partner. Gryffindor. Quidditch star. Popular. Pretty. A walking catastrophe with more detentions than the rest of the seventh year combined. Her grandmother had invented half the beauty potions in Britain. Her father played for the Magpies.

Varinia lit up every room she walked into, and then usually set something on fire. She was chaotic in that dazzling, Gryffindor way. She hated confined spaces (especially the library), studied only under duress, and could often be found flying lazy loops over the Quidditch pitch when she was meant to be in class. Sometimes backward, sometimes upside-down.

If Rosalind wanted trouble, she knew exactly who to find.

Ironically, those same troublemakers were now responsible for patrolling the corridors after curfew, keeping everyone else from doing exactly what they did in their free time.

Varinia was already waiting outside the prefects’ office, leaning against the wall. Her long red hair caught the moonlight. She wore two sets of Gryffindor robes, white furry gloves, and ridiculous scarlet earmuffs.

“Ready?” Rosalind asked, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “The faster we start, the faster I can collapse.”

“Unfortunately,” Varinia said, drumming her fingers against her thigh. “Parkinson and Riddle are both in there.”

Rosalind groaned like the universe had personally betrayed her. Then flung her arms wide, as if mourning a death. “You’re joking.”

“Serious as dragon pox, Sallow.” Varinia gave her a tragic little pout. “Please get the keys? You know she only coughs up a hairball if it’s me.”

Rosalind sighed, long-suffering. The prefect keys didn’t unlock anything useful. They mostly tracked attendance and glowed accusingly if you tried to skive off. She and Varinia had already cracked half the charms, but showing up still mattered. Or at least, pretending to.

Still, rules were rules. Or at least, appearances were appearances.

And maybe—maybe—she didn’t mind the idea of seeing him.

“You owe me, Tugwood,” she said. “If I come out with boils, I’m hexing your tits off.”

Nicasia Parkinson hated Varinia. Their feud went back to the first year, when Varinia’s cauldron exploded and singed half of Nicasia’s eyebrows clean off. A few weeks later, Nicasia “accidentally” hexed all of Varinia’s hair off.

It had escalated ever since. Hexes, jinxes, a cold war of insults and sabotage.

When Nicasia was made Head Girl, she used every scrap of authority to make Varinia’s life miserable—Friday shifts, petty write-ups, condescending speeches at meetings. Before Christmas, she’d even had Merrythought send a misconduct letter to Varinia’s family. Publicly. In front of the other prefects.

Rosalind hated Nicasia for a thousand reasons. But what she did to Varinia topped the list.

“Trust me,” Varinia said, catching her hand and tugging it with a grin. “You’ll want what I’ve got tucked under here.”

Rosalind raised a brow. “That’s what they all say.”

Varinia didn’t let go. “That’s because it works.”

Rosalind laughed and slipped free. “It better be booze.”

“Obviously, it’s booze,” Varinia said. “I’m not sentimental, Sallow.”

Rosalind took one last breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed open the door.

Most nights, neither Parkinson nor Riddle bothered showing up at the prefects’ office. And for good reason. It was a dungeon of a room, four windowless stone walls, lined with schedules and sets of charmed keys. One desk, two rickety chairs. It reeked of roses, someone’s ill-advised attempt to mask the smell of socks.

And yet, for some reason, it was hot. Unnaturally hot.

The temperature outside had dropped to near-lethal, but in here, it felt like she’d stepped into a sauna. The air was thick and close, pressing in around her like steam.

Nicasia sat at the desk, flipping through parchment, brows drawn in a frown. Her hair was pulled back sleek and tight, revealing sharp cheekbones and an expression of mild confusion. An expression Rosalind might’ve found funny, if she weren’t currently walking into a viper’s den.

And then there was Riddle.

He stood by the patrol schedule on the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other resting, too casually, near his wand. He wasn’t reading.

Their eyes locked the moment she crossed the threshold.

Her magic surged, silver heat curling beneath her ribs, like a bell struck too hard. Something in his stare made her feel too warm beneath all her layers, like the warming charm had slipped inside her lungs.

Neither made any move to greet her.

So Rosalind let the silence stretch long enough to make it obvious, then she arched a brow and said, “Don’t all jump up at once.”

Nicasia sighed. “Where’s Tugwood? Too afraid to face me herself?”

Rosalind told herself not to respond. She said nothing.

Nicasia’s lips curled. “Hiding under layers? A bit early in the term for a body crisis, isn’t it?”

Rosalind glanced down at the bulky jumper stuffed under her coat. Then, back up, deadpan. “It’s called layering. You should try it, if you ever gain enough body heat to need it.”

A flicker passed through Nicasia’s eyes.

“And,” she snapped, “you’re late.”

“I’m five minutes early,” Rosalind replied, too fast. Her eyes flicked to the clock above Riddle’s head.

“Five minutes early is late,” Nicasia smirked. “New rules.”

“New as of when?”

“Always. Right now. And I don’t like your tone.”

Rosalind exhaled sharply through her nose, biting her tongue. “Duly noted. Keys?”

Nicasia took her time, shuffling parchment and opening the drawer like it housed crown jewels. She retrieved the keys with priestess-like reverence.

“Ah, there they are,” Rosalind said dryly. “Right where they always are. Surprising?”

“Didn’t I just warn you about your tone?”

“Yes, madam. May I please have the keys, madam?”

From the far wall, Riddle scoffed.

Her gaze snapped to him. His smirk lingered, just faint enough to infuriate. Her fingertips tingled. Her magic coiled tight, like it wanted to pull him closer and claw his face in the same breath.

Every time he looked at her like that, it felt like he was already inside her thoughts, waiting for her to catch up.

“Will we be seeing you at the party tonight?” Nicasia asked, dumping the keys into Rosalind’s open palm.

Rosalind’s lips curved. She didn’t bother feigning surprise.

“No,” she said simply, wrapping her fingers around the keys. “Tell Ares I won’t miss him.”

Nicasia’s expression faltered. The faint downturn of the mouth. The blink-and-you-miss-it twitch of irritation. Merlin, that was satisfying.

“We’ll miss you,” Nicasia said, sweet as a snakebite.

She turned to go. And then—

“Try to stay warm,” Riddle said.

Her magic shivered, but not from the cold. Pleased he cracked first, Rosalind smiled faintly, already opening the door. “Next time.”

The corridor air hit her like ice water.

“That was fast,” Varinia said, raising a brow. “Was she asleep or something?”

“No,” Rosalind muttered, exhaling. “Just the same old bitch she always is.”

 -.-

Tom watched Rosalind disappear into the corridor, swallowed by wool and winter air, the door clicking shut behind her.

She’d walked in, antagonized Nicasia, looked at him with those wide, unblinking eyes—

And left.

He wanted her to stay. To keep playing, like in Magical Theory. She rarely spoke in that class, unless it was to put Amalthea in her place. But he’d opened the door, like he always did. And this time, she’d walked right through. 

She didn’t know the theory, but she knew how to wield it. Eyes on him as if it was all foreplay.

He was fairly certain it was.

Curious wasn’t the right word for how he felt about Sallow. There was something about her he couldn’t quite place. Potential, maybe. Like a door half-cracked open somewhere in the castle, and he couldn’t stop glancing toward it.

But he had other priorities tonight.

The room was stifling. Heavy with perfume, roses over rubbish. Nicasia’s doing, no doubt. He recognized the enchantment, she’d used the same one on the Malfoy library. Abraxas had complained it stank for weeks.

He remembered it well. The scent clinging to her throat. Her back pressed to the stacks, thin limbs, frantic breath, fuck me harder, Tom. Afterward, she’d looked at him like they’d made a blood pact. He hadn’t thought about it again. Not until now.

She sat perfectly still at the desk. Hands curled over parchment she wasn’t reading. Shoulders squared like she wanted to seem composed, but he saw the twitch. The effort.

He let the silence stretch. Let it needle.

“Sallow is insufferable,” Nicasia muttered.

Tom tapped a finger against the wall. “You don’t have to be so obvious.”

She stiffened. “What?”

Tom looked lazily toward the door.

“With her,” he clarified. “It’s embarrassing.”

Nicasia turned, eyes narrowed, already trying to act unbothered. She still looked at him like she was owed something.  She was always perfect on paper. Good posture, clean polish, a curated smile, but when Sallow entered, she vanished. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said smoothly.

“Of course you don’t.”

She turned forward again. Her hand trembled.

“She’s ridiculous,” she said with forced disinterest. “So much attitude for someone so—” Her grip tightened. “I just can’t stand her,” she finished, a little too fast.

Tom hummed. “Someone might mistake your ire for jealousy.”

She blinked, and the faintest blush crept into her cheeks.

“You’re imagining things. Me? Jealous of Rosalind Sallow?”

Tom tilted his head. “What else would it be?”

“It’s not jealousy,” she insisted. “It’s hatred. She walks around like she’s better than the rest of us.”

He said nothing.

Her father was a Parkinson. Her mother an Avery. Old money, old names, old pressure. It wasn't a surprise when Nicasia was made Head Girl. There was no one else who could have claimed the position. Certainly not Tugwood, a disgrace to the role. Sallow skipped nearly a third of her shifts with little to no consequences. There was no one else.

Nicasia wore her Head Girl badge like armor, and even now, Tom knew it was pinned proudly to her sweater. He had seen Veronika Mulciber polishing it for her at dinner earlier that evening. Another power play, no doubt.

When she walked into the office earlier, she’d reeked faintly of sweet wine. A dusting of black powder still clung to the edge of her nose. A play at leisure, at fun. Tom wanted to have fun, too. Sometimes.

Two things made Nicasia Parkinson tick: Tom, and the knowledge that she would never be Rosalind Sallow. He planned to use both.

“Maybe she is,” Tom said at last.

“What?”

“Better than the rest of us.”

He stepped forward, not touching her.

Nicasia froze, eyes still on the door.

Tom hovered just behind her. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, fingertips ghosting over the pearls at her collarbone.

She shivered, and he watched a small gasp come from her mouth.

“Her grandmother saved the school,” Tom murmured. “Her grandfather cracked a cursed vault in Vienna that killed a hundred others. Her father just got his Ministry promotion. Her mother’s face is in every wizarding theatre in London.”

Nicasia’s jaw tightened.

“She’s impressive with a wand. Top ten in our year. Talented. And yes,” he added, lightly, “she’s beautiful.”

He dragged a fingertip across the sweat beading at the back of her neck.

“She’s average,” Nicasia said weakly.

Tom smiled faintly. “Liar.”

“I’m not.”

He laughed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“She lacks discipline,” he said. “Thinks she’s too clever. She’s loose. Vain. Infuriating.”

Nicasia opened her mouth and closed it again.

“But she’s not someone to make an enemy of,” Tom said, voice now colder, cutting. “Her family is powerful. Certainly more than yours. According to Malfoy, she’s had more marriage offers this term than your parents have had for you in three years.”

Nicasia sucked in a breath. Her face flushed bright. He leaned closer until he was level with her.

He was calm. Gentle. Terrible.

“I’d suggest making friends with Rosalind Sallow,” he said. “If you can pretend not to mind being beneath her.”

Nicasia’s cheeks went crimson. Her hands twitched like she might reach for him.

So he kissed her.

It was a mercy, a punctuation added to a sentence. It felt like nothing. Her mouth parted. Her hands lifted—

But he was already gone, cloak in hand, walking toward the door. He could unmake Parkinson in seconds. 

It was getting boring.

“Thanks for finishing the paperwork,” he said. “I do appreciate it, Nicasia.”

He didn’t need to look back to know she was shaking.

-.-

Varinia’s flask was mostly watered-down firewhiskey, but it was still firewhiskey. They passed it back and forth under the excuse of survival. It was freezing in Central Hall, and if they were expected to stay awake and not die of frostbite, warming their insides was practically a medical necessity.

The fifth-year Hufflepuffs were off, sweeping the corridors. Rosalind and Varinia were stationed to watch the doors and look official. Catch anyone sneaking out. Easy work. Mind-numbing, bone-cold work.

Especially when there was a party happening downstairs in Hufflepuff: her friends getting drunk without her. Jokes she wouldn’t be part of. Moments she’d miss and hear about all week.

Her fingers ached. Her magic was quiet for once. She already hated the night.

Thank Merlin for Varinia Tugwood and her flask.

She thought about Alfie. Was he still at the office? At the pub with his mates? Running his hand through his hair the way he did when he was tired but trying to look charming?

She flushed.

“You’re pink, Sallow,” Varinia called from across the hall. She was upside down, balancing on her palms near the library steps, her robes tossed onto the stairs like she owned the place. They’d resorted to physical activity to keep warm. Rosalind was jogging slow loops around the fountain, half-drunk, practicing balance. The threat of the freezing water kept her focused.

“How are you doing that?” she called. “I can barely stay upright.”

Which wasn’t exactly true—her magic could likely flip her upside down if she asked.

“Try it,” Varinia said, voice strained with blood rush. Then she kicked down to her feet in a graceful arc.

“I’m wearing a skirt,” Rosalind pouted. “Is this just a scheme to see my knickers?”

“You caught me. All part of my grand plan.” Varinia mimed lifting a hem and peeking up. “Just spell your skirt to stay down.”

Rosalind raised a brow, then flicked her wand. “Accio.” The flask soared from the steps into her hand. She took a slow swig. It burned. Firewhiskey was awful. She hopped down from the fountain, landing softly, and tossed the flask back to Varinia. “Alright. Show me.”

After a few shaky tries, Rosalind managed to get herself upside down, mostly thanks to Varinia’s half-assed levitation charm. Her robes were piled on the steps with Varinia’s. Firewhiskey buzzed through her limbs as she took a few wobbly hand-steps, giggling.

“This is hardly difficult,” she declared, voice warbling.

The world tipped. Cold marble above her. Light pooling on the ceiling. Everything felt wrong and right—nauseous, loose, almost freeing. Her stomach churned. Her head pulsed. She laughed again, breathless.

Then—movement.

A shimmer at the edge of her vision. A flicker down the staircase. At first, she blamed the blood in her head. Or the drink.

But no. There he was.

Riddle. Nearly invisible under another fucking Disillusionment Charm. 

“You alright, Sallow?” Varinia called. “Did all the blood rush to your head?”

“It’s definitely on the way there,” Rosalind muttered.

At the sound of her voice, the shimmer turned.

Their eyes locked. The same shiver she’d felt in Magical Theory sparked low in her spine. His expression flickered in surprise. Her magic reached for his like a spark leaping to a fuse.

He’d been caught, and yet he didn’t flinch.

She grinned. Or bared her teeth. Same difference. Riddle tilted his head, brow furrowing, wand lifting—

–and for one awful moment, she thought he was going to hex her. She pictured herself sprouting extra legs, turning into a spider. Why that, of all things–

Then the bell rang. And everything happened at once.

Varinia gasped in shock, her wand faltering, and Rosalind, no longer supported, hit the floor with a thud. Pain bloomed through her bum and down her legs.

“Ah, fuck—sorry, Sallow.”

“It’s alright,” she groaned, dragging herself upright. “Bell. Other side.”

“Fuckers,” Varinia muttered, already jogging off.

Rosalind turned back and found him again. Riddle stood at the library doors now, charm flickering faintly as he lowered it. 

He raised his eyebrows, mocking, maybe. Or curious. Likely thinking the same thing as her.

Something was happening. Something private and stupid and theirs. This tug of fate, this strange game of Disillusionment and snark. The kind of thing you couldn’t explain to your friends without sounding half-mad.

Oh, Riddle and I keep running into each other. It’s getting almost funny.

Her stomach dipped. Low, hot, and utterly traitorous. He really was handsome. And she really liked handsome men.

The thought hit her, ridiculous, a little drunk:  One day, I’m going to fuck you so good it wipes that smirk off your face.

It bloomed. She smiled. She already knew something he didn’t. Riddle smiled slowly, and again she was struck by it.

He was thinking the same thing.

Then he slipped inside.

She sat back, dazed, heart still racing.

Varinia returned a moment later, breathless. “I don’t know what the fuck that was.” She held out a hand and hauled Rosalind to her feet. “Maybe the cold is making us batty.”

They returned to their posts.

Rosalind plopped down on the edge of the fountain, tugged her cloak tighter, and pulled out her book. Reading on patrol was technically against the rules, but so was sneaking into the library under a Disillusionment Charm. If Riddle wanted to throw stones, she’d throw back.

She cracked the book open and smiled to herself. One of those quiet, tipsy smiles you don’t realize you’re wearing until it’s already there. Because honestly? That was fun. Tom fucking Riddle. Caught red-handed. By her.

Their eyes meeting in the dark felt like something out of a cursed romance novel. That smirk. That twitch of his eyebrow. That look — like he wasn’t annoyed or threatened or even amused, but... interested.

It was absurd.

It was stupid.

It was fun.

She let her legs swing, biting back a grin. She wouldn’t tell a soul. But Merlin, she wanted to bottle it.

And then, very suddenly, her stomach swooped. Oh no. tTn minutes ago, she’d been thinking about Alfie. Her boyfriend.

She blinked down at the book. It was upside down.

Fuck. What was wrong with her?

She was drunk. That was all. A little tipsy. A little cold. A little delirious. That’s why she was imagining riding Riddle until he begged. That’s why her magic perked up like it smelled blood.

She flipped the book right-side up. Skimmed a different page, like that might help. It didn’t.

Underneath the firewhiskey and the smugness and the brief, thrilling glow of catching Riddle doing something secret, there was still the journal. Still the Triptych. Still the ancient magic humming somewhere deep inside her.

Right.

She had things to worry about.

She was tipsy, and cold, and deeply unwell, and she was dating Alfie.

That was when the scuffling started, sloppy footsteps, loud whispers, echoing across the hall.

Rosalind and Varinia bolted toward the sound, cloaks half-on, boots slipping on the marble. By the dungeon stairwell, they found three Slytherin boys in uniform, red-faced and staggering like newborn foals.

Their eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, bodies jittering with something bright and stupid.

One of them was Benedict.

“What the hell are you doing?” Rosalind gasped, grabbing his cloak.

He was ice, shivering beneath her hands.

His gaze wobbled as he tried and failed to focus on her. He looked deranged. Unhinged. And all teeth.

“Rosie!”

His voice was too loud. His friends, William Dolohov and Cygnus Black, elbowed each other behind him, trying to stifle laughter.

“Hi, Rosalind,” Dolohov sing-songed, eyes unfocused. “Nice, uh... hair.”

She didn’t even glance at him.

“Were you outside?” she hissed, shaking Benedict’s arm. “Have you completely lost the plot?”

He wobbled, then tipped his head back, beaming. “Statue in the courtyard,” he announced proudly. “Touched it. With my bare hand.”

Rosalind stared at him. Varinia made a strangled sound. “Absolute fucking moron.”

“You’re high,” Rosalind said flatly. “What was it? Pixie dust? Devil’s snare?”

Benedict blinked slowly. He tried to answer but failed, his smile never faltering. She knew the look. That vibrating, too-alive brightness. That borrowed joy. She’d worn it herself a few too many times.

“Alright,” she muttered, already lifting her wand. “That’s enough.”

She tapped it lightly on the top of his head. The warming charm rippled down his limbs in a soft gold wave.

He giggled. “Nothing exciting is worth the risk—wait, no—nothing safe is—”

“Oh, save it,” Rosalind groaned, catching him as he tipped sideways. She looped an arm through his, bracing him. “You’re going back to your common room. Now.”

“Why?” slurred Cygnus, swaggering forward. “You gonna give us detention?”

All three of them cackled.

“You’d better shut it,” Varinia snapped. “Or the wrong prefect walks by, and suddenly it’s a month of detention. No Quidditch. No glory. Gryffindor wins the Cup. Again.”

Benedict gasped. “Not a chance, Tugwood.”

Then launched into another half-mad rant, arms flailing with theatrical outrage. Rosalind stepped in, pressing gently on his biceps until they dropped back to his sides.

“We were just enjoying ourselves,” he insisted, leaning into her. “Avery said I couldn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Touch the statue.” He grinned. “But I did.”

Rosalind sighed. “Avery? Well, not that fucking idiot.”

Benedict’s friends howled with laughter, then fumbled in his cloak and pulled out a flask. “Want some?”

“It’s just firewhiskey,” Cygnus added helpfully.

“We swear it,” said Dolohov.

Rosalind gave them a flat, exhausted stare. Then snatched the flask and lobbed it to Varinia, who tucked it into her robes without missing a beat.

“Back to your common room,” she said. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Benny.”

He groaned. “Oh, come on. Like you’ve never snuck out or gotten smashed.”

“Of course I have,” she said. “But I wasn’t an obnoxious little prick about it. And I did it when it wasn’t cold enough to kill me.”

He sighed like she’d ruined his life, then flung his arms around her in a sloppy hug. “Buzzkill.”

“You reek,” she muttered, patting his back once, firmly. “Go.”

He stumbled off with his friends, their laughter bouncing off the marble.

Rosalind and Varinia didn’t say anything until they were gone. Then they exchanged a look and collapsed into giggles, doubled over on the edge of the fountain.

“You know,” Varinia wheezed, “the last time you took pixie dust, you had that same wild look in your eye.”

Rosalind smirked, head tipped back, breath fogging in the cold. “Please. I was classy about it.”

She didn’t say it, but she missed it, that feeling of floating just far enough away from herself to feel holy. She glanced toward the castle doors.

“Next time,” she murmured. “I’m touching the fucking statue.”

Chapter Text

By Sunday evening, the cold had loosened its grip. The sky over the Forbidden Forest was still gray, but for a brief, mocking moment, the sun broke through. Students flooded the courtyard like starved animals, basking in a few pale rays of January warmth.

Rosalind and Parisa, tucked into their usual stone alcove, managed to smoke half a pack of cigarettes before trudging back to the library. They smelled like a smoke shop until Parisa, ever prepared, cast a cleaning charm behind a yawn.

That morning, three owls had arrived for Rosalind.

The first was from her mother: a warning to focus on her studies and not, heaven forbid, "get wrapped up in too much mischief." Rosalind tossed it aside without finishing. The second was from Selene, urging another visit to their “friends in the basement.” Rosalind scowled at the parchment so fiercely that Gwen asked, half-seriously, if someone had died. She nearly wrote back, getting halfway through a blistering reply that would’ve made Selene twitch, before abandoning it entirely. 

There was no winning that war.

Besides, she’d steal the journal tonight at the Slug Club. A little tipsy, maybe, but the room would be loud, distracted. It was the perfect opportunity. No need to antagonize Selene. She had it handled.

The third letter, at least, was welcome. Alfie was coming to Hogsmeade. She sent back a note with a school owl:

Well? When? —R

The rest of the weekend blurred. Hours of reading until the pages bled together. Parisa, always the problem-solver, summoned a warm compress for Rosalind’s eyes, courtesy of a particularly doting house elf named Snoopy. He’d started dropping off carafes of coffee to Parisa at increasingly suspect hours.

By then, Rosalind was so bored she almost looked forward to the Slug Club. At the very least, it meant a few hours without Parisa.

Slughorn’s office was twice the size of any other professor’s—Merrythought’s included—and looked more like a private club than a workspace: three velvet seating areas, two fireplaces, a long central table dressed in candles and hors d'oeuvres. House elves wove through the crowd with silver trays, and overhead, fairy lights glittered lazily.

When she looked closer, Rosalind realized they were actual fairies, twirling in slow loops to the swell of a jazz trio tucked into the corner.

Benedict was near the door, leaning against a pillar.

She slipped past a crowd of Slytherins bottlenecking the entrance. The Slug Club had ballooned this year. 

One of them was Riddle. He didn’t look at her, but as she brushed past, his gaze slid sideways, following her as she wove through the others. She could feel his eyes on her back.

When she reached Benedict, she immediately started fussing with his hair. “You’re a mess,” she muttered.

“Get off me.” Benedict batted her hand away. He looked pale and waxy, the unmistakable aftermath of a crushed-up Devil’s Snare hangover.

“You’re just like Mum,” he grumbled, elbowing her gently. His hair now stuck out worse than before.

Rosalind smiled faintly. “You look like shit. Rough night?”

He ignored her. “Did you get letters?”

She sighed. “One from Mum. One from Selene.”

Benedict’s eyes gleamed. “I win. I got one from Sebastian.” He shrugged, his grin fading. “Something about a new Quidditch move he dreamt up. I’ve already tried it a dozen times.”

Before she could respond, Slughorn’s voice boomed across the room.

“Ah! If it isn’t the illustrious Sallow siblings!”

He descended upon them like a fog, clapping one hand on each of their shoulders. They summoned matching easy smiles, the polished, practiced kind that always made people think Sallows were oh so charming. 

“Benedict, my boy, you look a little peaky,” Slughorn said, squinting at him.

“Just a cold, sir,” Benedict replied smoothly. “Caught it on the pitch. Malfoy’s been running us through drills in freezing weather.”

“Yes, yes,” Slughorn chuckled, eyes drifting toward the far side of the room.

Abraxas Malfoy stood with Ares and Avery, Druella Rosier draped across his arm. He looked exactly as he always did—perfect blonde hair, pointed face, an expression like he might squash someone beneath his boot and complain they’d scuffed the leather. Insufferable. And gorgeous, unfortunately.

“Abraxas begged to train this weekend, of course,” Slughorn went on, “but I told him it was far too dangerous. I’m sure you made up for it this afternoon.”

“Big match against Gryffindor next week,” Benedict said, ever the golden boy.

“Quite right!” Slughorn beamed. “I have the utmost faith in you. You’ll handle it, I’m sure. Miss Tugwood’s been practicing, too, no doubt. Professor Merrythought tells me she caught her not once, but twice , trying to sneak drills this weekend.”

Benedict’s jaw twitched. “Tugwood did what ?”

And just like that, he was gone, shoulders squared, expression darkening, already cutting through the crowd in pursuit of his Quidditch rival. Rosalind didn’t blame him, but that left her alone with Slughorn.

She offered a smile. “Lovely party, sir.”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” he said, distracted, scanning the room as if Benedict’s departure had personally wounded him. “And—ah! There you are! Mr. Black, come meet Miss Sallow.”

Rosalind blinked. Her stomach flipped. Her magic, wiser than her, stayed perfectly still.

Alfie was striding toward them with a glass of champagne and that devastating grin.

“I already know Miss Sallow, Professor,” he said smoothly, standing beside her, easier to look at than Slughorn.

It took everything not to kiss him breathless. Or drag him straight to a broom closet.

“Oh! That’s right—you mentioned she toured your department this summer!” Slughorn chuckled. Her cheeks were already pink.

“Magical sports wasn’t quite Miss Sallow’s thing,” Alfie said, dimple glinting.

“Not in the slightest,” she managed, finding her voice. He winked.

Slughorn carried on: “Alphard here was one of my best students. Were you Head Boy?”

“No, sir. Just a prefect.”

“Nonsense—it should’ve been you.”

“You tried, sir. But Dippet said I caused too much trouble on the pitch.”

“Firecracker, this one. Ladies’ man, too. Right, Rosalind?”

She huffed a laugh. “I do recall a few broken hearts.”

“I hardly think there were that many—”

“Oh, Alfie,” Slughorn interrupted. “Come, meet Miss Tugwood. Yes, that Tugwood. Her father’s on the Magpies…”

As Slughorn herded him away, Alfie leaned in, breath warm against her ear.

“You’re a fucking smokeshow, Sallow. I’ll find you before I leave.”

She watched him walk away as someone brushed past her, close enough that the fabric of his sleeve whispered against her bare arm. Riddle passed without a glance, like she wasn’t even there.

A flicker pulsed under her skin. Her magic, suddenly alert. She drained her glass and sighed, trying to steady herself. The hum beneath her ribs was faint, but coiled, as if it had caught a scent.

Then she spotted Professor Thiswell across the room. Rosalind blinked. Oh. Fuck.

The journal.

She was supposed to steal it tonight, half-drunk, fingers quick while the professors snored over brandy. And now Alfie was here. And she was absolutely going to end up in a broom closet, mostly naked, before dessert.

“Careful, Sallow. Someone might think you’re a lush.”

Rosalind turned slowly to find Nicasia Parkinson and Druella Rosier standing before her. Nicasia wore deep green velvet. Druella wore a similar dress in plum. And, unsurprisingly, looked better.

“Isn’t she a lush, though?” Druella drawled, tilting her head. “I think I saw her passed out on Friday in Lestrange’s bed. Or was that Veronika? Hard to keep track.”

Rosalind, taller than both of them in heels, smiled coldly.

“You must be mistaken for someone else. Not all of us fuck our cousins, Druella.”

That earned a blink from Nicasia and a dangerous little amused smile from Druella.

“I mean,” Druella said, shrugging one shoulder, “if you’re going to keep it in the family, you might as well keep it pretty. And Paris is pretty. ”

Rosalind barked a laugh. Nicasia looked annoyed already.

“Why are you even talking to me?” Rosalind asked, snatching a canapé off a passing tray and biting in with theatrical viciousness. “I’m not in the mood for our usual repartee.”

“Is that what you call it when you insult us?” Nicasia asked coolly.

“You came over here to call me a lush,” Rosalind said. “I’m trying to keep up.”

“And here I was,” Nicasia sighed, placing a delicate hand over her chest, “doing something nice. I came to apologize for Friday.”

Rosalind choked on her canapé. She washed it down with champagne and gave Nicasia a look of pure disbelief.

“Like hell you did.”

“I was,” Nicasia insisted. “I was too hostile. I shouldn’t let my frustration with Tugwood transfer to you. It was unfair. I’m sorry.”

“Are you concussed?” Rosalind asked, waving a hand. “Take a bad fall, Parkinson? You’re not acting like yourself.”

Druella grinned, eyes flicking between them like she didn’t care who got flayed, so long as someone did.

Nicasia’s foot tapped once, sharply, against the stone floor. “Well?”

“Well?”

“Aren’t you going to accept my apology?”

Rosalind gave her a slow, insincere smile. “Seems to me you’re giving it under duress. Have you been cursed? Is someone holding you at wand point?”

Druella snorted, delighted by the carnage. Nicasia shot her a glare.

“Fuck off,” she muttered, turning on her heel. “He should’ve known better. She’s such a—”

The music and the hum of the crowd swallowed the rest. She sipped as Nicasia’s words echoed through her mind.

He.

She didn’t have to wonder long.

Riddle was speaking with Alfie and Slughorn now, posture perfect, hair just tousled enough to seem effortless. His eyes met hers across the room. He smiled. Her skin prickled, and her magic pulled in her chest.

She looked away first.

It had to be him. Who else could make Nicasia do that?

Whatever this was—glances in the corridor, a sparring match in Magical Theory, that night on the Grand Staircase—it wasn’t nothing. Rosalind was entering into a Something with the Slytherin Head Boy. 

She forced herself to look back. He was already turned away, speaking to Slughorn again, Alfie nodding beside him.

Rosalind exhaled sharply. She was standing here, heart skittering, while her secret boyfriend made small talk beside the boy she couldn’t stop noticing.

Merlin, she hated herself sometimes. No wonder people called her a tease.

She sipped anyway.

Her magic buzzed faintly, restless and distracted. 

Maybe I am a lush, she thought.

-.-

At dinner, Rosalind ended up between Ares and Benedict. Ares, unfortunately, was feeling unusually attentive tonight.

She, on the other hand, was quite drunk.

She had no choice but to eat furiously. The food was dry and flavorless, but she kept piling it onto her plate, like she could soak up the champagne, or suppress the volatile itch of her ancient magic, with bread and potatoes alone.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for another forkful.

Across the table, Varinia raised her brows so high they practically vanished into her hair. Rosalind had three rolls on her side plate and was draining her water so frequently that the house elf had stopped asking.

“Honestly, Sallow,” Ares muttered, his hand brushing hers as she reached for more. “You eat like a bloody troll.”

“I’m—” she hiccuped. “Not.”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, leaning forward to address Benedict. “You keeping her in line, Sallow?”

“No one keeps Rosalind in line,” Benedict said flatly, throwing her a sideways look. “But I’m trying.”

Rosalind glared at both of them, cheeks flushed. “Shut up,” she snapped, voice a little slurred. “I just had too much champagne. That’s all.”

“There’s a spell for that,” Ares said. “Tom showed me once. I’ll ask him for it—if you beg sweetly.”

She could’ve hexed his teeth down his throat. Instead, she lifted her fork like a weapon. “Don’t.”

He held up his hands and turned back to his plate.

The tension thinned as conversation resumed, but Rosalind barely registered any of it. She kept eating, kept moving, mechanically, as if the rhythm might bring her back to herself.

Across the room, Varinia laughed at something Alfie said. He was sitting beside her now, angled close, asking about her father, her broom, her time on the Gryffindor team.

If Rosalind hadn’t known better, she might’ve thought he was flirting.

Down the row, Thiswell had claimed her usual seat beside Slughorn, one typically reserved for Malfoy or Riddle. It would’ve been the perfect night to steal the journal. Maybe it still was, if she could get her fucking act together.

Riddle sat on Thiswell’s right, speaking in low tones to Druella and Nicasia. Druella hadn’t touched her plate and was nearly turned in her seat to face him.

Rosalind narrowed her eyes, barely hiding the twitch of irritation, and shoved more bread into her mouth.

“Do you have manners?” Ares muttered. “Like, any at all?”

“I’m trying not to make a fool of myself,” she said, through a mouthful of food.

Benedict snorted. Rosalind, suppressing a laugh of her own, pressed a napkin to her lips. She knew she looked unhinged, but Ares was a safe target. Easy to bite, easier to ignore.

Avery, across the table, leaned toward them with a smirk. “You know what they say about women with an appetite—”

“Oh, sod off.” Ares shoved at him.

Rosalind leaned back in her chair. The alcohol softened everything, her limbs, her thoughts, even the flicker of guilt she wasn’t ready to name. If she kept eating, kept drinking water, she’d be fine. Sober enough to kiss her boyfriend. Maybe even steal the journal.

She lifted her glass.

Her magic flinched, a quiet pullback, like a hand from a flame. Across the table, Alfie laughed at something Potter said. She pictured kissing him, letting him pin her in a hallway.

Nothing.

Her magic didn’t reject it. It just didn’t care. She set down the glass and looked down the table. Immediately, Riddle looked her way, and her magic spun. She looked away just as fast.

Cool it, she told herself.

“Isn’t it dreadful?” Professor Thiswell crooned, loud enough to turn heads. She was draped in more bangles than usual and a scarf so large it threatened to swallow her whole. “Do you think they’ll close off Hogsmeade, Horace?”

Slughorn frowned. “No, no. Don’t be silly, Juno,” he said, shaking his head. “Marunweem’s at least an hour by broom, and they don’t know exactly what happened—”

“What happened?” Rosalind and Benedict asked at the same time.

The table stilled.

Thiswell blinked, then sighed, clearly regretting the detour. “Oh—well. Not really appropriate dinner talk, I suppose—”

Across the table, Alfie caught Rosalind’s eye, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Murders in Marunweem,” Avery said, his smirk faint but fading. “Three witches. Pub. Pretty gruesome. Apparently.”

Rosalind’s stomach dropped. She turned to Benedict instinctively, and he looked just as rattled.

Marunweem wasn’t far from Feldcroft, where they spent summers with their grandparents. They’d eaten at that pub, laid out on the sand, and flown broom races from the cliffs.

“What happened?” Benedict asked again, more softly.

Slughorn finally glanced at them, voice gentling. “Ah, yes—that’s right. The Sallows have family in the area.” He hesitated. “Just in the Evening Prophet , dears. Not your relations, of course. The school would have informed—”

“How were they killed?” Rosalind asked. The words were out before she even thought them.

“Dark magic,” someone muttered, a tremor in the voice. “That’s what the Prophet said.”

“Oh.” Her voice stayed neutral, but her magic flinched. Her fingers tightened around her glass, knuckles whitening. “That’s awful.”

“Yes,” Thiswell agreed, too brightly. “And terrifying! They haven’t caught the suspects yet. I heard whispers of Grindelwald supporters in the Highlands, but to see them act out so—”

“We don’t know any further details, Juno,” Slughorn cut in, tone suddenly pragmatic. “Let’s not upset the students further.”

But it was already too late. Rosalind was upset. Benedict, too, his plate untouched, expression tight.

The Highlands were like a second home. Quiet. Untouched during the worst of Grindelwald’s rise. She knew those witches and wizards. She didn’t need names to picture them: wrinkled hands, standing in the cold sea wind.

And now this?

Murdered. In a pub they’d eaten in. In a village they'd flown over.

She felt it in her throat first, like a scream swallowed. Then in her ribs. Her magic was stirring.

And then, without warning—like something ancient waking in her chest—a fierce desire for retribution flared to life.

Kill them all.

-.-

Alfie yanked her into a closet.

Broad, familiar hands caught her waist and pulled her sideways, through a narrow door and into the dark. They stumbled into a cluttered room, crates stacked high, boxes underfoot, the sharp edge of something digging into her back.

Alfie steadied her, and she laughed breathlessly. It felt good to be wanted. To be pulled close, kissed like a prize. His touch was warm, familiar. His sweater was soft beneath her fingers.

“There you are,” he murmured, voice low.

He kissed her without hesitation, like he’d been thinking about it all night. Like he couldn’t help himself. And Rosalind let herself believe it. Let herself fall into the rhythm of it—eager, bright, half-drunk on the thrill of being someone’s favorite thing for the moment.

But even as her body warmed, even as her pulse picked up—

Her magic stayed quiet. Detached. Watching. She ignored it and stripped off her dress anyway.

“You arse,” she said, dropping it to the ground. “You should have warned me. I barely had time to shave.”

He laughed, eyes skimming her bare skin. “I only found out today. And don’t shave. I like you hairy.”

“You’re a fool,” she said, and laughed again, breath catching as his mouth found her neck.

His fingers found the clasp of her bra, sliding beneath to palm her breast. She groaned. His hand was warm. He moved to her neck, sucking hard at the skin just below her ear. Her skin tingled.

Her magic did not.

“You’re going to give me a love bite, you idiot,” she muttered, the words dissolving as he shoved her bra strap down and brought his mouth to her chest.

It felt nice. 

Nice—and dull. Like slipping into a bath that had already gone lukewarm.

“Maybe I want to mark my territory,” Alfie murmured. “I saw how your cousin was looking at you.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m kidding,” he said, his tongue wet against her skin. “Lestrange always looks like a puffskein.”

She laughed, despite herself. And then felt it. Her magic, tightening further, drawing back like it couldn’t bear to watch.

She pushed lightly at his chest, eager to keep things moving. “Take your shirt off.”

Alfie raised a brow, but pulled the sweater over his head and let it drop. She grinned. “Now your trousers, if you please.”

“So demanding.”

“We don’t have all evening.”

His grin turned wolfish as he shoved his trousers down.  For one blissfully blank moment, all she could think was that Alfie had a very nice cock.

“Your turn,” he said.

She stepped out of them without ceremony.

“Turn around and bend over, Sallow.”

Six minutes later, it was over. Alfie came with a grunt, forehead pressed to her shoulder, breathing hard. She didn’t. She got close—twice—but her magic had long since gone still, curled deep inside her. She could never seem to come without it lingering over her shoulder. Like a pervert.

“You know,” Rosalind said, buttoning her dress, “I should be upset with you for waiting until the day of to spring your visit on me. We could’ve spent the afternoon together in Hogsmeade and not, you know, shagging in a broom closet for ten minutes.”

Alfie grinned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Last minute, I swear.”

“Hm.” She clicked her tongue. “One might start to suspect you don’t actually like me.”

He pulled her back into his arms, hands sliding down to squeeze her arse with boyish enthusiasm. “I think the past events prove otherwise,” he murmured, mouth against her neck. “You get me hard with just a look, Sallow.”

“Good,” she said flatly, pushing him away.

He was already dressed again, every hair in place, all sharp collar and polished Ministry-boy smile.

“You walking to Hogsmeade for the Floo?”

“Dippet turned one on just outside the Great Hall. Special favor for Horace.”

“So we’ve got time?” she asked, reaching for him again, smiling. “I can think of a few things we could do—”

Alfie kissed her hard, hands cupping her face. He kissed her like he was proving something.

Her magic twisted. Sluggish. Unsettled. Something sour unfurled low in her gut. She ignored it.

When he pulled back, he did it with a kiss on her cheek. “Sadly, I’ve got to be up early. Wales. World Cup site stuff.” She frowned. He kissed her again, softer this time. “You know how it is, Sallow. You’ll see when you get your own Ministry job.”

Rosalind sighed. “That sounds awful.”

He shrugged, adjusting his sweater. “It’s a way to pass the time. And, you know… It’s my passion.”

She chewed her lip. 

“I don’t have a passion,” she said. No, that wasn’t true. She liked Muggle movies. Going to the cinema. But that wasn’t a career. That was a pastime.

“You’ll find one,” he said. “You’ll land on something. You’re too clever not to.”

They kissed again. Her magic didn’t move.

“Don’t go,” she whispered.

He laughed into her mouth. “Next month. Hogsmeade weekend. The inn. The whole works.” He kissed her temple like a promise. “I’ll woo you like you deserve to be, Sallow. No more closets.”

“You swear it?” she asked, blinking up at him.

“I swear it.”

He kissed her again. She watched him go, warm from his mouth, still slick between her legs.

Rosalind tried. She really did. He did everything right. 

And it still felt like nothing.

-.-

Rosalind waited in the closet for twenty minutes after Alfie left, making up her mind. She was awake, a little liquid courage burned through her veins, and her ancient magic was quiet, withdrawn, sulking somewhere in the back of her mind. Pouting? Surely not.

It was time to steal the journal.

No point in plotting, scheming, spiraling. She could be a woman of action. What would Selene have done? She wouldn’t hesitate. She would act. Steal the journal. Protect her secrets.

Rosalind exhaled, centered herself, and flicked her wand. The shimmer of the Disillusionment Charm slid down her body like rain. She eased the closet door open an inch at a time, then slipped into the corridor.

Crouched low, wand gripped tight, she crept through the castle. Her stomach churned, not from magic. Just too much food. She moved steadily, heading for the Defense tower. She could still hear the jazz band playing behind her, slow, syrupy notes drifting into the corridor. She pictured the professors nodding off in their chairs, sherry glasses tipping sideways.

At the top of the stairs, she passed a hallway table with a ceramic vase and a mirror above it, and stopped.

She could see herself.

The spell was still working, but just barely. A shimmer clung to her edges like cheap glass. Her reflection blinked back: dark honey hair loose, lips swollen, blue dress clinging softly to her frame. She’d cast the charm drunk. Half-asleep. Bleeding. And somehow, it had never faltered.

Until now.

She reached out. Her hand slid past the spell’s edge, rings catching the candlelight.

Her heart kicked. Had she miscast it? Had the magic finally noticed how reckless she’d been, how drunk, how eager, how loud?

She tried to breathe. To fix it. But her wand hand twitched. And then she felt it.

The air shifted. Thicker now.

She wasn’t alone.

She turned. And despite everything, despite the way her breath caught in her throat, she smiled.

Riddle stood in the stairwell, veiled by his own Disillusionment Charm. Even through the distortion, she could see his face, still and watching, that same unreadable expression.

And then, her magic surged, like it had been waiting, curled up all night just for this. Without thinking, Rosalind lifted her wand, dropped the spell, and stood tall.

Riddle smiled faintly, doing the same.

“We have to stop meeting like this.”

Chapter Text

When Rosalind was fourteen, she had a fantasy.

Every Tuesday after Dueling Club, she’d walk back to the tower with her hair stuck to her neck and her arm sore from spellwork, and imagine Reese Rivers—seventh-year Head Boy, star Keeper, smile like a toothpaste advert—following her into a deserted, moonlit hallway.

He’d confess he couldn’t stop thinking about her, that she haunted his dreams. That he’d never met anyone like Rosalind Sallow.

In the fantasy, he kissed her until she forgot her own name. He asked her to be his girlfriend. They had picnics by the lake. She wore a white dress. Her family cried at the wedding.

She never told anyone. It was silly. And he’d never even gotten her name right, always Rose or that Sallow girl. He was seventeen. She was fourteen. If he had flirted with her, it would have been nearly criminal.

Still, she thought about it. Every Tuesday. Like clockwork.

He left Hogwarts, and she forgot all about him until her sixth year, when he returned for a Slug Club dinner, chin peppered with acne and a Daily Prophet name badge crooked on his robes. A glorified coffee boy with a wandering eye. He’d tried calling her Rachel and Rebecca before Varinia stepped in, laughing about him not even making the Cannons reserves.

After that, she stopped fantasizing about being chased. Now she wanted to do the hunting.

And yet, here it was. The hallway. The solitude. The Head Boy. A different boy. A better one. Infinitely more sexy.

She didn’t have to imagine what Tom Riddle might say if he followed her into a corridor after dark. She didn’t have to guess the look in his eyes. Fourteen-year-old Rosalind would’ve fainted.

Eighteen-year-old Rosalind just smirked.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he said.

Of course he did. The line was practically a stage cue.

He looked like Humphrey Bogart in To Have and Have Not —sharp suit, shadowed jaw, something dangerous behind the smile. If he’d had a cigarette in his mouth, she might’ve melted on the spot.

She tilted her head, already slipping into character.

If he were Bogart, she could be Bacall—quick wit, cool smile. Mouth always holding back a secret.

“I’d say the same,” she said smoothly, “if I didn’t think you were following me.”

“It’s good you know better, then.” He smiled.

That maddeningly handsome smile—the one that never quite reached his eyes—always felt like it knew more than it should. Rosalind wasn’t sure if she wanted to hex it off his face or lick it clean.

The air between them thickened, slow and honeyed. The kind of honey that dripped from a spoon in long, sinful ribbons. She swayed toward it without moving a muscle.

“Dreadful party,” she said lightly, like they were old friends and not circling each other like predators. “How do you survive those things?”

“Brandy,” he said, still half-shadowed. “And a high tolerance for sycophants.”

“Sounds like you,” she said. “Polite enough to get through it. Miserable the whole time.”

He tilted his head slightly. “That’s almost a compliment.”

“Take it how you like.”

He stepped forward. The light caught the edge of his jaw.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “The Marunweem news. I saw your face.”

A flash of blood in her imagination. An empty pub. The awful stillness of a world after violence. She shoved it down again.

“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “My grandparents aren’t in Feldcroft year-round. They travel. London. Paris. Some research trip in New Zealand. I don’t know. They’re always somewhere.”

“Convenient,” he murmured. “Do they travel often?”

“Yes,” she said. “Selene retired. She gets restless.”

“And you? Do you travel?”

“I adore it.” She caught herself from saying much else, then narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing under Disillusionment tonight, Riddle?”

“Tom,” he said, sure, like it mattered.

“Tom,” she echoed. It tasted like power. Her magic stirred, low and hungry, curling around the name.

Unbidden, a thought whispered up from the depths: Hit him with a Slicing Curse. See if he can bleed prettily. No, something louder. Bombarda. Blow open the wall. See if he can catch his balance. Or— No. Something playful. Something like the Cruci—

She blinked, cleared her throat, and smiled.

“I’m Head Boy,” he said with a lazy shrug. “I can go anywhere in the castle that I please.”

She gave him a skeptical once-over. “So why sneak around like a delinquent?”

“Fine. You caught me.”

With no particular urgency, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a case. Slim. Sleek. Black. Rosalind recognized it immediately.

“Contraband,” she breathed, delighted.

Tom flipped it open like he was revealing a weapon.

“Fancy a smoke before bed?”

She arched a brow. “What, the Astronomy Tower?”

“Somewhere warmer,” he said, already turning. “Come on.”

Just like that, he vanished beneath another Disillusionment Charm, his voice disembodied in the stairwell. She hesitated for half a second, then followed.

The staircase curved tightly, and his footsteps were nearly silent. She had to hustle to keep up, breath catching slightly as her heels clicked against the stone. Somehow, even invisible, he managed to look purposeful. Commanding.

By the time she reached the landing, he was already ahead, out of the charm, one hand pushing open the heavy door to the prefect’s bath. Then, he paused and turned slightly.

“Stay hidden,” he said, voice pitched just above a whisper. The softness surprised her, but she obeyed. Not because he asked, but because it was interesting.

Rosalind slipped through the door behind him and melted into the shadow of the marble mermaid near the front of the room, her charm holding firm, even as her magic rippled with curiosity.

“Out past curfew again, Mallow?”

His voice had changed, gone flat. Cool. The tone one would use when something needed to be dealt with.

Loyal little Hufflepuff, Joseph Mallow, blinked at him from a nest of bubbles like a startled duckling.

“I—I didn’t think—Tom, I’m sorry, I—”

“You weren’t thinking,” Tom said. “That’s obvious.”

Rosalind barely breathed. Tom didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The disdain was evident.

Mallow fumbled toward the edge of the pool, water sloshing awkwardly. He was small—soft in the middle—and trying very hard to maintain his modesty as he waded out. Rosalind looked away on instinct, then looked back, unable to help herself.

Tom didn’t avert his eyes.

With one flick of his wand, Mallow was dry—and utterly, pitifully bare. For one brief, unfortunate second, he stood exposed. Then the robe snapped into place.

“Two nights’ detention,” Tom said. “You’ll receive instructions tomorrow. If I catch you out again, I won’t be so forgiving.”

Mallow opened his mouth, thought better of it, and bolted. He left his shoes behind. They sat beside Rosalind like an offering.

She waited until the door clicked shut.

“Well,” she said, stepping out of the shadows. “That was brutal.”

Tom turned slowly.

“Don’t tell me you’re squeamish.”

“Squeamish?” Her brows lifted. “Please. You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“I would be lying if I said I didn’t.”

Her magic stirred beneath her skin. Aware. Pleased.

“I take it you’re not fond of Mallow.”

Tom’s reply was bone-dry: “He’s mediocre. Cowardly. Inconvenient.”

“Harsh,” she murmured, though she was smiling now.

Tom didn’t say anything, just watched her.

“So,” she said, cocking her head. “If I were caught here after curfew, you’d treat me the same?”

Tom smiled slowly. “Is that what you want, Sallow? A scolding?”

Heat curled low in her stomach. She kept her face neutral, one brow lifting in challenge.

“Something tells me you’d enjoy that too much.” She paused, just long enough to tease. “Now. Where’s that smoke you promised me?”

He didn’t answer, just pulled the cigarette case from his coat with one smooth motion, flipped it open, and plucked a single one for himself. He lit it with his wand and inhaled slowly.

She reached forward.

He snapped the case shut before she could touch it.

Rosalind narrowed her eyes.

Tom plucked the cigarette from his mouth and held it toward her, fingers just shy of her lips. “Witches first.”

Magic stirred under her skin. Heat, or hunger, or warning. She reached for the cigarette—

He pulled it back. Clicked his tongue. Tsk.

Her cheeks flushed.

She leaned in instead, lips parting. Tom brought the cigarette forward, carefully, almost reverently, and placed it between them.

Their eyes met.

He held it there, fingers still on the paper, as she took a slow drag. Smoke flooded her lungs. She didn’t blink.

Palo santo. Smoke.

She exhaled right in his face.

He didn’t flinch. His smile sharpened.

That first cigarette he’d given her—after the Ministry party—had tasted like trouble. Back then, she’d smoked it alone on her bedroom balcony, telling herself it meant nothing, remembering the interaction with him in the hallway over the sex with Alfie in the closet.

Now she was here. Smoking from his fingers. Magic tingling. His eyes on her mouth.

She reached up, slowly, and took the cigarette from between his fingers.

“Don’t look so smug,” she murmured, smoke curling around her words. “It’s not your best trick.”

Tom didn’t respond.

But his smirk deepened, quietly pleased, maybe even a little impressed.

He plucked another cigarette from the case and lit it slowly this time. The spark of flame, the hiss of smoke, the curl of his lips around the paper—it was obscene how good he looked doing nothing at all.

Rosalind exhaled again, straight into his face.

He blew his own smoke right back.

For a moment—just one—there was nothing but the two of them, bathed in golden steam and smoke, the air between their mouths heavy with heat and challenge. Her magic didn’t flare. It purred.

She didn’t step back. Neither did he. She was fairly certain she was about to learn what Tom Riddle tasted like.

But then, slowly, without a word, he turned and walked across the tiled floor toward the window at the back of the room. His shoes splashed quietly through a puddle left behind, the sound crisp in the silence.

Her heart thundered once, hard.

That was the hottest thing that had ever happened to her.

And she’d just gotten railed in a broom closet.

Rosalind had only ever been in the baths with Varinia—tipsy after a Quidditch match, stripping under the sunbeams, laughing until the bubbles and booze made the world tilt. Now, she was sober. Steady. Watching Tom Riddle crack a window and blow smoke into the cool night air.

She stayed where she was, cigarette between her fingers, letting him look.

“Come over here,” he said at last. “I don’t bite.”

He flicked his wand. Two stools appeared beside the window. Another flick and the puddles vanished.

“In fact,” he added, “I provide world-class service.”

Rosalind smiled slowly. She didn’t rush. Her heels echoed against the tile, each step careful as she rounded the pool. His eyes tracked her the entire way. She stopped just short of him. Heat curled around them.

“Do you think the water’s self-cleaning?” she asked lightly, facing the room. “Or am I meant to believe it’s safe after Mallow marinated in it?”

Tom smiled. “I’m sure it’s enchanted. Interested in a swim, Rosalind?”

Her name landed like a touch. Her magic flickered, eager. She didn’t flinch.

“Not tonight,” she said coolly. “But don’t let me stop you.”

His brow lifted. “Ah. So this was a ploy to get me out of my robes.”

She laughed once. “You think I need a ploy?”

Then she stepped closer than she had to, just to see him lean back slightly, his shoulder meeting the stone wall behind him with a soft thud. She took his spot at the window without permission, inhaled the night air, and let the silence stretch.

The cigarette smoldered between her fingers. Her magic purred. She flicked ash toward the breeze, pretending not to notice how he watched her, still as a statue, like he was waiting to be admired.

She didn’t indulge him.

She let the silence stretch a beat too long, then turned and crossed to the stool farthest from him. Then sat casually and crossed one leg over the other.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said, flicking ash toward the drain. “This isn’t a date.”

Her voice was dry, careless, just a little too smooth.

“I’m just here for the cigarette.”

-.-

Tom watched Rosalind Sallow from the corner of his eye and tried his best not to smirk.

He’d known the moment she strolled into the Slug Club in that goddamn dress that he’d be making a move tonight. A week of near-misses, glances, games—he had to know why fate kept shoving her his way.

And all it took was a cigarette, like candy to a child. Her absurdly large blue eyes had lit up like Christmas.

She smelled like jasmine and dark fruit. Pomegranate.

It clung to the air as she tossed her hair over one shoulder, exposing the pale column of her throat. Careless and calculated. Like everything else about her—messy enough to look natural. Deliberate enough to know she’d planned every second.

Tom didn’t fawn over witches. But if he fawned over one–

He let her play. Let her dart circles around him like a fox around the hound, flicking her tail, baring her teeth. Better to let her wear herself out. Soften. Pretend she wasn’t already circling closer.

His mind spun with possibilities. Just minutes ago, she’d been with Black—in a broom closet, of all places. Tom had lingered outside, forced to listen: her breath catching, Black’s idiotic grunting. He’d nearly left. Nearly decided she wasn’t worth it.

But fate tugged. Again.

She was everywhere now. In his thoughts. His conversations. The periphery of every room. Like a thread he couldn’t unpick. Like something catching fire.

He should’ve hexed her. Should’ve kissed her. Should’ve ended this before it began.

Instead, he’d waited.

And here she was. Smoking his cigarette.

He took a slow drag.

If she told him to burn the castle to the ground, he thought he might say yes.

He’d spent the last two nights buried in the library, hunched over crumbling periodicals and Prophet archives, chasing the mystery of her bloodline. Selene Sallow—née Alderton—had been everywhere. Hero of the Ranrok Rebellion. Saviour of magical beasts. Slayer of a dark wizard ring in Hogsmeade. She’d pulled one artifact from the Black Lake, another from a Marunweem tomb. Always pristine. Always perfect. A certified darling of the Prophet.

He should have despised her.

How had she done it all? Scored Outstandings across the board? What had she given to get it? The professors must’ve tipped the scales. There was no other explanation. Tom had the Gaunt line. Salazar’s blood. That mattered. But the Aldertons? They were nothing. No records, no ancestry to speak of. Selene hadn’t even come to Hogwarts until her fifth year. Home-schooled, presumably. Maybe Muggle-born—though that was unthinkable. A mudblood could never wield that kind of power.

He looked at Rosalind now, languid, poised, dragging smoke from her cigarette like she’d invented the act. Had Selene been like this? Or was this all silver-spoon aftermath—pretty girl with a famous name, playing cool so she never had to give anyone anything at all?

Rosalind shifted on her stool, just slightly, and his mind snapped back to the present.

“Knut for your thoughts?” she said.

He didn’t answer at first, just watched her through the smoke. He didn’t like many witches. Nicasia grated. Druella clung. Veronika bored him. But Rosalind Sallow—

He didn’t hate her. And that was rare enough to be alarming.

“I was wondering what it’s like to be you,” he said finally.

Her brows lifted, amused. “Dreadful, I hope.”

“Your family’s name is always in someone’s mouth. Doesn’t that get exhausting?”

She rolled her eyes, but the blush rose anyway. “I’m used to it.”

He studied her face for some shadow of her grandmother’s power, but found that cool beauty again: dark lashes, parted lips, skin like a pre-Raphaelite muse. 

Waterhouse would have painted her draped in silk and blood.

It was a trap, surely. No one could look like that by accident. Was it deliberate? Was the cigarette, the window, the blush? He wondered if it was magic , or just her. If the distraction was the point. He’d built his whole life on charm and illusion. Did Rosalind Sallow do the same?

And if she was, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to break the illusion or let her keep spinning it.

“My father had a hard time with it,” she said suddenly, eyes distant. “When he was at school. There were a lot of… expectations. Selene was overhauling the Department of Mysteries, always in the papers. Sebastian was abroad half the year with Gringotts. He’d come home to an empty house. Eventually, they got a House Elf, just so someone would be there to make him dinner.”

Tom didn’t bother summoning pity. Hard to feel sorry for Ominis Sallow, pampered, pedigreed, raised in a London townhouse with a clear magical inheritance and a family that kept showing up.

“Ominis is an unusual name,” he said instead.

“He was named after an old friend,” she said. “Ominis Gaunt. Died young. Blood malediction or something.”

Tom stilled.

His family, by blood. But Rosalind didn’t know that. Couldn’t. Only the Knights knew his true heritage.

“Terrible,” he said flatly.

Rosalind snorted. “Oh, don’t pretend to care.” 

He tilted his head, letting the smoke drift lazily between them.

“They talk about him like he was some self-righteous rule-follower,” she added. “You know, he was Head Boy. Maybe you two would’ve gotten along.”

Tom took a slow drag. “Yes. Swimmingly.”

“Or maybe you’d have killed each other in a duel. He would have abhorred your late-night sneaking around.”

His smile sharpened. “And yet here you are, out after curfew with me.”

“I never said I cared about late-night sneaking around, Riddle.”

“No,” he said, low and pleased. “I think you’ve proven that time and time again.”

They smirked at each other. All of it left unsaid. His cigarette burned low in his hand, but he barely felt it.

“Perhaps next time I catch you out of bed,” he said, voice light and lethal, “we duel to the death. Then at least one of us might sleep soundly.”

“I’ll never win,” she scoffed. “You’re the best duelist in school anyway.”

“Am I?” He turned fully now, cigarette poised between two fingers. “That’s high praise.”

Rosalind raised her chin. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Hard not to.”

She snorted. Her cigarette was nearly gone. She flicked it to the stone, ground it under her heel, then gave a little wand flick, the ashes gone without a word.

Efficient. Infuriating.

For a moment, Tom thought she might leave. He didn’t want her to. But then she looked at him, eyes glittering, and said, “You might be an expert duelist, but your Disillusionment Charm is shit.”

His expression twitched. “It is not.”

“I saw you the entire time.”

“That’s hardly the charm’s fault.”

“Mhm.” She leaned back slightly, enjoying herself. “I could spot you halfway down the corridor.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Tugwood didn’t.”

"Varinia wouldn't notice a Hippogriff if it stormed the hall."

“You think you could cast better?”

“I know I could.”

Tom stared at her. Then said, flatly, “Your elbow sticks out.”

Rosalind blinked. “What?”

“Every time you cast. Defense class. Last week. It nearly got you disarmed.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. After a beat, she said, “It did not.”

“You got lucky. Weasley’s hopeless.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a bastard.”

“You started it.”

She was trying not to smile. He could tell. Tom reached over and plucked her hand from where it rested on her knee.

“That night last week,” he said casually, running his thumb over her fingers. “Your rings were catching the candlelight. It gave you away instantly.”

Three of them, thin gold bands, two with rubies, one plain. Her nails were dark and glossy, shaped into perfect almonds. Pretty. Precise. Designed to wound.

“You couldn’t see that,” she said, snatching her hand back, but her voice was softer now.

In his best imitation of Merrythought, he drawled, “Miss Sallow, that wandering elbow of yours could be the difference between survival and dismemberment when faced with—”

He let the sentence hang, savoring the look on her face. She was watching him now. Closely. Pink rose in her cheeks. Mouth just parted.

All this for him. Something inside him lunged—impulse, hunger, magic—he wasn’t sure. He wanted to crack her open. Look inside. Know every hidden thing.

But instead, he just smirked.

“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?” she said. Her voice was low. Challenging.

“Oh, I’m sure there are layers I haven’t uncovered,” he said smoothly.

He could do it now—just a flicker of Legilimency. Slip inside before she noticed. She wasn’t properly shielded. He’d seen her practicing in class. He could—

No.

Not tonight. It was too intimate. And if she caught him, he’d have to Obliviate her. And he didn’t want her to forget a single second of this.

He stood and stepped away, moving to an empty stretch of wall. Rosalind didn’t follow.

Instead, she raised her brows. “Do you always wander off mid-conversation, or is that a special courtesy?”

Tom glanced back over his shoulder. “Come here.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I’m going to fix your shielding stance,” he said, matter-of-fact. He dropped his cigarette and crushed it underfoot. “You just admitted I’m the best duelist in our year.”

“Best at something,” she muttered, standing.

He didn’t rise to the bait. She pulled off her sweater slowly and crossed the room toward him. He tried very hard not to stare at her newly exposed, slightly sweaty skin.

She stopped a few feet away. “Is this where you pounce?”

“You’re left-handed. Right foot behind. Show me.”

Rosalind sighed. Then she stepped into the stance. Her wand rose to his chest.

“Well?” she asked. “Do your worst.”

“You’re too tense.”

“I’m being inspected by the Head Boy in a steam-filled bathing room. Forgive me if I’m not at ease.”

He circled her once. “You always lead with your shoulder.”

“Do I?”

“You did it to Pemberly last week. And again with Weasley. If she weren’t so hopeless at disarming—”

“Gwen is not hopeless.”

“She’s unthreatening,” he amended. “Which is dangerous.”

Rosalind scoffed softly, but he was already in front of her again, reaching. He adjusted her elbow with the lightest touch, just his fingers grazing skin.

“Keep this tucked,” he said quietly.

She didn’t move. His hand lingered. The moment stretched.

“I know how to stand,” she murmured.

“And yet you’re standing wrong.”

Her elbow gave, just slightly. Her wand stayed steady.

He stepped back. “Better.”

She shifted, clearly preparing to retort, but he reached again, hands light on her waist, straightening her just so.

A two-inch correction, that’s all it was, but his fingers slipped over warm silk and bone, and for one unguarded second, something inside him gave.

Power surged—

Not his.

Hers.

It sang beneath her skin, wild and electric. It met him. Answered him. And Rosalind—Rosalind blinked like she’d been hexed, lips parting, breath catching.

He dropped his hands.

“Elbow,” he said, almost hoarsely.

She obeyed without thinking, tucking it in. And then, recovering, said, “Yes, master.”

It knocked the breath from his lungs.

Not the words. The way she said it—mocking, honey-slick, just enough submission to tip him sideways.

Tom had never wanted anything the way he wanted her in that moment. It was a joke. It was nothing. But it hollowed him out all the same. He felt feral, hot. Sweaty. He wanted to pin Rosalind Sallow against the wall and make her say it again and again and again. 

“I prefer Lord,” he said, grinning now, sharp and white-hot. His voice was calm, but his pulse roared.

For one mad second, he nearly reached for her again. He wanted her on her knees. Disarmed, undone, unmaking him. Instead, he swallowed it and smiled.

Rosalind spun before he could move, wand pressed to his chest. Her eyes were wild, lit from within, and he could’ve sworn—

A silver fire flared in her eyes. Then it was gone.

Tom could have disarmed her instantly, could’ve had her on the floor, gasping. But he didn’t. He waited. She smiled. Slow and dangerous, then shoved him against the wall.

Jasmine hit him like a hex. All he could think about was pinning her there. Kissing her until she broke. But he’d told himself to wait. To collect her. Not scare her off.

“I think I might at least hold my own against you,” she whispered.

Her voice slid under his skin. Her wand skimmed up his chest, under his sweater, tracing the collar of his shirt.

Then she dropped it, turned, and walked away. He watched her go, half-stunned.

“I think you’ve been holding out on all of us,” he called after her.

She didn’t stop, over shoulder, sweet as sin said, “I saw an opening. That’s part of dueling, isn’t it? Watching for weaknesses?”

“Weaknesses?” The word snapped out of him. He pushed off the wall, two strides bringing him up behind her. “And what weakness did you sense in me, Sallow?”

She glanced back. Not at his face, but lower. To the hard line straining against his trousers.

Rosalind Sallow didn’t say a word. She only smiled.

“Have a good night,” she said. “Thanks for the smoke.”

And then she vanished, heels clicking like punctuation.

Tom stood frozen, chest rising and falling. If she thought she could look at him like that—walk away while he was still—

She was wrong.

He adjusted himself with a sharp, irritated movement. Like it was her fault. Like she’d hexed the need into him.

He gave her a thirty-second start. And then followed.

-.-

Rosalind’s feet couldn’t carry her fast enough away from Tom Riddle and the heat of the prefect’s baths.

Her breath was shallow. Her hands were shaking. Her magic was still humming, wild and delighted beneath her skin.

She’d nearly hexed him into the next century. That spin—her wand pressed to his chest—it hadn’t been conscious. Her magic had done it for her, screaming to be let loose.

When he’d touched her elbow, her waist, she thought she might combust. Not from embarrassment. From power. From need.

Stay away from Tom Riddle at all costs. No shit. Dumbledore had a point .

She was mad to think she could just leave. He’d been hard, for Merlin’s sake. She wanted him. He wanted her. And he didn’t strike her as the type to let a girl walk away.

She was right.

Footsteps echoed behind her. Dress shoes.

She picked up her pace. She’d almost made it to the Grand Staircase–

A hand caught her arm.

She stumbled, heels slipping, and hit a wall of chest. His hands caught her.

“Not so fast,” Tom said, smiling down at her. But it wasn’t kind. It was feral . All teeth and appetite.

“Did you just hunt me like an animal?”

He righted her gently, but didn’t let go. His hands curled around her arms. Her magic flared where he touched her, indecent and eager.

“You forgot your sweater,” he said at last, dropping one hand. He reached into his cloak and held it out.

It was her powder blue sweater. It was soaked.

Rosalind stared at it. “Did it go for a swim?”

He smiled faintly as she flicked her wand, drying it instantly without comment.

“Maybe.”

“You came all this way to return my sweater?” she asked, voice dry. “And made sure to clean it for me first?”

“It was the friendly thing to do,” he said smoothly. “I’d do it for any of my friends.”

“Yank them off the staircase?”

“Maybe. If I wanted to.”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

He stepped closer. “And what would you have me do, Sallow?”

“I don’t know.” She stepped back. “You don’t have to do anything.”

She was trying to regain her footing, trying to close the scene with grace, but fate, it seemed, had other ideas.

She tilted her head, let a sly smile stretch across her mouth—the one she’d practiced in mirrors.

Lauren Bacall.

“Oh, maybe just whistle,” she purred. 

Tom blinked. Confused.

She quoted, low and velvety: “You know how to whistle, don’t you, Tom? You just put your lips together… and blow.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at her.

Something crossed his face. And he whistled. 

Woo-woo.

Her face lit up in shock. She grinned despite herself.

“If you’re going to quote Bacall at me,” he said, “I’d much prefer the moment before she says that line.”

The moment before: Bacall in Bogey’s lap, pulling him into a kiss.

He was smooth. He was a bastard. She hated how much she liked it.

Tom reached for her again, but Rosalind stepped neatly out of range. He was planning to kiss her. She knew it. He knew it. She had to avoid it. Not because she didn’t want it—because she did. That was the problem. And wasn’t it more cinematic if she didn’t kiss him tonight?

“That’s your trick, isn’t it?” he said softly. 

Her smile held.

“Make them chase. Smile like you’ve already won, yes, that one on your face now. Make them believe you’re the most interesting thing in the room.”

Rosalind’s face twitched.

“I like the dance, Sallow,” he added, still smiling. “You’re very good at it.”

It was all going to plan, all perfectly cool and unbothered, and then she’d flown too close to the sun. It was too Bogey and Bacall, wasn’t it? Too obvious–

Her pulse skittered. The performance cracked. He’d let her do all of that. Saw through it all. Her cheeks started to burn. Fuck.

“I spend my summers at the cinema,” he said suddenly, breaking her spiral.

“You—what?”

“What else is there to do,” he said lightly, “in a Muggle orphanage?”

The silence between them cracked open.

She stared. “You—”

“You shared personal family history. About your sad, lonely father. I thought I’d return the favor.”

Muggle-born.

Tom Riddle.

It didn’t make sense. The name. The power. The way he carried himself. But the orphanage, now she could see it. In the calculation. The discipline. The hunger just beneath the skin.

She swallowed. “I won’t tell anyone.”

The words felt too small for what he’d just given her. Too soft. But they were all she had. She meant it. And yet, she felt like she was falling. She didn’t know what the secret meant, not really, only that he’d dropped it in her lap like a charm ready to explode.

What else didn’t she know? What else had he slipped between the lines?

“I know.”

A shrug. A smile. Like the truth cost him nothing.

He turned, but paused. “Tuck that elbow in before you go back to your common room. There are prefects out tonight.”

Then that sharp, cruel grin.

He gave her one last lingering look, like he could still taste her name on his tongue. “Wouldn’t want anyone catching you out of bounds.”

And then he turned on his heels and walked away.

Rosalind stood frozen, clutching her damp sweater, heart thudding madly. She didn’t know if she wanted to hex him, follow him, or run from the castle screaming.

And somewhere beneath the heat and the hunger and the thrill of it all, a truth she hated more than anything: He’d played her. Let her run circles. Let her think she was winning. 

Until he decided to pounce.

She was in trouble.

Deep, wild, ancient trouble.

Fourteen-year-old Rosalind had wanted a Head Boy to kiss her in the corridor. This one just left her breathless, undone—

—and clutching a soaked sweater that reeked of him.

Chapter Text

Tuesday. After midnight.

The next night, Rosalind woke face-first in melting snow.

She let out a guttural scream as she clawed into the slush, shoving herself upright on shaking hands. Her robes clung to her like she’d been dragged through the Black Lake.

She hadn’t walked here. She’d been taken.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Terror punched through her chest. She’d woken up this time. But what if she didn’t next time? What if the magic never let her back in? Just a body. Just a vessel full of screaming silver. Not even a week since the last time. And now she was back in the wilderness, a puppet on ancient magic’s string.

It thrashed through her. She lifted one hand, only for a tendril of silver-blue energy to burst from her fingertips. It ripped across the clearing and slammed into a gnarled tree. With a sickening crack, the trunk split clean down the middle.

She swore again as panic slithered up her spine.

Where the fuck was she?

She blinked into the moonlight. An old cottage sat just ahead, crumbling into itself. This wasn’t the Forbidden Forest. It wasn’t even quite the woods. But it was abandoned. And still.

Nothing moved but the wind.

Tears stung her eyes. She pushed herself backward, robes sagging heavily with water. Had she gone swimming in the Black Lake? Or was she just soaked from lying in the snow? How long had she been there?

At least the magic had dressed her in her best fur-lined cloak, though it was now ruined. Slush streaked the trim. The lining was soaked through.

It had been a truly awful day.

She’d started Monday with a headache and stomach cramps.

At first, she thought her cycle was coming early. But the pounding in her skull matched the throb of her magic, too exact to be a coincidence.

Ancient magic poisoning.

Rosalind named it herself.

It had only happened once before, back in the fifth year. Just a few months into school, already hollowed out by the ancient magic, by everything she’d lost, she’d refused to use it. Refused to even acknowledge it.

She’d made it two weeks without release before it started fighting back. Horrific headaches. Gut-wrenching cramps. Skin gone so pale it earned her name-calling from the Slytherins, actual sallow , they’d laughed.

She’d spent three days in the Hospital Wing, lying next to a petrified second-year from Gryffindor, wasting away in silence, until she’d finally given in.

On the third night, she slipped into the woods and let it guide her to a well of ancient magic.

After that, she tried not to let it get that far again. But this wasn’t two weeks without release. It wasn’t even a whole fucking day. Just one night. One look. One touch. And whatever had awoken under the heat of his stare—under the press of his hands—refused to go quiet again.

All day, her magic had been unbearable. It clawed under her skin in class, flared hot whenever he passed too close. Every time she heard his voice or saw his face, something inside her sparked.

Twice, she’d caught herself staring. Twice, he’d caught her. And both times, he’d smirked like it was a game he was already winning.

Rosalind groaned and fell back into the snow. Pathetic. She blinked up at the endless and indifferent stars. They didn’t care about her shame. They didn’t care about ancient magic or prefects’ baths or what it meant to be looked at by him like that.

The Earth was still spinning. Stars were still dying light-years away.

She was still Rosalind Sallow. Still here. Still herself, for now. She could survive this. She had to.

Minutes passed.

Her magic stirred again, restlessly. 

She unleashed another thread toward the crumbling cottage. The pulse came back almost instantly. Eager. Whispering.

More here.

“No,” she said shakily. “Not tonight. Please.”

But it didn’t stop. It never stopped. She was soaked to the bone, miles from anyone who might notice if she vanished. And still, this thing inside her kept clawing. Kept pushing. Kept wanting.

She yanked her wand from her pocket and stared at it, her hands trembling.

“I don’t want to destroy something tonight,” she whispered. “I want to make something. Please.”

The magic buzzed beneath her skin. Curious. Skeptical. Like it was tilting its head at her, unsure if she was lying.

She turned toward the ruin and lifted her wand.

“Change,” she said, her breath fogging the air. “Build. Be something else. A house. A manor. A castle. I don’t care. Just—”

Her voice cracked. She blinked hard.

“Just work with me,” she whispered. “Please. Just this once. Like Selene would. Like she always could.”

Selene never flinched. Never lost her grip. Her voice never shook when magic surged.

Rosalind closed her eyes and tried to summon that poise, the calm, the quiet strength that her grandmother wore like perfume. The way her hands never trembled. The way her hair never moved, even in a storm.

Control it, she thought. Be like her. Be worthy of this.

She lifted her wand and reached for the magic, not yanking, not forcing, just easing in like coaxing a skittish thing from the dark.

Form. Finesse. No violence. Just grace.

A tremble of silver-blue light sputtered from her wand tip. Her heart raced. She held her breath.

“Come on,” she begged.

Then it surged. Violent and destructive. The bolt slammed into the wall of the cottage and exploded. Bricks blasted outward in a thunderous, echoing crack.

Rosalind dove. A chunk of stone hurtled past her ear. She hit the ground hard.

“Fuck!” she screamed, half-snarling, as mud splattered across her face.

Silence fell.

Rosalind crumpled, her fingers shaking. Blinding tears broke loose. She bit back a sob, but it broke loose anyway.

The magic inside her stilled, like it had startled itself and wasn’t sure what it had just done. It tickled faintly at her fingertips. An apology.

She dragged her head up.

The front wall of the cottage was gone. Obliterated. In its place, nestled deep in the ruin, glowed a pool of silvery-blue light. Ancient magic, oozing in the dark like a wound. It pulsed. It beckoned. The magic inside her answered.

Hungry.

It wanted to meet its twin.

But Rosalind’s stomach turned. She could feel it, how close she was to unraveling. If she took one more step, if she reached for it now—

She might not come back.

“No,” she said hoarsely. “Absolutely not.”

She stood, swaying, and fought the pull with everything she had. She pictured Hogsmeade, pictured the little bridge between J. Pippins and the Magic Neep.

Her fingertips sparked. The magic inside her pulsed once: Go. Take. Feed.

She clamped her hands into fists to smother it and closed her eyes.

And Apparated.

-.-

Tuesday. Morning.

Rosalind’s head throbbed. The stench of fertilizer didn’t help. Neither did the sweet rot of shrivelfigs. Or the sharp crick in her neck.

She propped herself up on one elbow, cheek sagging into her palm, and stared at the mess on the table like it might solve itself.

To her left, Varinia and Gwen were mid-argument over who had to plunge their hand into the worm bucket for their term project: a small family of adolescent mandrakes. Acne-ridden, moody, and prone to sonic tantrums, they’d prompted Professor Garlick to issue a mandatory earmuff order for the entire class.

She wasn’t touching the worms. She also let Parisa deal with their project: Mirrorleaf, rare and insufferably temperamental, brewed for the Mirror of Intent.

It was also a nightmare to grow. Mirrorleaf required silence, focus, and an intuitive balance between light and shadow. According to Garlick, only two students had ever managed to coax one into full bloom in all her decades of teaching. Naturally, Parisa had chosen it without hesitation. And naturally, she’d threatened to throw herself off the Astronomy Tower if they didn’t become the third.

By contrast, Gwen and Varinia’s mandrakes seemed almost noble. Screaming, biting, violently hormonal, but noble. They were the key to the revival potion. The one used to reverse petrification.

No one said it aloud, but the memory of their fifth year still clung to the castle. Some nights, when Rosalind slipped through the corridors, she could feel it again—the fear, the silence, the habit of checking over her shoulder. A tightening in her chest like the monster might still be in the walls.

It had been a nightmare. And after Myrtle died—

No one talked about it. But Professor Garlick kept a steady rotation of mandrakes blooming in the back greenhouses, just in case.

“Rosalind. Pressure. Now.”

Parisa pointed at the soil. Rosalind, still half-slumped, reached out her gloved hand and pressed into the dirt. The Mirrorleaf gave a faint tremble. Parisa muttered something and went back to fussing over the roots.

She stared at the soil. Mirrorleaf, meant to reflect your purpose. Hers looked terrified. Fitting.

Across the room, Tom stood beside Malfoy, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands buried wrist-deep in their joint monstrosity. Devil’s Tentacula , they’d called it—an abominable cross between Venomous Tentacula and Devil’s Snare. At the start of the term, they’d unveiled it like a cursed pet. Defensive and offensive. Guard dog and executioner. A plant built to maim.

They’d claimed two entire tables for it. The snare sprawled like a carcass, black and glistening, pulsing with life. Thick coils wrapped upward like a serpent preparing to strike, each curve lined with venomous orange bulbs that flared open whenever someone came too close.

Rosalind watched as Avery, idiot that he was, reached out with one finger. The plant hissed. A bulb snapped shut an inch from his hand. He yelped and stumbled back. Then laughed and said something to Tom and Malfoy, who rolled their eyes.

“That thing is an abomination,” Varinia muttered, pulling off her earmuffs as she caught Rosalind’s stare. “It’s got to be violating at least three sections of the Dangerous Flora Act.”

Rosalind didn’t answer. Her eyes didn’t move.

Tom was bent over the plant again, murmuring something to Malfoy. One hand adjusted the winding vines; the other brushed a bulb into stillness. His movements were smooth. Intentional. Obsessively precise.

There was a dimple in his cheek. Just one. It only showed when he was concentrating.

Rosalind’s stomach twisted.

He looked possessed. Beautiful. Terrifying.

“Stupidly charming,” she said absently.

Varinia choked. “You’re a lunatic.”

That may be true.

She could still smell him. Woodsmoke. Citrus. The ghost of his cologne lingered in her bloodstream. And that look from Sunday night—the one that had lit her nerves on fire, the one that promised things she wasn’t ready to want—was still seared into her skin.

She didn’t want him to look at her like that again. No. She wanted him to look at her like that again and never stop.

As if summoned by thought alone, Tom lifted his head and found her instantly.

For a moment, the greenhouse might as well have gone silent. Her magic jolted, like it had been yanked toward him by a hook in her chest. He didn’t smirk, at least not right away. First, he looked at her. Really looked.

Then a half-smile curved his mouth.

Heat flared down Rosalind’s spine. Her magic pulsed once, hard, then again. She flinched. Her elbow knocked into the Mirrorleaf.

“Rosalind!” Parisa shrieked. “ No hands unless I say! ”

Rosalind jerked away, face burning. The Mirrorleaf trembled like it had been slapped.

“Great,” Parisa muttered, cradling a leaf like a wounded bird. “You’ve traumatized it.”

Rosalind sighed. Around them, adolescent mandrakes squealed faintly. The Devil’s Tentacula let out a low hiss. Everything stank of damp earth and stress.

The guilt returned. How could she feel this way about Tom when she had Alfie? Sweet Alfie. Normal Alfie . He didn’t play twisted head games with her. If he knew that not even an hour later she’d been dancing with Tom Riddle, flirting with fire, he’d be hurt.

And if the roles were reversed—if Alfie had kissed her and then gone panting after Nicasia Parkinson—

She would’ve hexed him into next week. It was hypocritical. Certainly. And it likely made her a terrible person.

Ares Lestrange was suddenly standing at their table.

Rosalind blinked at him. “Yes?”

If he’d been anyone else, she might’ve pasted on a smile. But Ares wasn’t worth the energy.

He ignored her. His eyes went straight to Varinia. Without a word, he dropped a grimy rag onto the worktable.

“Can I help you, Lestrange?” Varinia asked coolly, not even glancing at the rag.

Ares tugged down his earmuffs. “Just thought that might be useful for you, Tugwood.”

Gwen lifted the rag with her wand like it might be cursed.

Varinia bared her teeth. “And what would that be?”

Ares smiled smugly. “To mop up your tears after we stomp you into the pitch on Saturday.”

Rosalind groaned. Loudly. Almost louder than the adolescent mandrake beside her. Even Professor Garlick glanced up from Iris Pemberley’s rebellious Chinese Chomping Cabbages.

“Did you rehearse that?” Rosalind asked flatly. “Be honest.”

Varinia snatched the rag from Gwen and lobbed it back at him. “I think you’ll need it more than I will. You still cry every time you hit a bludger, don’t you?”

Ares scoffed.

Malfoy and Ares were Slytherin’s Beaters. Rosalind didn’t think her cousin was half as good as Malfoy, but it wasn’t her fight to jump in. Besides, as much as she loved Varinia, she’d be wearing Slytherin green on Saturday to cheer for Benedict. Family was family.

Ares recovered quickly. “We won’t be losing anything. Malfoy and I have been practicing on enchanted dummies. We charmed them to look like pesky little Gryffindors like you. Red hair and all.”

“Wow,” Rosalind said, deadpan. “That’s not disturbing at all.”

Varinia leaned in across the table, eyes gleaming. “You haven’t landed a bludger on me once, Lestrange.”

His mouth twitched. “That ends this weekend.”

“It’s your last chance,” Varinia said sweetly. “Not like you’ll be playing after school. Unless there’s a league for trust fund brats with poor aim.”

“You have a trust fund, Tugwood.”

“Yes,” Varinia said brightly. “But I’ve got a scout from the Bats coming to watch me tomorrow. What’ve you got?”

Ares’s wand was suddenly in his hand.

Rosalind’s head throbbed in earnest. These idiots .

Earlier that morning, Rosalind had stood in front of the mirror and made a deal with her ancient magic. One night. One break. In return, she’d steal the Miriam Fig journal from Thiswell’s office. Once she had it, she’d offer her magic a banquet of silvery-blue offerings. One night to rest. One night to think. And then it was all theirs.

She could tell it had agreed. Despite the migraine, it wasn’t flaring. Not really.

If she thought too hard about the fact that her magic could agree , could negotiate terms like a sentient partner, she’d unravel on the spot.

So she didn’t. She let it be.

“Can we not do this right now?” she groaned, burying her head in her hands.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ares asked, lowering his wand.

“Nothing,” Rosalind muttered. She lifted her head just long enough to glare at him. “Can you leave?”

“I’m not done yet.” He turned back to Varinia with that same insufferable smirk. “Too bad you’ve got prefect patrol on Friday. You’ll be up until, what, three in the morning? Maybe I’ll get Tommy or Nicasia to find a few detentions for you. Pay some third-years to sneak out.”

“Nice try,” Varinia said breezily. “I already got our patrol switched. Rosalind and I are tonight now.”

Rosalind’s head shot up. “What?”

Ares’s grin faltered.

“Oh. Did I forget to mention that?” Varinia blinked, too innocent. “Yeah, Ros. I swapped with a couple of sixth-years. Sorry.”

Rosalind deflated like a sad balloon.

Her magic began to sting . This wasn’t what it had agreed to. It didn’t like being ignored; it pressed against her ribs like a fist.

Patrol tonight meant no break. No plan. No Miriam Fig journal. By the time she made it back to her dorm, she’d be half-dead. There was no chance she could pull off a stealth mission without blowing something up.

“No,” she mumbled. Her forehead thunked against the table. “You didn’t tell me.”

She could feel it unraveling. Her schedule, her spine, her sanity.

“Well…” Varinia patted her shoulder awkwardly. “It’s better this way. You’ll be free to go to the Gryffindor pre-party on Friday.”

“Meh,” Rosalind grunted into the wood. Her brain was already recalculating. Maybe if she slipped away during patrol… maybe if she…

Ares was still there, standing like a spare wand. He opened his mouth like he had one more insult cocked and loaded, then thought better of it. He closed his mouth and stalked off.

Varinia grinned as he retreated, then dashed off to relay the entire interaction to Potter, who was currently elbow-deep in flobberworm guts.

“Those two are going to be at the end of each other’s wands by Friday,” Parisa muttered.

Gwen, wrist-deep in worms, didn’t look up. “If they duel and both die,” she said dryly, “do we get out of N.E.W.T.s?”

Rosalind made a sound, half laugh, half whimper, which echoed strangely in her skull.

-.-

Wednesday. Almost midnight.

Exhaustion was the theme of the week. Rosalind dragged her aching body to the top of the Astronomy Tower.

She and Gwen were practically asleep on their feet. Parisa, somehow, still ran on pure adrenaline and coffee, though Rosalind was starting to worry she might actually crack. And it was only January. Four more months until N.E.W.T.s.

Astronomy met twice a month, always at midnight, for three agonizing hours. It had once felt like an adventure—glowing permission badges, giggling in the corridors, the thrill of sneaking through the castle at night. Now it was just a pain in her ass.

She was so tired, and her magic so volatile, that she swore the bags under her eyes had started to pulse.

She’d tried to make another deal with it: just wait. Once she got the Miriam Fig journal, she’d offer it a feast. Silver-blue pools, secret rites, whatever it wanted. Just hold off. She wasn’t sure if it had agreed. But at least it hadn’t hijacked her body and dragged her into the Forbidden Forest. Yet.

Last night’s prefect patrol had been brutal. She and Varinia got stuck mediating a Hufflepuff girl-squad meltdown well past curfew. Now, she slumped into her usual seat and dropped her cheek against the table.

Parisa looked over, mildly horrified. “You need coffee.”

“Yes,” Rosalind agreed into the wood. “Thank you, Snoopy.”

A steaming mug was pressed into her hand. She lifted her head just far enough to take a grateful, scalding gulp.

Neither she nor Gwen had bothered with their uniforms. Gwen wore red-striped pajama bottoms and an oversized orange jumper. Rosalind was wrapped in her silk powder-blue sleep set and fuzzy slippers.

“You two look ridiculous,” Parisa sniffed, still in full uniform. Not that she was ever out of it. Rosalind was beginning to suspect Parisa wasn’t sleeping either, just doing a better job pretending.

Half the class, including Druella, Veronika, and Amalthea, wore pajamas. Nicasia, of course, arrived in a pristine uniform. The Slytherin girls sat across from them, each leveling a haughty glare.

“Why are there so many of them?” Rosalind groaned, watching Malfoy, Lestrange, and Rosier file in after the girls. “It’s like they’re multiplying.”

Right on cue, Avery and Nott swept in.

Then Tom.

His eyes flicked across the room, landing briefly on her pajamas. He tilted his head, mocking, amused, and smirked. Her magic flared. Then he turned to Nott as if nothing had happened.

“Or maybe they’re haunting me,” Rosalind muttered.

She could feel him across the room. Like his stare had sunk into her skin and stayed.

“Slytherin is calling,” Gwen whispered. “Join me, Rosalind Sallow. Shag a serpent, become one with the darkness…”

“Don’t let them hear you,” Parisa hissed. “We’ll never survive it.”

Professor Starbloom swept in, robes billowing like a curtain caught in a storm. Tall, aging, and unmistakably eccentric, he looked like he hadn’t been seen in daylight for years. He spoke of stars as if they were old lovers and sometimes gossiped about constellations like they were members of the Wizengamot.

“Today,” Starbloom announced, arms flung wide, “we revisit our study of rogue planets!”

Rosalind stifled a groan, nearly face-planting into her mug. Gwen gently nudged it out of the way.

“Yes, yes,” Starbloom went on. “This year, this season, is perfect for spotting a very special rogue planet that’s a personal favorite.”

He giggled, rubbing his hands together. Rosalind exchanged a glance with Gwen. Parisa, naturally, looked ravenous for knowledge.

“Please take out your telescopes and meet me on the observation deck,” Starbloom said, and with a whirl of his cloak, vanished through the tower doors.

An hour later, Rosalind was no closer to spotting the planet than she was to being back in bed with Camille.

“This is hopeless,” she whispered to Gwen. Parisa was on her second cup of coffee and visibly sweating. “I can’t believe you talked me into keeping this class.”

“I was out of my mind,” Gwen said. “Maybe we still drop it?”

A few telescopes down, Potter leaned back and stage-whispered, “Left quadrant, Sallow.”

Seconds later, Starbloom’s voice echoed down the deck: “Well done, Tom! Well done.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes and adjusted her telescope until there it was, a faint shimmer, drifting without anchor, a planet with no sun to orbit.

“Found it, Professor.”

“Well done, Miss Sallow! Would you mind assisting those around you?”

She did, redirecting a grumbling Parisa and a half-asleep Gwen, then slumped back in her seat and tilted her head toward the stars. The heating charm flickered overhead, giving the tower the sticky warmth of a summer night.

“As you can all observe,” Starbloom said dreamily, “this is the rogue planet Nyxira. A daughter of Nyx, who once threw her cloak across the world to bring the night sky.”

He smiled like he knew her personally.

“Nyxira is an anomaly, discovered in 1432 by Seraphina Virelle. She doesn’t orbit a star or a moon or even a dead sun. She drifts. A planet that answers to no one. She appears every few centuries, just long enough to remind us that some paths are ours alone to walk.”

Rosalind looked again. Nyxira drifted across nothing, untethered.

Her magic twitched.

A planet that belonged to no one.

She yawned and looked away.

-.-

Thursday. Morning.

Rosalind looked like hell. She felt worse. Her head throbbed, her chest ached, and her magic felt like it was pacing.

She didn’t even pretend to attempt self-sustaining transfiguration. She slumped in her chair, half-nauseous, watching Gwen and Parisa struggle to keep their daisy-turned-mice from reverting into petals.

Parisa’s mouse twitched, then collapsed back into a flower. She let out a strangled sound, shook her wand furiously, and muttered, “Live, you stupid rat—live.”

Gwen, as always, took a gentler approach. She stroked her mouse like it might respond to kindness.

“Maybe it needs love,” Gwen said.

“How do you explain Nicasia, then?” Rosalind muttered.

Gwen snorted. Even Parisa cracked a manic grin. “Maybe I’ll try turning the mouse into her. Through hate and jealousy, anything is possible. The Parkinson Method.”

Rosalind smiled despite herself, then winced. Her chest still ached.

Across the room, Tom Riddle tapped his wand once against a daisy. It became a mouse instantly. No flourish, no fanfare. The mouse twitched its whiskers and darted forward.

Nott clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, Tom.”

Tom turned, too casually, and gestured at the wilted flower still sitting on Rosalind’s desk.

She gave him a flat shrug. His smirk deepened anyway.

“Yes, well done, Tom,” Dumbledore said, gliding over. His robes whispered across the floor, his expression unreadable. “First in the class to achieve it. But—let’s have a closer look, shall we?”

He opened the pen.

The mouse squeaked—and wilted back into a daisy.

“A clever enchantment,” Dumbledore said mildly. “You charmed the enclosure.”

Tom’s jaw ticked. His fingers flexed like he might hex the daisies into ash.

Rosalind leaned back and let herself smile, just a little.

“Of course, this won’t count for your exams,” Dumbledore added as he turned away. “You’ll need to let the mouse roam free. Still—brilliantly done.”

The praise was clipped.

Tom said nothing.

Class ended soon after.

Rosalind, who hadn’t touched her bag all period, slung it over her shoulder. Gwen and Parisa were already mid-argument about skipping lunch for the library.

“I cannot go back to the library,” Gwen said. “I skipped lunch yesterday and got a migraine in Charms.”

“We’re falling behind,” Parisa snapped. She looked barely tethered to reality.

Rosalind wasn’t listening. Tom Riddle was walking toward her.

He stopped beside her desk with a smile polished to the point of cruelty. She caught the scent of him, palo santo and something darker, expensive. Her head swam.

“Self-sustaining transfiguration beneath you, Sallow?” he asked lightly.

Her magic stirred with interest, like a cat watching something move.

“I’ve barely slept in days,” she said. “Didn’t want to torture the poor thing.”

He hummed. His mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t follow. Dumbledore’s correction still burned.

“You look pale,” he said, studying her. “Are you unwell?”

“Just tired.”

Behind her, Gwen and Parisa had gone very quiet. They didn’t know anything. She hadn’t told them a word. To them, Tom Riddle at their table might as well have been a Ministry official dropping by to flirt.

“Can I walk you to the Great Hall?” he asked.

Her hand tightened on her bag. That felt like a mistake.

“Miss Sallow,” Dumbledore called gently from the front, not quite looking up, “would you stay behind a moment?”

Tom’s smile faltered.

“Of course,” Rosalind said. Then to Tom, with a polite tilt of her head: “Chat after Potions?” She moved past him. Her magic flickered, annoyed or intrigued. She couldn’t tell anymore. She didn’t look back, but she felt the air shift behind her.

“We’ll see you in Potions, Ros,” Gwen called warily. Parisa’s mouth was still hanging open.

“See you,” Rosalind said without turning. She didn’t need to see his face to know he wasn’t pleased. She just kept walking, straight to Dumbledore.

He was tidying the teaching desk, rearranging papers and strange trinkets in a way that made no sense to her. But she waited, hands in her pockets, until the last door clicked shut.

“Professor…?” she asked.

“Are you well, Rosalind?” he said, settling into his chair with a smile.

“I’m—” she hesitated. “Surviving.”

“N.E.W.T.s can be a trying year,” he said. His voice was kind, his eyes sharper than they looked. “Even for gifted students like you.”

“You don’t have to flatter me.”

“Forgive me,” he said mildly. “I wasn’t flattering you.” He paused. “Is there a reason you don’t use your magic in my class?”

“I’m just tired today—”

“Not today,” he interrupted. “And you know which magic I mean.”

“I don’t use it in any class,” she said. Her cheeks burned. How could she explain that when she used it, it shattered things? That without her wand, it was wild, volatile, barely leashed?

Dumbledore’s expression softened. “Does your grandmother know?”

Her spine straightened. Of course she does. She always knows. But knowing and admitting are different things—and Selene had always preferred denial.

“I won’t tell her,” he added. “I’m only curious.”

She studied him. Selene had mentored him once. Her final year, his first. Two of the most formidable minds Hogwarts had seen in the same classroom.

The thought sent a ripple through her. A whisper: History often repeats itself.

She shook it off. “She might know,” she said. “We don’t get into details.”

He nodded. “If it’s not under control,” he said gently, “perhaps it’s time to reconsider the Keepers’ trials.”

The word trial made her stomach twist. She swallowed it down.

“No,” she said quickly. “It is under control. I just… I don’t want to use it. I want to be normal.”

“I’m afraid it’s far too late for that.”

He lifted a hand. A galaxy bloomed across his desk, black sky, scattered stars, constellations she barely recognized. 

A living map of the cosmos.

Rosalind gasped. She reached out, grazing the magic.

It was beautiful.

It made her want something. Power, maybe. Peace. She wasn’t sure which.

“We live here,” he said, pointing. “But there are trillions more. There could be a universe where Rosalind Sallow is the top of her class, performing magic this school hasn’t seen in centuries.”

She smiled faintly, still threading her fingers through stars.

“I’ve taught many brilliant students,” he said. “Some became remarkable. I can do things, things no one else can. Not even your grandmother.” He smiled dryly. “Though don’t tell her I said that. She’s a firecracker.”

“Yes,” Rosalind said, despite herself. “I know.”

“The trick,” he said, watching her, “is confidence.”

She frowned and drew her hand back. “Well, I have very little of that.”

“Well, we both know that’s not true, Rosalind.”

Despite herself, she laughed. “Alright, true.”

“You lack direction, not ability.”

She shrugged at that. Another person telling her she lacked direction. No shit. Rosalind lived her entire life directionless. Easier to sneak away than admit to anything.

“Forgive me—I’m about to ask a bold question.” He waved, and the stars vanished. “What are you afraid of in the trials?”

“Did she write to you?”

Dumbledore chuckled. “She’s written to me twice a week since your fifth year.”

“What’s she saying now?”

“That she’s worried. That the magic is growing. That you’re ignoring it. And that it’s beginning to consume you.”

Rosalind looked away.

“I’ll be honest,” he said. “I share her concern. If you don’t face it—learn it, choose it—it will choose for you. And that is rarely kind.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m not interested in the trials. She knows that.”

“She believes in persuasion. As do I.” His voice was light. His gaze was not. “May I go with you to the Map Chamber this weekend? Sunday, perhaps, once the match is over.”

She hesitated. He was offering to walk her through a door. 

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what was on the other side.

If she said yes, everything might change. If she said no, Selene would come herself.

The door was opening either way.

“…Let me think about it.”

He smiled like he already knew her answer. “Just call for Endy, my House Elf. He’ll pass it along. Now—off to lunch. I’d hate for you to be peaky in Potions.”

He stood, brushing nothing from his robes.

She thought of telling him everything. The journal. The Triptych. The way her magic prickled around Tom Riddle.

But saying it aloud would make it real.

“Thanks for the chat, Professor,” she said, then turned and walked out.

She took the stairs quickly, needing air. In the courtyard, she passed an alcove and spotted Tom Riddle smoking in its shadow. He watched her silently.

She looked back for a second.

Then kept walking.

-.-

Thursday. Before midnight.

Finally.

Just before eleven, Rosalind found a moment to breathe.

Parisa was out cold, snoring softly with one arm flung over the side of her bed. A half-empty mug sat forgotten on her nightstand. Camille lay curled at her feet, tail twitching in some small, contented dream. Across the room, Betsy and Candace slept soundly behind their curtains.

Gwen was the only one still awake, lying on her back with a romance novel borrowed from Rosalind propped on her chest, wand balanced beneath her chin for light.

Rosalind sat on the edge of her bed, rubbing her palms together. She could see the path in her mind like a blueprint: down the Grand Staircase to the Defense Tower, up to the Magical Theory classroom. One quick Alohomora into Thiswell’s cramped little office. In. Out.

Boom. Journal.

“You okay, Ros?” Gwen whispered, glancing up.

“Fine,” she replied, trying to sound unbothered. “Might go for a walk.”

Gwen frowned, closing her book. She pushed herself upright against the headboard, eyes steady. “Rosalind… I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but—you don’t look great.”

“I know.” Rosalind looked away. “I look like shit.”

“No,” Gwen said. “You look like someone else.”

That landed harder than it should’ve, like she’d been caught wearing the wrong face. Rosalind swallowed. Her throat felt tight.

“I just need to clear my head,” she said quickly. “Rough week.”

Gwen studied her. The book was still in her lap, but she wasn’t looking at it anymore. “Do you want me to come with you?”

Rosalind shook her head, forcing a faint smile. “No. Sleep. I’ll be back soon. Just going to run to the kitchens.”

Gwen hesitated. Then, quietly: “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If something was wrong?”

Rosalind opened her mouth, then closed it. Then she lied:. “Of course.”

Gwen didn’t look convinced. But she nodded, slowly, and lay back down.

Rosalind stood. She reached for her cloak and wand, fingers moving automatically. Her eyes drifted to Gwen’s nightstand, neatly stacked parchment, a little blue Ravenclaw pin beside her mug. Safe. Steady. Everything Rosalind wasn’t anymore.

Her heart ached. Gwen didn’t deserve this.

But the truth was a mouthful of glass, and she’d already chosen the lie. She slipped into the corridor and shut the door softly behind her.

The darkness welcomed her back.

-.-

Friday. After midnight.

The castle was dead quiet.

Rosalind’s Disillusionment Charm wasn’t perfect; her elbow flared if she moved too fast, but it was good enough. She kept her body close and low, sliding down the Grand Staircase with all the focus of a thief.

The portraits snored. A few muttered nonsense. None stirred.

She caught the Defense Tower steps just before they shifted out of reach, boots hitting stone with a muted thud . No ghosts. No prefects. The corridors stretched open like they wanted her to pass.

Good. Let them. If fate wanted her to steal the journal, she’d oblige.

Sleep dragged at her bones. Every bench she passed looked like a bed. Her knees wobbled on the fourth landing, and for one awful second, she nearly stopped. Nearly lay down. But her jaw clenched, her teeth clicked, and she pushed forward.

Her magic whispered behind her ribs.

The corridor to Magical Theory gleamed silver under the full-length windows. She slipped through the doors. The classroom reeked of troll sweat and incense.

Later, she thought. Burn it all later.

The stairwell was ahead. She dropped the Disillusionment Charm and raised her wand.

“Alohomora,” she breathed.

Click. The door to Thiswell’s office swung open—and hit her in the face with a wave of stench.

It was worse than she imagined. Books stacked like barricades. Scrolls spilling like entrails. The hearth was choked with ash. The only usable chair was Thiswell’s, buried behind a fortress of theory and tea mugs.

Rosalind picked her way through the mess and dropped into the chair. It groaned beneath her. No time for subtlety.

“ Accio journal! ”

It was the wrong move.

At least ten books exploded out of the shelves like banshees. She dove to the floor just in time; two collided above her head, and another smacked her hard in the spine.

“ Fuck— ” she hissed, rolling onto her back.

The books thudded to the ground, spilling open: magical theory, alchemy, unfinished manuscripts. One had a flower sticker. Another had notes about wand cores.

But one—black, worn, soft in her hands—made her freeze.

She flipped the cover open.

Miriam S. Fig.

Her breath caught.

She didn’t hesitate. The journal went into her robes. She pulled the Disillusionment Charm back over herself and bolted.

Down the stairs. Across the landing. Toward the Grand Staircase—and stopped.

The corridor to the Undercroft yawned open beside her. She stared at it, panting.

Ten minutes to Ravenclaw Tower. Two to the Undercroft. She turned.

Once inside, she dropped the charm, tossed the journal beside the moth-eaten sofa, and ripped the blanket down from the portrait. Her legs folded on instinct. The second her body hit the cushions, her eyes shut.

Sleep slammed into her like a stunning spell.

She didn’t feel the air shift.

Didn’t see the light in the Triptych change. Didn’t notice the figure stepping through the frame. Magic rippled over her skin.

But Rosalind was already too far gone.

Chapter Text

A reporter shoved a camera in Rosalind’s face.

“Miss Sallow—any comments for the Prophet? Will your brother beat his personal record?”

The camera flashed, blinding her. Rosalind blinked, the light burning into her vision. Someone—Gwen or Parisa—yanked her aside.

“Merlin, he was forceful,” Gwen muttered. “Just blink.”

Rosalind squinted against the glare of the snow.

“Ahhh!” she cried, her eyes watering. Her pulse quickened. In her bones, she felt it stir, a current rose in her chest. Her fingers tingled, and the hair at her neck stood on end.

No. Not now. Not here.

Her magic surged, mistaking the light for an attack. It reached for something to strike.

“Fuck,” she muttered, clenching her fists. She willed it down. Breathing in, breathing out. Down. Down. Down.

"Vultures," Parisa hissed. "How long’s he been here? Dippet should’ve banned them."

They’d just stepped out of breakfast. Chaos had already taken hold, Gryffindors chanting fight songs over sausages. The powder keg of Slytherin versus Gryffindor had exploded, leaving chaos in its wake. And blinding spots in Rosalind’s eyes.

“Miss Sallow… Miss Sallow!” The reporter’s voice pierced the air. She saw a black blur behind the flash, moving toward her again. Rosalind blinked rapidly, struggling to clear her vision.

She was still exhausted, but it was better than earlier in the week. She’d had a pep in her step—until this pest ruined it.

Now, her ancient magic burned in her fingertips. She could’ve flayed this prick alive if she wanted to, but a life behind bars in Azkaban didn’t sound so good. 

"You look great in green!" the reporter continued. "Do you regret not being in Slytherin, your family's house?"

"Ugh," Rosalind muttered, blinking again. She saw the reporter, now shielded by Gwen and Parisa. His camera was raised again, ready to blind her once more.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shake off the sensation. “No comment. No pictures. Talk to my family’s publicist,” she said, her voice sharp. A phrase learned too young, right alongside the art of masking public expectation. Not like that would’ve stopped him, but Parisa, thinking quickly, cast a bubble charm, entrapping them all in a distorted bubble.

Outside the bubble, the reporter frowned, lowering his camera. “Your loss, sweetheart,” he muttered, waddling off.

Rosalind exhaled sharply. Her magic coiled at the edges of her awareness, restless. They waited a minute before Parisa popped the giant bubble with a GLURP!

Four ancient magic spots. Last night, she and the magic had Apparated between four ruins in Cragcroft. Each time, pain followed by pleasure. She was stronger than ever before. And even more out of control.

Rosalind’s tether to reality was slipping. A sick feeling churned in her stomach. Gwen and Parisa turned, fussing over her. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Did he touch you anywhere?”

“No, no,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I’m fine.”

Her vision returned, but the pounding in her head persisted, and her magic settled behind her left eyebrow, a sharp reminder. Gwen pressed her hands to Rosalind’s face, then rubbed her shoulders.

“You’re so tense,” she said. 

Rosalind couldn’t take her seriously, especially with the enchanted ribbons in Gwen’s hair. Gold for Gryffindor.

Her gaze flicked to the ribbons, spinning madly around Gwen’s ears. They made quite the pair. 

Gwen, decked out in Gryffindor regalia, a red cloak borrowed from Varinia, a Gryffindor scarf from her boyfriend, Otis Thistlewood, and those ridiculous ribbons. She also had Tugwood and Thistlewood written somewhere on her arms, a good luck charm she’d read about in Witchy Weekly.

Rosalind, however, had dressed in green for Benedict. If she’d known it would cause such a stir, she would’ve worn dull robes instead. Instead, she wore a long dark green cloak, a Slytherin scarf, and new dragon-hide boots from Gladrags. She also sported a pin from one of Benedict’s friends, Hestia Greengrass, that flashed ‘Sweet-on-Sallow’ every few seconds. Rosalind had tried to get Parisa to charm it to say something less ridiculous for an older sister, but Parisa (dressed in Ravenclaw blue) had refused.

Unfortunately, it matched nearly exactly with the she-wolves walking straight toward them.

“Incoming,” Rosalind muttered.

Parisa and Gwen stiffened.

Nicasia and her cronies—Veronika, Druella, and Amalthea—sauntered toward them. Their expensive boots kicked up fresh snow with every step, and a group of fourth-year Hufflepuffs had to dive out of the way to avoid them.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Nicasia drawled. She was draped in a deep green, fur-lined cloak, a ridiculous ‘Mad-for-Malfoy!’ pin glinting on her chest. Druella’s cloak boasted two: ‘Mad-for-Malfoy!’ and ‘Sweet-on-Sallow!’ “Any chance to get your name out there.”

Rosalind turned slowly, fixing Nicasia with an unfazed look. “Yes, Parkinson. I lie awake at night, dreaming of my name in the Prophet. That’s why I told him to leave me alone.”

Veronika sidled in beside Gwen, both of their wands drawn.

Tension thickened the air.

“For Merlin’s sake,” Parisa hissed, snatching Gwen’s wand out of her hand in one fluid motion.

Rosalind didn’t blink. Her gaze stayed on Nicasia.

“What do you want?”

She wasn’t in the mood for this. Her family was likely already down by the pitch, and Rosalind had to keep her magic in check if she was going to be around Selene. But it was Amalthea’s eyes that dipped to the green and silver of Rosalind’s cloak. 

She snarled, “Who said you could wear green?”

Rosalind smiled. “Oh, forgive me. I forgot you owned the color.”

“To be fair,” Gwen muttered, fingers tugging at Rosalind’s sleeve as if to pull her away. “You do hate Slytherins most of the time.”

“Only when they’re being stupid,” Rosalind said, eyes never leaving Amalthea. “Which is… all the time.”

“No, seriously,” Amalthea sneered, stepping into the space usually reserved for Druella, who now stood unnervingly still, her eyes fixed on something over Rosalind’s shoulder. “You slag us off all year, and suddenly you’re draped in green because we might win?”

“My brother is the reason your bird-brained house might win,” Rosalind said, her voice as cold as the air between them. “You remember him, right? Tall? Freckly? Savior to the institution of Quidditch?”

Veronika snorted. “Oh, we remember him. Just the other night, in fact, hopped up on Devil’s Snare, telling Dru she was a goddess of the moon or some rot. What was it you called him? A little sun god? Or moon prince?”

Rosalind’s blood turned to fire, and her breath left her in a sharp exhale. Something snapped.

“What did you just say about my brother?” she snarled, moving without thinking, shoving her way into the group. 

Her body surged forward with a speed that surprised even her. There was a sound of crunching snow, scattered shoes, and Gwen’s startled gasp. Rosalind didn’t see them. She only saw Druella —her face was the one that needed to pay.

“Back up,” Nicasia snapped, her voice sharp and biting. “Calm down. You’re making a scene, Sallow.”

A wand-tip pressed hard against Rosalind’s throat.

Her magic roared to life. It didn’t just rise, though. It was desperate, clawing at her from the inside. It pulsed with an almost primal need to destroy. It wanted a fight.

Her hands burned with the urge to lash out, to make them feel the raw power coiling beneath her skin. Her chest tightened, a sharp pull in her ribs, and for a fleeting, terrible moment, she wanted to unleash it all.

Let them see what Rosalind Sallow is really capable of.

She blinked. The wand-tip glittered in her blurry vision. Nicasia’s face looked wrong, too close, too perfect, too clean. 

Too easy to ruin.

“Back up,” Nicasia repeated, her voice colder now.

Rosalind didn’t move. She could hear Parisa shouting behind her, but it was muffled, distant, like she was underwater. Her whole world narrowed to the sharp tip of the wand against her skin and the violent thrum of magic at her fingertips.

She could do it. It brought a little smile to her face. She could burn Nicasia Parkinson to a crisp.

Then, hands grabbed her cloak, jerking her backward.

The cold air hit her, snapping her back to reality. Snow crunched beneath her boots. Wind stung her teeth. The girls crowded around her, their voices a blur.

“Nicasia, relax,” Druella snapped, pushing the wand still aimed at Rosalind’s throat. “And Veronika, don’t be an idiot. You both know I slept with Abraxas that night. The night he gave me that hickey that wouldn’t go away. Remember? I had to go to the hospital wing because it had pixie dust in it?”

Nicasia flinched, her wand lowering slightly. Veronika sighed, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, right,” she drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. Rosalind’s fingers itched for a fight. But the moment defused itself for now.

Parisa pulled her back, and Gwen added her hands, tugging at Rosalind’s sleeve. “Ros. Let’s go.”

They dragged her a few steps, her boots slipping in the snow as she tried to regain her footing.

“I don’t even get how Lestrange is related to her,” Veronika said, twisting a strand of hair around her finger, her lip curling. Her ‘Loving Lestrange’ pin shimmered. “They’re nothing alike.”

Nicasia snorted. “No. Ares has class. This one’s just a dirty little rat who thought she could climb out of the sewer for the day.”

A dark fury surged inside Rosalind. Her blood turned to ice, her ears ringing. Her vision narrowed, focusing on Nicasia with a terrifying clarity.

“Ares,” she mocked, her voice high and sing-songy. “Ares. Aww, you sound like you’re in love, Parkinson.”

Nicasia’s smirk faltered, but Rosalind wasn’t finished.

“Is that what you call him when you’re tonguing each other?” she spat.

“Rosalind—” Gwen gasped, but Rosalind didn’t stop.

“Does he call you Nicky? Or does he call you my name—”

The blood drained from Nicasia’s face. Veronika looked like she’d been slapped, and for a moment, Rosalind almost relished the silence.

“I am not sleeping with Lestrange,” Nicasia hissed, voice sharp with humiliation.

“Don’t sound so defensive,” Rosalind called after them, her laugh ringing through the courtyard as Gwen and Parisa yanked her away. Her boots left shallow gouges in the snow.

The Slytherin girls huddled together behind them, hissing and whispering, clearly shaken. Veronika’s finger pressed into Nicasia’s chest while Nicasia’s hand balled into a fist at her side.

Once they were halfway down the path, she straightened and dusted the snow from her sleeves, a smirk firmly in place.

“Well,” she said, her breath fogging the air, “that’ll keep them busy.”

Gwen stopped. She turned slowly, in utter disbelief at what had just happened. “You nearly exploded. You didn’t just snarl—you were ready to bite Nicasia’s face off.”

“You had your wand out, too,” Rosalind said, laughing.

“Yes, to shield, you lunatic! What was that? You’re usually snarky, but this—” She paused, struggling to find the words. “You were feral back there.”

“Just hot-headed, I guess?” Rosalind said. Her smile faltered at Gwen’s genuinely terrified expression. Parisa eyed her like she’d sprouted claws. Rosalind continued, “They were implying Druella—”

“Yes, obviously to make you angry,” Parisa said flatly. “And it worked. Merlin, look at you.”

Rosalind fell silent.

Her fingers twitched, magic crackling at her palms. The urge to maim burned through her. The magic whispered curses, dark things she wanted to do to Nicasia Parkinson.

“Breathe,” Gwen said, her hands settling on Rosalind’s shoulders again. “You’re steaming.”

Rosalind tried to breathe, but her mind was consumed with vengeance. Rip them to shreds.

“Here,” Parisa said, stepping into Gwen’s place and grabbing Rosalind by the shoulders. She shook her violently, the force rattling Rosalind’s skull. “Get. A. Grip!”

Parisa’s hands jolted her back to reality. Rosalind blinked, then drew in a shaky breath.

“I guess I spiraled a little,” she muttered, trying to ground herself.

“You guess?” Parisa asked, incredulous. “Come on. Let’s go. I don’t want you anywhere near those hags again today.”

Rosalind followed them down the path, head still spinning. As they walked, she flexed her fingers, trying to shake off the lingering tension. The twitching had stopped, but the burn remained like a pulled muscle. 

What was that? She hadn’t meant to go that far. The words had just spilled out. She glanced at Gwen and Parisa, both quiet. Both wary. Neither speaking. Rosalind swallowed. Her mouth was dry.

She could’ve smoked Nicasia’s head clean off with her raw ancient magic. That wouldn’t have been the worst thing, honestly. A smirk tugged at her lips. The thought amused her. It was almost as satisfying as the exploded cottage.

And then she heard someone approaching from behind. 

Rosalind turned, wand already in her hand, ready to defend against whichever Slytherin girl was stupid enough to follow them out here. It was practically a death wish.

But it wasn’t a Slytherin girl. It was–

“Alfie?” Rosalind gasped.

“Hiya, Sallow,” he grinned.

Alfie Black stood a few paces up the path, wearing a green Slytherin Quidditch jersey and a shit-eating grin.

Gwen and Parisa turned, and one of them made a strangled sound. Rosalind’s cheeks burned.  Guilt raced through her.

“Hey,” she said awkwardly. 

Alfie looked between her and the girls, his smile never faltering. No cracks. Only pleasantries.

“Borrow you for a chat?”

“Uh, sure, of course,” she said quickly. 

Did he say he was going to be here today? Had she forgotten it that easily? They’d only seen each other a week ago. Did he mention it? Did it fade away in her Tom-Riddle-escapades after their broom closet shag?

Then Parisa muttered, “You have got to be kidding me, Rosalind.”

Alfie looked between them, still smiling. “I’ll bring her back to you, don’t you worry. She’s in good hands.” As if that would appease Parisa Eldridge, who had her arms folded over her chest and looked like she might scalp Rosalind for this.

Why was she keeping this secret from them again? Why did it matter that she was seeing Alfie? Had it made it hotter? The sex better?

Rosalind couldn’t remember as Alfie placed his warm hand on her lower back and guided her off the path, down toward the edge of the forest.

“You good, Sallow?” he asked, his eyes darting around them. “They looked like they might hex our heads off.”

“They might,” Rosalind replied. “But I’m fine. I just got into a spat with some Slytherin girls a few minutes ago.”

“I saw,” he said, his grin spreading as they moved down the hill. “It was really fucking hot.”

Rosalind flushed, forcing a grin. “You like that, Black?”

“It would’ve been hotter if you all were in your underwear,” he said. “And someone was yelling Oh no, stop it!”

Rosalind swatted at him, but they came to the edge of the forest, and Alfie grabbed her by the waist instead.

And then stuck his tongue in her throat.

Rosalind didn’t know why, but it came as a complete and utter surprise. Her boyfriend—secret boyfriend—tonguing her like this. His hands were running along her waist, and then they cupped her bum. Like really cupped it. Like he was trying to lift her into the air and get her to wrap her legs around him.

She tried. She really did. She launched herself up, arms around his neck, but they stumbled a bit, and his back hit a tree.

He laughed, the wind knocked out of him for a moment.

“Not your best move,” she said, straightening and stepping out of his arms.

“I think we’re better in closets,” he said with a crooked grin. 

Rosalind stared at him. Really stared. He was cute, though so much less so than she remembered. His face was so angular, all sharp edges and fast, paranoid eyes. Had he always done that, looked around like he expected someone to jump out from behind the nearest tree and go boo!?

He was tall but thin and wiry. His hair was long and shaggy. He was a twenty-one-year-old man shagging an eighteen-year-old Hogwarts student in broom closets.

Rosalind blinked at him and then realized how long she’d just been staring.

“Try again,” she said, her practiced smile falling into place. She slid her fingers over her chest and blinked up at him through her lashes. “Come on now.”

He laughed and stepped forward. This time, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her against his body. He kissed her, much better, but–

It didn’t feel the same. In fact, it felt wrong.

Her magic huffed, like it had enough of this, thank you very much, and retreated back into that place in her mind where it throbbed. Consistently.

“I’ve never done it in the forest before,” he said against her lips. “Do you want to try?”

Rosalind imagined lifting her skirt and bending over a tree log and letting Alfie Black fuck her from behind. The thought made her stomach twist. The scene played out like a tawdry romance novel. 

She almost laughed at how utterly… ridiculous it was. 

“No,” she said truthfully, detangling their mouths. 

He pulled back. “I was only joking,” he said. But it was a lie. He hadn’t been joking. He’d thought she would want him to do that. Fuck her against a tree for a few minutes before they went their separate ways. And wasn’t that …

Absolutely disappointing.

She expected the guilt to devour her whole, seeing him again. She’d spent the last week flirting with Tom Riddle. The thought of seeing Alfie again might make her feel terrible. She had once imagined them after school, dating openly, going to shows and dinners and parties. But now? 

The thought of their future was… boring . Like a film with an uninspiring ending.

“My family is waiting,” she said, running her fingers through her hair and adjusting it against her robes. “They’ll know I’m off somewhere doing something shady .”

His smile matched hers. False. Fake. Performed.

“Yeah, alright, Sallow.”

His oakmoss cologne, sweeter than it should’ve been, clung to him, but it didn’t do a thing to stir her. It smelled a little gross.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked. Still smiling.

“Oh, just peachy,” she said. Still matching his smile. “Nerves for today. Big game.”

“Your brother is going to do great,” he said. “I heard there are scouts for at least seven teams here. The department has a bet that he’ll go professional next year.”

“You think?” she asked. But she was already checking back over the path to where Gwen and Parisa were still waiting for her. She couldn’t believe it, but she’d rather face their wrath than spend another moment faking it with Alfie.

“Will you be going to the Three Broomsticks after?” she asked, knowing the answer.

“Ah, can’t,” he said. “Party at a pub in London tonight, it’s my mate’s birthday.”

“Write soon?” she asked, and then waited.

End it , she thought. Dump me. 

But Alfie just smiled and leaned forward, capturing her lips with his again. “I’ll write you, Sallow. All the filthy things I think about when we’re apart.”

Something inside her went cold. Her ancient magic stirred, resentful of the kiss, as if it recognized the lie. The energy was distant, like a thing that had been locked away too long, but still, it burned against her skin.

And for a second, she thought: If this had been Tom, the castle might’ve burned down already.

Oh, Merlin. She was doomed.

-.-

Rosalind spotted Gwen and Parisa just beyond the stands, standing like twin sentinels, arms crossed. They were flanked by a swarm of chattering students in scarves and House gear. The pitch had never been this packed, students in clashing colors, professors already tipsy, banners bobbing overhead like sea flags in a storm.

The Hogwarts band was butchering the school anthem, brass horns colliding with Gryffindor girls shrieking their fight song in half-pitched falsetto. Steam curled off the rows of enchanted tents lining the path, each one buzzing with heating charms. House-elves in festive cloaks floated through the chaos with trays of butterbeer and hot chocolate.

Neither girl looked thrilled to see her. Parisa seemed one eye twitch away from marching back to the castle. Gwen looked like she’d bite someone’s hand off.

“You—” Gwen jabbed a finger into Rosalind’s chest, voice sharp. “I cannot believe you’ve had a secret boyfriend. I ought to—”

But her words collapsed.

Selene Sallow was approaching.

The crowd parted instinctively. Selene moved with preternatural grace, almost like she was floating . She wore Slytherin-green robes threaded with silver, her silver-gray hair pinned into an impossibly perfect chignon, expression unreadable. Always unreadable.

Behind her was Sebastian, handsome and swaggering as ever, followed by Rosalind’s parents. Octavia wore a tailored forest-green coat with fur cuffs and a matching hat, curls tucked just so. Ominis trailed behind with a sign that read, Sock ‘em Sallow!

“Rosalind!” Sebastian roared, sweeping her into a hug that compressed most of her spine. He smelled of pipe smoke and the cologne Octavia had bought him last Christmas. It made him smell slightly less like an ancient tomb.

“Wearing the family colors, I see!” he boomed, tugging on her scarf.

“Just for today,” Rosalind said into his lapel. but warmth bloomed in her chest despite herself.

“Let me see her.” Octavia elbowed Sebastian aside. “Come here, darling—you look exhausted. Have you been eating? You’ve got that Hollowed-Out Heroine look again.”

Before she could reply, she was passed like a particularly expensive parcel into her mother’s arms, kissed twice, and powdered once. Her father followed with a brief, grounding hug. just long enough to say I missed you , without saying it aloud.

By the time she surfaced, Gwen and Parisa were still glaring. Sebastian, charming bastard that he was, had thrown an arm around each of them like a distraction grenade. 

Rosalind, of course, was grateful.

“Big match today!” Ominis chirped, turning toward the tents.

Parisa didn’t reply. Her arms were still folded. Her glare could’ve turned butterbeer to vinegar.

“And what, may I ask, are you wearing, Gwenore?” Sebastian bellowed, tugging one of her ribbons like it personally insulted him.

“Grandad,” Rosalind groaned.

Selene silenced him with one hand on his shoulder.

Rosalind stepped toward her without thinking. Selene opened her arms, deceptively soft in her sleek robes, and Rosalind folded into the embrace. But it wasn’t warm.

Selene was trying to feel it —the ancient magic writhing inside her.

When they pulled apart, Selene’s eyes flicked up and down her face. No words. No smile. Just that look. I know you’re up to something.

Rosalind had seen that expression too many times: when she snuck biscuits after dinner, when she wrote letters to that boy in America who definitely wasn’t sixteen, and when she refused to enter the Keepers’ trials.

Now, the same cool disappointment.

Her fingers twitched. The magic curled low. Sulking.

She couldn’t take it.

Spinning on her heel, she grabbed Octavia’s arm with one hand and Gwen’s fingers with the other.

“Have you seen Gwen’s ribbons?” she asked brightly. “Mum, you think you could do that to my hair?”

Octavia blinked. “Enchant waving ribbons into your hair?”

“She’s mocking me!” Gwen gasped, swatting Rosalind’s arm.

“I would never,” Rosalind said, voice high and cheerful, grabbing one of Gwen’s bouncing pigtails. “Although you wouldn’t be out of place in a Punch and Judy show—”

It worked.

The tension broke. Ominis veered off toward Selene. Sebastian started narrating loudly about the upcoming match, one arm still slung over Gwen’s shoulder. Rosalind kept laughing. It felt brittle in her throat, but it kept people moving.

“Alright, alright,” Ominis called. “Three Broomsticks tent is down there—move quick or we’ll be stuck with pumpkin fizz.”

Rosalind’s boots crunched over frost as she followed, almost relaxed, until someone yanked her wrist.

Parisa.

“Walk with me,” she said. “Half a step behind.”

They drifted toward the rear.

“I’m furious with you,” Parisa said under her breath. “Not annoyed. Not inconvenienced. Furious. And if your absurdly perfect mother hadn’t distracted me with compliments and alcohol, I’d have marched back to the castle and hidden your library books. So you’d get late fees for years.”

Rosalind winced. “I’ll explain everything.”

“You’d better.” Parisa’s voice was deadly quiet. “And not in that charming, tragic, half-truth way that lets you walk away clean.”

Gwen turned, her smile all teeth. “You’re coming to the Gryffindor victory party.”

“Oh, that’s cruel,” Rosalind said.

“You’ll wear red,” Gwen added.

“You deserve it,” Parisa muttered, but she was smiling now.

And Rosalind, for once, let them lead. A win was a win.

-.-

He hadn’t planned on attending. Spectacle bored him. Hysteria, even more so. But something about today felt inevitable.

Quidditch meant nothing. Legacy, dominion, immortality, that was the pursuit. And yet he’d polished his badge. Straightened his cloak. Watched the pitch like it owed him something.

It was an acceptable pastime, he supposed, if you were a brutish, athletically minded dullard with nothing better to do, like Abraxas and Ares, who had spent the entire week droning on about the match, as if it were the difference between life and death. 

As if they were soldiers, and this match was some tide-turning battle. They taunted Gryffindors in the corridors, urged younger students to pick fights. Stirring chaos for the thrill of it.

Tom had endured one of their tirades in the library. Eventually, he’d wordlessly jinxed them,  enough to make their feet sweat profusely in their boots. Abraxas, to his credit, shut up. Ares, predictably, blamed ghosts.

He now sat between Nicasia and Paris. The former kept stealing glances at him from the corner of her eye, hoping she might catch his and have an opportunity to blush prettily. Earn another kiss. The latter was so jittery he let out high-pitched squeaks every time Gryffindor gained the quaffle.

They occupied the front row of the Slytherin upperclassmen section, the premier seats, reserved just for them. Behind him, Mulciber and Mars were screaming like drunken football fans, urging Ares to “beat that redhead bitch with the bludger” and Sallow to “go, go, fucking go!”

Tom could still hear them over the roaring crowd. Loud and stupid. His Knights were often so fucking stupid.

Leo had disappeared ten minutes earlier to buy firewhiskey off a Slytherin alumnus, and thank Merlin for that, his constant stream of statistics had nearly caused Tom to jinx his feet to sweat profusely. 

Or something more permanent.

There was also the usual crackling between Nicasia and Veronika. A little war of attrition. Veronika was sharp enough, cold and cruel, but she lacked stamina. She’d always fold. 

But today, something was different. Nicasia looked unsettled, like she didn’t know what Veronika might say, or worse, what she might already know. Tom didn’t need to guess. He already knew it was about Ares. 

It always was. Sex. Power. Dominance. Who wore the best coat, who said the most cutting thing, who fucked whom in the Astronomy Tower. They’d both been screwing Lestrange since Halloween, and neither knew about the other. It was all a game, and a dull one at that. 

Unlike Druella, neither of them enjoyed sharing .

“GET ‘EM BRAX!” Mulciber screamed from behind him. Tom resisted the urge to flinch.

Slytherin was up, thanks entirely to Benedict Sallow, who was as good as everyone claimed. Tom had heard Abraxas and Ares talk about him like he was Merlin’s gift to Quidditch. They weren’t far off. The boy moved like the wind, cutting through the sky with unnerving precision.

Druella certainly seemed impressed. She gave a soft, almost obscene little whine as she leaned over the railing, fingers curled tight.

“It’s a pity he’s only fifteen.”

“He turns sixteen soon,” Veronika purred. “Just wait a few months, Dru.”

“I think Rosalind Sallow might actually kill me then,” Druella sighed. “Although that might be fun.”

Her name activated something in him.

“What do you mean by that, Druella?” he asked.

Druella flushed at her name on his lips, and then said, “Nothing, Tom.”

Nicasia answered instead. “Sallow was a fucking animal back in the courtyard. Accused Dru of shagging Benedict and went feral. She’s like some untrained Kneazle someone’s decided to keep as a pet.”

“Nicasia handled it,” Amalthea offered, bored. “Wand to the chin. Quite the sight.”

“Handled it,” Veronika scoffed. “Sallow had to be dragged away by her half-blood friend.”

The girls turned on each other, knives out.

Tom smiled faintly, his mind conjuring images of Rosalind Sallow, half-feral, attacking the lot of them in the courtyard.

It was obscenely hot . Something that could sustain at least several wanks for the next week.

At that thought, he scowled.

Nicasia glared at Veronika. “Oh, because you did anything to stop her?”

“She wasn’t coming after my head.”

Tugwood zoomed past them on her broom, quaffle in hand, and looped around Ares, narrowly avoiding his bat before launching the ball past the Slytherin Keeper.

“Nooooo!” Paris cried, clutching the railing like it physically pained him. “Noooooo!”

“It’s ten points, fucker,” Mulciber grunted, smacking Rosier’s head. “Sallow’ll have triple that in ten minutes—”

He wasn’t wrong. Benedict Sallow already had the quaffle again, slicing through scarlet like a knife, and scored another ten points before the Gryffindors could even react.

Tom didn’t clap. His mind had drifted elsewhere, as it frequently did these days, back to her.

Rosalind Sallow. That night in the prefect’s baths had replayed in his thoughts with maddening regularity. 

Not just the image of her—flushed cheeks, voice sharp as a Diffindo—but the magic.  That wild, coiling thing beneath her skin. He’d felt it. Seen it spark. Whatever that silverly ghost behind her eyes was, it was strong. Untamed.

What was it? Magic waiting to be released? Inherited magic, perhaps? Like how he could speak Parseltongue? 

His mind raced again. Who were the Aldertons? Related to Morgana? Merlin? A great wizard centuries and centuries ago?

He thought of the silvery flicker in her eyes. 

Her voice, that sound on the staircase, half gasp, half protest. 

He thought of it in bed. In the shower. Between one breath and the next.

Over and over and over again.

He’d thought about pressing her, finding her, and making her do those things. But she’d been… off. 

It was an understatement. Since Monday, she’d looked nothing like herself. Paler than usual. Dark circles beneath her usually cunning eyes. Half-asleep in class. Absent from the library. He’d passed her outside Charms two days ago, slumped over her bag like she couldn't be bothered to return to her dorm for a nap. Like something inside her wasn’t ticking quite right.

He liked puzzles. 

He’d crack her open and see what was inside. Fix it, if it appealed to him. Break it further, if that did too. Piece her back together, carefully, slowly, until she fit just the way he wanted.

“There you are,” Mars snapped, jarring him from his thoughts. “About fucking time.”

Leo came stumbling through the row, balancing five butterbeers with his wand, sloshing them dangerously with every step. Tom flicked his wand lazily, shielding himself from the inevitable splash just as Rosier reached to grab two.

“The line was ages long,” Leo grumbled, flopping into his seat. “A fight broke out between old players. Two Seekers. One of them was bleeding from the nose.”

“Brilliant. Hope it was the Gryffindor,” Mulciber muttered, halfway through his drink already.

Tom didn’t bother with the butterbeer. It was revolting. Syrupy, made for children. When Rosier tried to hand him one, he ignored him.

Which was why Leo, ever the loyal dog, reached into his robes and handed Tom the flask. 

He unscrewed the top and drank deeply. The whiskey hit the back of his throat and warmed his chest, dulling the edge of his irritation, muffling Mars and Mulciber’s inane chatter. It softened everything into a tolerable blur. 

Attached to the flask was a folded piece of parchment, the mission he’d sent Leo on. Tom peeled it open without ceremony.

Ten thousand galleons.

His mouth twitched. Steep. He pocketed the note.

“THERE IT IS! DOLOHOV’S SEEN THE SNITCH!”

The announcer—some overexcited Hufflepuff with a voice like sandpaper—screeched through the stands. The crowd surged forward like animals scenting blood. Slytherin was up by sixty. If Dolohov snagged the snitch, it would be one of the fastest Gryffindor versus Slytherin matches in recent history.

“He’s got it! He’s got it!” Mars shouted, practically vibrating.

“ Oh FUCK!” Amalthea echoed.

Then, an eruption of groans. The crowd deflated all at once. Dolohov had missed it.

“Fucking hell!” Mulciber yelled, his butterbeer sloshing onto Rosier. “Fucking Merlin’s tits!”

Their despair was short-lived. Benedict Sallow scored again with supernatural ease, followed by another eruption of cheers.

“He’s a third of the way to beating his own record—” Leo started.

Insufferable.

Tom stood, straightening his cloak. The others were still screaming.

He slid the flask into his pocket as Nicasia blinked at him. “Are you leaving?” He stepped away from the front row, weaving through the stands toward the staircase below. The noise followed him, foul chants, laughter. A professor would arrive soon to scold them, and as Head Boy, he’d be expected to do it himself.

He didn’t care to. He was on his way to the Ministry section.

He hadn’t wanted to see the Malfoys, but politics demanded tribute, and boredom demanded blood. Besides—she was here. Somewhere. He could feel it. Like a spell stretched taut, just shy of snapping. An odd thing, to be so aware of someone at all times, but Tom was tuned to Rosalind Sallow as if she carried a beacon in her pocket.

He’d seen the Malfoys walk in with the Minister for Magic, Leonard Spencer Moon, just before the match. It would be impolite not to say hello. Or so they’d think. They did, after all, treat him like a second son. Invited him over for nearly every school holiday. Sent birthday presents and surprise gifts.

He intended to keep it that way.

Outside, on the grass behind the pitch, he slipped past the refreshments queue and toward the elevated Ministry stands. Joseph Mallow stood at the base of the stairs, puffed up and postured like a guard dog.

Tom smirked as he passed him without slowing. Mallow didn’t even try to stop him.

At the top of the stairs, he found the Malfoys seated near the front. Armand and Amortia: both blond, both brittle. Handsome in that delicate, overbred way all his friends’ aristocratic parents seemed to be. Both peering down at the crowd like everyone else carried disease.

Amortia’s painted face brightened when she saw him. “Oh, Tom!” she gasped, arms outstretched. 

He let himself be pulled into a cloud of rose perfume and fur. She was tall and thin and birdlike, all angles, lacquered nails. He wrapped his arms around her politely, like a son might. It was almost convincing.

He didn’t particularly like the Malfoys. Armand was dim and obsessed with being seen. Amortia was usually glazed over on “calming tinctures”—or, as Abraxas once muttered, mother’s special potions.

But they had power. They opened doors. And Tom didn’t mind smiling while someone handed him keys.

“Well met, Tom,” Armand said, shaking his hand stiffly. “How have you been?”

“Well, sir,” Tom replied. “Great match.”

“Great match,” Armand echoed, already glancing back at the pitch. His son hovered on the other side of the field, bat in hand, smirking as he launched a bludger toward Fleamont Potter. “Abraxas’ swing has improved this year.”

“I hear there’s a scout from the Magpies,” Tom said, letting his voice drop conspiratorially. He smiled. “I’ve heard they need a beater next year.”

Armand laughed like it was a shared joke, like the idea of a Malfoy playing Quidditch professionally was too absurd to insult him.

“Tom, darling,” Amortia cooed, clutching his arm. “You’ve grown stronger, haven’t you? Have you been fencing? Or something… more physical?” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’ve got Beater’s shoulders now.”

He gave a shy smile. “Oh, no, Mrs. Malfoy—”

“Call me Amortia,” she whispered, too close. “Or mother, you know.”

“I thought I saw you with the Minister earlier, Armand?”

Armand exhaled, irritated. “He left. Said he needed a word with Selene Sallow.”

That made them both frown. The Sallows had always made them uneasy. Muggle sympathizers. Selene’s rise to power. Her appointment of that mudblood assistant. That whole Department of Ministries shake-up—

He didn’t need to finish the thought. His gaze had already drifted…. and there she was.

Rosalind Sallow.

Dressed in green. Screaming like a mad thing as her brother scored again.

Laughing. Clapping. Hair wild in the wind.

And then she saw him.

Their eyes locked. Her mouth twitched. Her smirk returned, like armor sliding into place.

It took no effort at all to turn back to the Malfoys and say, with a pleasant smile, “It was wonderful to see you both. I can’t wait for Easter.”

Then he turned and left before they could respond,before the look finished forming on Amortia’s face.

Rosalind watched as he ascended the stairs toward her. Squeezed between her mother, Eldridge, and Weasley, she glowed in a sea of faces. Mask on tightly, cool and practiced, just like she was.

She wore it well. But he knew it wasn’t real. He longed to see her raw—see the thing inside her pulse and break and answer him.

He slipped past a cluster of Ministry officials, jostling just enough to knock a full butterbeer from an old witch’s grip. She shrieked as the foam soaked her robes. He smiled. She flushed, mortified, and apologized to him .

And then—

“Tom!” Rosalind called, waving a hand elegantly in his direction. She shifted toward her mother just slightly, creating a space beside her.

“You make a better door than a window,” she said. “Sit.”

He did, slipping into the gap between her and Eldridge. He fit perfectly.

“Rosalind,” he said. “Green suits you. You look well.”

She tilted her head, a smirk just shy of a smile. Her hand slid down the front of her cloak, slow and almost self-conscious—like she was seeing it for the first time.

“This old thing?” she said lightly. “It was clean. And Slytherin seems to be winning.”

Her tone was flippant, but her cheeks betrayed her, flushed faintly, betraying something warmer beneath the cool delivery. She tucked it away behind a blink and turned back to the pitch.

But Octavia Sallow didn’t miss a beat. She watched Tom with the hawk-like scrutiny of a woman who had spent her entire life being looked at, and who understood, with brutal clarity, what it meant when men looked at her daughter.

Tom let her look.

Let her take in the fine-cut coat, the badge, the way her daughter didn’t flinch from him, but leaned in.

He smiled faintly, then glanced toward the pitch.

“Your brother is as good as they say,” he said, leaning back just enough to give the impression of ease. “You look tense.”

“I’m terrible,” Rosalind replied, eyes narrowing. “I’ve never been so stressed out.”

“You should hear my friends,” he said lightly. “I left them threatening to hex a third-year.”

He let his gaze drift to Weasley’s ribbons—bright red and trembling—and then returned to Rosalind with an unreadable smile.

“No need to worry,” he added. “Your brother is single-handedly carrying the match.”

Another flicker behind her gaze, silver and wrong. Magic rising. Coiling.  A creature leashed inside her.

It wants out, he thought.

Octavia Sallow cleared her throat.

“Oh, right—formalities.”

Rosalind flicked her hand lazily between them.

“Mum, Tom Riddle,” she said, glancing toward him. “Top of every class. Dueling champion. Unreasonably good at everything he does.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Sallow,” he said, smiling faintly.

"A Slytherin," Octavia replied, eyes assessing him. She extended her hand with the same coolness she passed down to her daughter. "A Head Boy Slytherin, no less."

Tom took her hand, bowing just enough to press his lips above her knuckles. Her skin smelled faintly of jasmine lotion, delicate and expensive. As he straightened, he caught Rosalind’s expression: a flicker of irritation, before it smoothed into a wry little smile.

“I have always enjoyed myself a Head Boy Slytherin.”

“Mum,” Rosalind gasped. “My Dad was Head Boy. Slytherin. Don’t listen to her.”

“It’s Octavia, please. I’m afraid I haven’t heard much about you,” she added, tone still pleasant. “Are you… new friends?”

Tom didn’t answer. He let Rosalind do it for them.

“Yes,” Rosalind said smoothly, lips curving into a half-smile. “Breaking down House prejudice. One terribly civil friendship at a time.”

It was a good answer. A Rosalind answer. Tom kept his expression neutral, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Since when?” Weasley hissed to Eldridge, somewhere between disbelief and horror.

Benedict Sallow rocketed through the air and scored again. The crowd erupted.

Behind them, Sebastian and Ominis Sallow stood to leave, still mid-argument about scouts and contracts. Ominis cast Tom a brief, measured glance, but nodded at the sight of the Slytherin robes and gleaming badge.

“Where’s your grandmother?” Tom asked, voice low, pitched only for Rosalind.

She arched an eyebrow. “Come to pay respects to the Hero of Hogwarts?”

“No,” he said simply, eyes never leaving hers. “I came to see you. To further our terribly civil friendship , as you called it.”

“Would you call it something else?” she asked, tilting her head in challenge.

He didn’t answer.

“Selene’s with the Minister,” she added lightly. “Private box.”

Octavia shouted something toward the pitch. Tom’s shoulder brushed Rosalind’s.

“I really do like the green,” he murmured again, just for her. “Perhaps a change in House is in order?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “One night only.”

Then, louder, he added, “You really are the odd woman out in your family.”

“The only one with taste, perhaps.”

Octavia turned back toward them, her expression amused, smiling that same knowing little smile Rosalind had worn earlier.

“Didn’t you once say the Sorting Hat made a mistake?”

“I did not!” Rosalind said quickly, though her cheeks were already turning pink. “I said other people claimed—”

“She demanded Ravenclaw,” Octavia said fondly, cutting her off. “The Hat hadn’t even settled when she started whispering, ‘Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw.’ ”

Rosalind flushed deeper, warmth blooming across her cheeks and neck.

Tom’s lips curled at the sight. He knew that look, that reflexive, mask-adjusting flush she couldn’t quite control. He found it irresistible.

“What did the Hat say to you?” he asked, voice softer now.

She didn’t look at him. “It asked, ‘Are you sure?’ And I said I’d rather be a squib than a fucking Slytherin.”

“Rosalind!” Octavia gasped, reaching for her arm. “Mind your language—we’re in company—”

Tom and Rosalind smirked at each other.

“Oh, it’s quite all right, Octavia,” Tom said smoothly. “I’m used to Rosalind’s tongue.”

Someone coughed. He leaned back in his seat, smug and unbothered.

“I should hope not,” Octavia huffed.

“He’s mocking me,” Rosalind sighed, slipping back just as quickly. “Tom and I are just friends. He’d sooner date a Dementor than a Ravenclaw.”

They really did look so alike—Rosalind and her mother. Same posture. Same poise. But only one of them glowed.

Not from youth. From something other . A magic that thrummed beneath her skin. It could also be one of those rings she wore, enchanted with centuries-old magic to make her appear more beautiful, hazy to the eye. Her grandfather might have uncovered it in his decades of curse-breaking.

But she wasn’t hazy. She was picture-perfect, crisp, and alive, humming next to him.

“Oh, never say never,” Tom said with a teasing edge. “But Rosalind is right. We’re only good friends.” He let the next line drop casually. “She’s been seeing someone else anyway.”

At least three people gasped. Weasley and Eldridge leaned forward, craning their necks to eavesdrop.

Rosalind’s smile snapped away. Her expression darkened, a flicker of murder flashing behind her eyes.

Octavia blinked. “Oh? And who might that be?”

“Not my place to say,” Tom said lightly, already turning back to the pitch. The glint in his eye betrayed him.

“Now you find your morals?” Rosalind hissed under her breath.

Then, to her mother, quiet and controlled: “I’m seeing someone. It’s casual. I might end it soon. Please don’t tell Dad. Or Sebastian. Especially not Selene.

Octavia hummed noncommittally.

Tom didn’t even glance at them. He just smirked.

Eldridge was the next to speak, her voice quiet but tight, just sharp enough to slice through the noise. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

Her eyes locked on Tom with the same fierce focus she gave to difficult Arithmancy problems. Only this time, it wasn’t logic fueling her. It was nerves. Eldridge was book smart, brilliant, but relentless. 

“Teasing Rosalind,” he said simply.

Weasley looked vaguely ill, green in the face, eyes flicking back and forth between them like she wanted to vanish. A mouse, he thought, skittish, trembly, unable to hold eye contact for long.

“Yes, obviously,” Eldridge said. “I mean long-term. What’s your plan with her?”

Tom’s smile didn’t shift. “No long-term plan, Eldridge.”

“I don’t believe you,” she muttered. “Everybody wants something from Rosalind.”

Power , he thought. Sex. 

Everything .

The roar from the pitch erupted. The moment fell away.

“DOLOHOV’S SPOTTED IT AGAIN. YES, DOLOHOV’S ONTO IT. DOLOHOV’S REACHING, OH HE’S ALMOST GOT IT, ALMOST—SLYTHERIN WINS! DOLOHOV’S GOT THE SNITCH! 320 TO 50! BENEDICT SALLOW WITH HALF OF SLYTHERIN’S POINTS—AND THEY GOT THE SNITCH!”

Rosalind screamed like a banshee, springing to her feet, arms thrown skyward. Her mother shouted beside her, laughing like a girl again. Even Eldridge stood, flushed and grinning, her hands pounding together in rhythm with the crowd.

Tom was already standing. Smiling. Clapping. Just enough. Head Boy composure. Polished charm. Anyone watching would think he cared.

But Rosalind turned—and saw him. The cool eyes. The practiced claps. The stillness beneath the grin.

She grabbed his arm, her fingers curling tight around his sleeve.

“Oh, come on, Riddle,” she laughed, breathless. “You’ll need a better performance than that.”

And then, without warning, she threw herself onto him, arms locking around his neck.

He stiffened, just for a moment.

The scent of her hit him first, jasmine and cigarette smoke. Then the warmth of her pressed against him, the sound of her breath in his ear, the unmistakable spark of her magic flaring just under her skin .

His hands found her waist.

Mine , something inside him whispered. 

“Go Snakes,” he said, voice low, nearly amused. Dry as parchment. But his mouth was against her hair.

When she pulled back, she was beaming at him. No mask. Just her.

It was almost unbearable.

-.-

The Three Broomsticks was a madhouse. Slytherins filled every table—alumni, upperclassmen, and the entire Sallow family. Benedict floated overhead on an enchanted chair while a brass quartet wheezed out the fight song and the chandelier, now a green serpent, hissed at every cheer.

Someone had transfigured the bar’s chandelier into a giant green serpent. It hissed whenever the crowd roared.

Rosalind was tucked in a corner with her mother, hiding from the worst of the chaos. Her grandfather was conducting with a butterbeer, half-drunk and beaming. Her mother’s curls had frizzed beyond rescue, her hat long vanished into the mess.

“I won’t survive another ten minutes,” Octavia muttered, pushing hair from her face.

“The solution is to drink more,” Rosalind said, passing over her butterbeer. She narrowly avoided a tray of floating pasties that zipped overhead.

Octavia drained the glass and grimaced. “Too sweet.”

Rosalind leaned on her hand and scanned the room. Avery and Mulciber were shouting over the music. Ares and Abraxas looked freshly concussed, pink-cheeked and beaming. The Slytherin girls were nowhere to be found.

And in the far corner—Tom. Sitting like he owned the place, back straight, speaking quietly with Nott. 

He’d vanished right after the match, just walked off without a word. She’d watched him go, heat still tingling in her fingertips, wondering—what the hell was that for? And it was obvious, quickly, once her mother had looped her arm through Rosalind’s and muttered, “ Head Boy, huh? ” with enough implication to haunt Rosalind for days.

He knew her mother would like him. Knew that face of his and that Head Boy badge was like candy to parents. But it still begged the question… Why?

Tom Riddle never did anything without reason. He seemed like a man with a plan. The idea made her stomach twist slightly. But she didn’t linger on him for long. Rosalind had never been good at thinking ahead. She was sharp on her feet, impulsive, and emotional. 

But she liked the way he forced her to stay alert.

Twice during the match, her magic had flared toward him, eager, twitching, desperate to be seen. She’d dug her nails into her palms just to keep from reaching. But she couldn’t handle it at the end of the match. She’d been too happy and too excited, and it was the only appropriate time to actually touch him–

So she hugged him.

It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t strategic. But it was better than exploding into silver flame on the Quidditch pitch.

She’d felt Gwen and Parisa’s eyes when she pulled back. Felt the betrayal radiating across the stands. They didn’t say goodbye. They didn’t wait. Just vanished after the final whistle, their retreat a promise: We’re going to talk about this. A lot.

Neither would show at the Slytherin party. Both would be furious she went.

“Get me another one of these,” Octavia said, tapping her long nail on the rim of her glass. “Please, dear.”

“Yes, mother,” Rosalind said lightly, taking the empty glass and slipping into the crowd, only to nearly collide with Selene.

Her grandmother’s smile was immediate, but cool. “Sneaking off already?”

“Fetching another,” Rosalind replied, lifting the empty glass.

They both glanced toward Octavia, just as the Lestranges descended. All stiff-backed and severe. Octavia straightened at once, smoothing her curls, smile going brittle.

Selene snorted. “Maybe you should sneak off.”

“Maybe,” Rosalind muttered.

“I hear the castle basements are lovely this time of year,” Selene mused. “Quiet. Cool. No extended family.”

“Frustrating fifty-foot portraits, though,” Rosalind said, rolling her eyes.

A group of fifth-years shoved past. One nearly elbowed her in the ribs. Selene caught her by the arm, steadying her. The movement pulled them close.

“I can feel it thrashing in you,” Selene said, her voice low. “You’re bleeding magic. That’s not sustainable.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. Don’t insult me. If you keep resisting—”

“Selene.” Rosalind’s voice cut like a blade. “Not here.”

“You’re running out of time.”

Selene didn’t let go. Her eyes searched Rosalind’s face, quiet and relentless. Sadness and expectation, yes—but calculation, too.

Rosalind exhaled through her nose.

“I’ll do it,” she said, voice low. “I’ll do the trials. Just stop circling me like I’m already failing. Please.”

Selene blinked, caught off guard. “Rosalind—”

“We’ll talk at Easter.”

And then Rosalind pulled away and disappeared into the crowd before anything else could be asked of her.

Someone bumped into her, sloshing sticky foam down her cloak. She kept moving, one foot in front of the other, weaving past a floating tray of cauldron cakes, ducking beneath a drunken fifth-year’s flailing arm.

The air was too warm. The noise too sharp. Everyone was shouting, laughing, singing. Her grandfather was conducting the orchestra again. The serpent above the bar hissed and spat.

She pressed forward. Like Benedict dodging Bludgers. Like she might vanish if she stopped.

Reaching the bar, she exhaled sharply and braced her hands against the counter. It felt cool and solid under her palms. Real.

“You alright?”

She looked up.

And there he was.

Tom Riddle, leaning against the bar like the room wasn’t spinning. Like the world wasn’t falling apart. Collar neat, badge gleaming. Calm. Still.

The smile rose before she could stop it.

“Mm. My family.” Her smile twisted. “We’re a delight.”

Someone knocked into her again, jolting her forward, right into him. Her hands caught the edge of the bar, inches from his chest.

“They seemed lovely,” he said mildly.

“That was just Octavia. She’s the palatable one.”

He smiled, faint and unreadable. Like he already knew the answer to every question she hadn’t asked. “Shall I buy you a drink?”

“It’s for my mother,” she said. “I’m rationing my descent into chaos.”

He nodded, unbothered. “Then let me get one for her. A peace offering, for my less-than-gentlemanly conduct earlier.”

Rosalind arched a brow. “Do you always stir up trouble and then vanish?”

Tom turned to order the butterbeer. The barkeep gave him immediate attention.

“A lapse in judgment,” he said lightly once he turned back. “I don’t take losing well.”

She swallowed. “Losing what? Slytherin won—”

“Ah... you.” He smiled faintly. “Old habit. I lash out at the things I want and can’t have.”

Rosalind’s face really burned. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but her magic was lashing out. Desperate. Demanding.

I lash out at things I want and can’t have.

“How did you know about Alfie?” she asked, quieter than she meant to. Trying to regain her control.

He smiled. 

“You left with him after Slug Club.”

Rosalind flinched. “I was hoping to be slightly more subtle than that.”

“Hm,” he clicked his tongue. “Maybe to others. Not to me.”

Her heart thudded. Her magic prickled at her fingertips. Kiss him, hex him, something. He stepped half an inch closer. “Let me redeem myself. May I escort you to the party tonight?”

Rosalind licked her lips. Was the pub still full? She couldn’t tell. There was only him.

“I promise to be… exceptionally well-behaved,” he added.

Her answer came before she’d thought it through. “Oh. I suppose you could. Only because you promised to behave.”

He dipped his head slightly. “Then I hope you promise the same.”

She laughed and reached forward, fingertips brushing the fabric of his sleeve. He looked down at the touch, then back up, his smirk deepening.

“I promise,” she said.

She’d broken so many promises already. What was one more?

-.-

When Sebastian pulled her aside, Rosalind was saying goodbye to her family outside the Three Broomsticks. The wind had picked up, scattering bits of confetti down High Street, but the drunken Slytherin chorus inside roared on.

Up close, he was far less drunk than she’d expected. Aside from Selene, he seemed the most sober of them all. He studied her for a long moment.

“You alright, Ros?”

“Oh, you know,” she said lightly. “Chaos. Ancient magic. Mild family scandal.”

He smiled. “Just like your grandmother.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true. She’s been cagey with me all day—hell, all year. And that only happens when she’s worried.”

“I can take care of myself,” Rosalind said, softer now. “She knows that.”

“That’s exactly what she said at your age. Same tone. Same stubborn tilt to your chin.” He reached up and touched it briefly, just with his knuckle. “You could’ve been twins.”

She huffed, crossing her arms, but the grin broke through anyway. It was nearly impossible to stay in a bad mood around Sebastian Sallow.

Then, without flourish, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a small green journal. His eyes flicked over her shoulder, scanning the street behind them. He handed it to her quickly.

“Don’t let her know I gave you this.”

Rosalind blinked, frowning. The journal was slim and worn, roughly the size of Miriam Fig’s.

“What is it?”

“Her journal. From her fifth year.”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“I think you should read it,” he said gently. “She’d kill me if she knew. I’ve tried to get her to share it, but you know your grandmother.”

“I can’t take this,” Rosalind said, shoving it back at him. “Seb—”

“Yes, you can.” He pressed it back into her palm. “You should. There are things in there she won’t say out loud—about the trials, about this magic. About us.”

Rosalind’s stomach turned. “That’s her choice. Not yours.”

“I know,” he said, exhaling. “But she’s rewriting the past to make herself feel better. And you deserve the truth. Even if it’s ugly. Even if it changes things.”

She stared down at the journal, her grip tightening.

“It’s not all darkness, Ros,” he added softly. “There’s joy in there, too. And love. But it’s not the kind of love she wants you to see.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, guarded now. “What did you do?”

Sebastian hesitated. Then he placed both hands on her shoulders and held her there. Grounded her.

“I love you, Rabbit,” he said. “Take care of yourself. And bring it back at Easter.”

“Sebastian—”

“You might see her differently.” His voice dipped lower. “You might see me differently, too.”

Rosalind swallowed. Hard.

But she didn’t give the journal back.

Chapter Text

Twenty minutes before she was meant to meet Tom in Central Hall, Rosalind knelt in the Undercroft and stared at Selene’s journal.

Small. Dark green leather. Seemingly innocuous.

Would it bite? Curse her if she opened it? She’d never kept a journal, but knew plenty of girls who did, and who hexed the pages with enough spite to scar. Once, in second year, she and Gwen tried to crack open Candace’s diary and ended up with boils across both hands for a week.

Sebastian surely wouldn’t give her something dangerous. But it was hard to imagine Selene not protecting her secrets with something vicious.

Maybe he’d already disarmed it.

Rosalind poked the cover with her wand, one eye squeezed shut, and flipped it open with the tip.

Nothing exploded.

She leaned in. On the flyleaf, a single line carved into the upper corner: Selene Alderton, 1891.

The journal smelled of old paper and something unexpected. Tobacco smoke. Selene didn’t smoke. Maybe Sebastian had. Or maybe her grandmother had more of a wild streak than anyone let on.

Rosalind smirked.

The floor was freezing. Still, Rosalind tucked her legs under her neatly, careful not to wrinkle the dress she’d picked for the party. Too elegant for stone floors, but she wore it anyway. Olive silk, tight at the waist. It was a real showstopper. A weapon, even. For the battle ahead.

Did she even want to read it?

Sebastian had said it would help her understand Selene. But also, that it might make her think worse of him. What could he have done in fifth year? Snogged her grandmother behind the Quidditch stands, then asked another girl to the Yule Ball? Merlin. Maybe he deserved to rot.

She snorted. Her fingers tingled. Then she flipped to the first page—

And stopped.

There was no writing, just a photograph, pinned in place with a sticky charm.

Fifteen-year-old Selene Alderton stared out from beneath a cherry tree in full bloom. Slytherin uniform crisp, tie slightly loosened. Her wand hung at her hip.

She was… beautiful. Not in the way Rosalind was. Selene had the kind of face that looked carved. Longer, sharper, more unknowable. A stern mouth. Narrow eyes. Watchful. There was something tight in the set of her shoulders that didn’t quite soften even when she smiled.

Rosalind leaned in, searching the photo for evidence, for magic . For a flicker of the wild, volatile thing that had burrowed under her ribs and claimed her from the inside out. But there was nothing. Just that sharp gaze. That perfect stillness.

The girl who completed the ancient magic trials. Who defeated Ranrok. Who burned and buried and walked away untouched.

Maybe Selene hadn’t felt it the way Rosalind did. Maybe she’d mastered it early. Maybe she didn’t have to master it at all.

Selene looked calm. Untouched. All of that girl’s secrets lived here, pressed into the spine of this old leather book. And suddenly, Rosalind wasn’t sure she wanted them.

If Selene had wanted her to read it, she would’ve said so. She would’ve told her stories, not left them to rot in a binding. But she hadn’t. Sebastian had. He’d put the journal in her hands.

She glanced at her wristwatch. She was running late. Tom didn’t strike her as the sort who appreciated that.

Sighing, she closed the journal and set it beside Miriam Fig’s. Two books. Two women. Both mythic.

The Triptych loomed above, silent. But something about it made her skin prickle, like it was watching.

Her hand hovered at her wand. The dress was already wrinkling.

She stared it down.

“You’d better come out soon,” she said. “Or I’ll rip you open and drag you out myself.”

-.-

Rosalind was six minutes late, though Tom would probably round it to ten.

He waited by the mermaid statue.

He wasn’t sitting. He never sat. He stood there, back straight, jaw sharp in the torchlight. The mermaid behind him glistened, water trickling from the corner of her mouth like she was about to speak.

Rosalind slowed, breath catching in the cold. Her magic stirred at the sight of him.

“Sorry, I’m late.”

Tom didn’t speak right away. His eyes flicked over her—dress, hair, mouth—and then back to the space behind her, like he was already bored.

“I don’t like being kept waiting, Rosalind,” he said at last. Cool as the stones beneath their feet.

She rolled her eyes. “You poor thing. I was practically sprinting. Want me to kneel and beg your forgiveness?”

His mouth twitched.

“Be careful what you offer,” he said. “I might say yes.”

Rosalind couldn’t help it. She just smirked at him and crooked an eyebrow.

And for a moment, just a beat too long, he looked at her. Something passed behind his eyes. The air between them buzzed.

Then he blinked and composed himself.

“Come on, then,” he said. And turned.

-.-

Before the Undercroft, Rosalind had raced into the shower, scrubbing the day off her skin, the sticky Butterbeer in her hair, the stale sweat from an afternoon of shouting herself hoarse over Quidditch.

Gwen and Parisa cornered her in the toilet stalls the second she stepped out. They locked the door, sat on the counter, and interrogated her.

How long have you and Alphard Black been together? What’s going on with Riddle? What else are you lying about?

Rosalind answered every question as truthfully as she could.

She and Alfie had been together since June—but things weren’t the same. She had no idea what she was doing with Tom Riddle—but it was something. As for secrets? Just one: she copied Parisa’s Charms coursework last week.

That earned her a smack and a cracked smile. Eventually, Parisa narrowed her eyes. “And you’re still going to the Slytherin party?”

Rosalind, rubbing lotion into her freshly shaved legs, didn’t look up. “Uh, yeah.”

Gwen’s jaw dropped. “You’re planning to sleep with Riddle.”

Rosalind blinked. “No, I’m not—”

“You’re dating Alphard Black!”

“Previously established: I’m going to break up with him.”

“You haven’t yet!”

“I’m not planning to sleep with anyone,” she snapped. Which was true. Rosalind didn’t plan things. She just did them.

“Unbelievable,” Gwen muttered.

“You’re a terrible girlfriend,” Parisa added. “And a worse friend.”

In the end, Rosalind agreed not to sleep with Tom. She didn’t even cross her fingers.

-.-

Tom and Rosalind stopped at the dungeon stairwell. 

She shook her hair out, then turned to him and smiled.

Tom was wearing only a white button-down, tie knotted, sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms on display like he didn’t know what they did to people. A casual look, but a calculated one.

Tom smirked, brushing her arm as he took her hand.

Rosalind’s heart threatened to race out of her chest at the contact. His ring gleamed slightly in the candlelight.

“You’re not being very well-behaved tonight, Rosalind. Are you always late?”

“Did you expect me to be?” She leaned closer, voice dripping like syrup.

“You did promise.”

“That’s on you, then, Tom.”

His mouth twitched. His eyes landed on her mouth.

But then, he let go of her hand.

The air cooled. She exhaled.

“You coming?” he asked, already turning toward the Slytherin entrance. He looked back over his shoulder. Smug, aloof, aching to be followed.

She ran her palms down the front of her dress. “Of course.”

When she joined him, he stared at the wall until the bricks shifted, shaping into the open mouth of a great snake.

“You look lovely, by the way.”

She turned, startled by the softness.

He continued, still not looking at her. “You wore it for me, didn’t you?”

Oh fuck. The words slid right between her ribs. Cold and smug and devastatingly accurate.

He hadn’t even looked at her when he said it. It was so like Tom, compliment her and then drive the knife home.

Her stomach flipped. Her magic curled in her throat. She really did like it. But before she could speak, the door opened.

Leopold Nott stood before them.

“Evening, Tom,” he said, baring his strangely perfect teeth. He was shorter and slighter than Tom, but there was a glint in his eye that suggested he might be terrifyingly scrappy in a fight.

Rosalind tried to focus, but the compliment was still ringing in her ears. The nerve of it. The nerve of him. She kept her expression still. Neutral. As if her heart wasn’t still hammering. As if she hadn’t worn the dress for exactly that reason.

“Leo,” Tom said, nodding without smiling.

Nott turned to Rosalind, a wicked smile spreading across his face. It made him look much older than he was.

“Ah, our esteemed guest. The guest of our guest of honor—the guest of honor’s guest of honor—”

“Rosalind,” Tom said slowly, his hand suddenly at her lower back, “is here as my guest, Nott. And please let the others know.”

Nott blinked. Once. Then again. His usual smugness vanished.

“Oh. Well, in that case, should I let you two in right away, or...?”

Tom shook his head. “The potion, please.”

Only then did Rosalind realize she couldn’t see anything beyond Nott. Just blackness, dense and flickering. He looked less like a boy and more like a glowing visitor sent to guide them through the Underworld.

Her chest tightened.

Panic flared.

A moment later, Nott returned holding two vials of glittering pink liquid. Tiny yellow flowers floated lazily at the surface, unsettlingly cheerful.

“Bottoms up, then,” he said, his grin a little too wide. “Your brother downed his without a blink, Sallow. I’d think it’ll be no problem for you.”

“Benedict took this?” she asked. Her arms stayed stiff at her sides, her eyes locked on the shimmering vial.

Tom took both without hesitation. Just a glance, a flick of command, and Nott was gone.

They turned to face each other. Rosalind’s fingers trembled as she reached up to take the potion.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Entry requirement,” Tom said. “Leo’s creation.”

“Yes, but… what is it ?”

He smiled then.

“Bacchanalia.”

Rosalind nearly stumbled. Her fingers tightened around the vial.

“Bacchanalia?” she echoed, voice cracking. “Like—”

“Yes, Rosalind darling, like that .”

Then Tom tipped the vial to those pillowy lips she’d longed to kiss, and drank. She watched as the luminous pink liquid lit him from the inside. It slid down his smooth neck, past his Adam’s apple, before disappearing beneath the white of his shirt.

A potion called Bacchanalia , required to enter a Slytherin party? No wonder Veronika said Benedict called Druella a goddess of the moon. They were all tripping out of their minds. She could hardly believe that Tom was doing it too, but he was watching her now—that knowing little smirk that said he already knew exactly what she would do.

So she met his expectations and tipped the vial to her lips.

It tasted like strawberries. Fresh, ripe strawberries that gushed down your chin, sticky and red, staining your fingers, your clothes, your skin—

Oh.

Oh.

Something blurred.

Not the honey-dipped arousal of ancient magic. Something else.

Hedonism. 

Wet, filthy hedonism.

Her core began to ache. A bead of sweat slid between her breasts. Her pupils blew wide.

It felt like being in the middle of sex—already lost in it, already gasping. Building and building and—

“Merlin’s tits,” she swore, swaying slightly.

Tom leaned in, voice velvet-smooth, his lips grazing her ear.

“It’s better once you’re inside,” he whispered. “Come find me. When you’re able.”

And then he stepped into the dark.

-.-

Rosalind staggered as she emerged on the other side of the black veil.

The air was sweet and warm, saturated with lilac and smoke. It wasn’t the Slytherin common room, at least, not as she remembered it.

No, this was something else entirely.

It looked exactly like her mother’s staging of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Before the war, Octavia Sallow had been one of the star performers at the Great London Wizarding Theatre. Rosalind remembered the velvet seats, the scent of powdered wigs and charmed fog. But mostly, she remembered her mother, dazzling and impossible, swinging high above the stage as Queen Titania, glittering like starlight. Barefoot and cruel.

The set had been transformed into a forest dripping with enchantment: olive trees and overripe fruit, trailing vines, thick wildflowers. Something had stirred in Rosalind’s chest that night. Something reckless. Something hungry.

This was just like that. An enchanted forest with a starry night sky above them.

The common room was barely there beneath the illusion. She recognized the entryway by shape alone. Where the old portrait of Salazar Slytherin once hung, there was now a whole roasted boar, steam rising off its back, an apple stuffed in its mouth like a taunt.

Ten feet away, Marcellus Avery and Amalthea Travers were—

Oh.

Well, they weren’t fucking yet. But they were close.

Avery looked like Puck in costume: wild curls, loose breeches, shirtless and grinning like he’d hex the moon. Amalthea wore a flower crown and a slip of translucent tulle. Her breasts strained against the bodice. Their tongues were sloppily connected. Amalthea’s hands were in his breeches.

Rosalind giggled, a wild, surprised sound, and stumbled backward into a patch of grass that definitely hadn’t been there a second ago.

Where was Tom?

More students lounged throughout the space, feeding each other fruit, sipping wine from goblets far too large for their hands. A pair of rabbits meandered past her toes. A massive ox blinked lazily by the fireplace. Rosalind looked down. Her heels were gone, there was just her bare feet with grass beneath them. Real grass.

She wiggled her toes and sighed. That felt good.

When she looked up, she gasped. Impossibly tall trees arched above them. Olive branches. Climbing vines. Moonlight shimmered down in spilled silver beams.

Delight bloomed. How had they done this? Was it just the potion? An illusion? A spell laid over the common room?

She took a step forward, cautious, then another. Her toes curled. The grass kissed her ankles.

Rosalind laughed under her breath. She was floating.

“Careful where you step,” someone snapped.

She glanced down to find Ivander Mulciber, glowering and six inches tall. His robes were Greco-Roman and dramatically draped. A miniature sword was strapped across his back like he’d just fought a duel.

“Oh fuck,” Rosalind breathed. She crouched, enchanted. “How’d you get down there?”

“Back off, Sallow,” he barked. “Don’t be weird.”

“Too late,” she said, smiling. He spun on his heel and stomped off. Rosalind stood slowly and looked down.

Her dress had changed.

A long, sheer gown of chiffon clung to her frame, translucent in the moonlight. Tiny green snakes shimmered in the embroidery. Two silver strings tied it around her neck. Her nipples were visible. So were the curve of her hips, the indent of her waist.

Oh well. When in Bacchanalia.

She drifted toward a wine fountain. The basin glowed. Wine poured from the mouths of marble satyrs, steaming slightly. She plucked a bronze goblet from the stack, wobbly, as if the cups were drunk too, and leaned in. She let the wine spill down her wrists and down her forearms. It was hot. Like a summer bath. Like a lover’s mouth.

She moaned softly.

Her thumb found her mouth. She licked the wine off, slowly and unhurriedly. It tasted like strawberries. It felt like someone’s fingers inside her pussy.

She didn’t usually like sweet wine. But this— 

This was heavenly .

“Get your shit together, Sallow,” someone drawled behind her.

She didn’t have to turn. She knew that voice. But when she did—

Nicasia was four inches tall. A tiny, fluttering fairy with iridescent wings and a wand no bigger than a matchstick. Her gown shimmered. Her smirk was massive.

Rosalind burst out laughing, half-delirious, and swatted at her. “Fucking hell–” She stumbled back a step as more wine spilled down her arms, warm and sticky.

“Bitch!” Nicasia snapped, flitting out of reach. “Careful. You don’t know what everyone else is seeing in here.”

“What?” Rosalind asked, lowering her goblet.

Nicasia didn’t elaborate. Just flicked her wand, one quick circle, and the wine dried on Rosalind’s skin like it had never been there. Except it had. Her arms were flushed. Her skin still buzzed where the wine had touched.

“Be on your best behavior,” Nicasia warned, her eyes glittering. “You never know who’s watching.”

And then she vanished—wings slicing the air, disappearing into the trees.

Rosalind stood still for a moment, heart thudding. Everything felt soft and mad. She had the sudden urge to throw herself into the grass, to roll until her dress tore, to let the earth smear her.

Where was Tom?

She pictured him, not standing across from her, but pressing her against a tree. Mouth at her throat. Hands rough. Her legs parted, gown tangled at her hips, a hiss between her teeth as he—

She exhaled sharply.

Her eyes caught on movement, her brother, at a table nearby. Hestia Greengrass perched in his lap, her hands in his hair, her mouth on his. William Dolohov and Cygnus Black lounged nearby, sipping lazily from goblets the size of their heads. Benedict wore a billowy white shirt like he was auditioning for The Three Musketeers.

His hair was mussed. His hands were wandering. He laughed into Hestia’s mouth, and she yanked his curls with both fists.

“Oh, fuck no ,” Rosalind muttered.

She spun on her heel, nearly tripping over the train of her gown, and fled the room.

They might be in some Dionysian dreamscape, but she was not about to watch her brother feel up his girlfriend under a cypress tree.

Where was Tom? What had he said?

Come find me. When you’re able.

And what the fuck did that mean? Did she have to solve a riddle?

Rosalind clenched her thighs and kept walking.

She sighed and stumbled into a quieter stretch of the party, where a large blanket was thrown across the grass. A picnic basket lay open, overflowing with fruit and cheese. Rosalind plucked a vine of grapes and collapsed back onto the blanket, one arm flung over her head.

The stars were shocking, unnnaturally bright, flickering through the trees. Whoever cast the illusion had memorized the current night sky. There was Orion. Ursa Minor. Venus was low on the horizon.

Wine dribbled down her wrist, but she didn’t care. It felt good. Warm. Decadent.

She sighed again. If the others would just leave, maybe she could slip her hand between her thighs and—

“Lonely?”

She blinked.

Ares dropped into the grass beside her with a little too much flair. Unlike Avery’s wild Puck costume or Benedict’s romantic pirate, Ares wore a white toga knotted in gold, one shoulder bare, sword gleaming beside him like a prop on a film set.

He grinned. “Bit of a mess?”

Rosalind studied the constellation of moles along his cheekbone. Yes, she could see why Veronika and Nicasia were clawing each other to pieces. He was hot, in a smug, sword-wielding, deep-voiced idiot sort of way.

“Is it that obvious?” she asked, holding up her wine-slicked hand.

Ares laughed. A low, shameless sound. He leaned forward like he might lick the wine from her fingers.

She pulled back, laughing. “No way.”

“Oh, come on, Sallow. It’s Bacchanalia night. Time to let loose.”

“Yes, and yet…” she trailed off, mock-thoughtful. “Still not letting my cousin lick me.”

He pouted, full of himself. “I’d let you lick me.”

She burst out laughing. “I know you would. That’s what makes you such a fool.”

Then she grabbed the bottle of wine beside the basket and drank straight from it, ignoring the goblet still dangling from her fingers. The wine spilled past her lips, ran down her throat, over her chin, down the front of her dress.

Ares didn’t look away. Rosalind didn’t care. She licked the sweetness from the corner of her mouth and sighed again. "You’re very present tonight, aren’t you?”

Ares smiled wider. “And you’re tripping.”

She shrugged, sprawled across the blanket like a Roman goddess.

“Maybe,” she said. “But you’re still not getting licked.”

She sighed again, letting the wine coat her throat, the grass tickle her thighs. Ares said something, but she didn’t catch it. 

Then the air changed.

“Sallow.”

She glanced up.

Abraxas Malfoy stood above her like a frostbitten prince. Pale and flushed. White shirt untucked, sleeves pushed to the elbow, blond hair falling wild over his forehead.

Beautiful.

“Hello,” she called, eyes catching on his mouth.

“You’re a mess,” he murmured. His cheeks were pink. “Who did you come with?”

Ares scoffed. “She’s with Benedict, obviously—”

“Good,” Abraxas said. Then dropped to the blanket beside her like it was already decided. He didn’t look at her face. His gaze slid straight down to her legs, hemline, bare feet. Then his fingers, cool and sure, brushed the arch of her foot.

She jolted, laughing sharply. He didn’t flinch, just smirked. His hand lingered, fingers tracing along the top of her foot, then curled slowly around her ankle, sliding upward, just shy of her calf.

Rosalind inhaled. He looked up. Their eyes locked.

Ares cleared his throat loudly. “Well. That’s not subtle.”

Abraxas didn’t look away. “Nothing about this night is. Get lost, Lestrange.”

She curled her legs against her chest. Her skin still buzzed where he’d touched her.

“Not a chance I’m leaving you alone with her.”

They were both watching her now—Ares, sulking like a thwarted child, and Abraxas, pupils blown like he might pin her to the grass. But Rosalind watched herself too, watched the way her thighs pressed tighter, how her breath skipped and settled.

“You know Honoria’s watching,” Ares said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder.

Abraxas still didn’t turn. “She’s always watching.”

Rosalind followed the gesture anyway. Across the room, Honoria Travers glared furiously in a sturdy gown of pearl and petals. She was too pristine, too layered, like the spell hadn’t been able to peel her down.

Abraxas’ eyes were so blue. So cold and lovely . And oh. That pulse of attraction. Not the wine. Not the illusion.

The potion.

Just like the play. She was Titania, doomed to fall for the first boy to touch her.

Abraxas sipped from his goblet, never breaking eye contact. His gaze dipped again. Her chest rose and fell, nipples clearly visible beneath the chiffon.

“Is this your first Bacchanalia?” Ares asked, a little too loudly, slicing the moment.

“Of course it is,” Abraxas answered for her, bored. “Have you ever seen Sallow here before?”

Her name sounded different in his voice. She liked the way his lips moved when he said it. She imagined his lips elsewhere. Lower. Slower.

His eyes darkened. They stared at each other for a long, shivering beat.

And then—

A shadow fell across the blanket, cast by a pair of horns.

It was Leo Nott, grinning like a devil. Looking like a devil.

“Watch yourselves, boys,” he said. His voice was dry, but his eyes gleamed. “Sallow is here as Tom’s guest.”

“What?” Ares sat up straight.

Abraxas jerked upright, nearly sloshing wine down the front of his shirt.

“Tom brought Sallow,” Nott repeated, smirking wider. “So, paws to yourself.”

Ares snapped, half-manic: “Tom never brings guests.”

“And personal guests…” Nott wagged a finger, “...are off-limits.”

Abraxas was already on his feet. He didn’t speak. He turned and vanished into the crowd, shirt flaring like a white flag behind him.

Rosalind watched him go. Relieved. Disappointed. Her gaze slid lower. Quidditch really had done wonders for his arse.

“I’ve been asked to fetch you anyway,” Nott added, like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Fetch me?” she echoed. But her hand was already in his. His palm was warm. Steady. Her skin was sticky with wine.

“Come on. Not far.”

They weaved through the trees—or the illusion of trees. Rosalind couldn’t be sure anymore. The sky swirled above them, thick with pink and violet. Something crunched beneath her foot. Roots? Bones? Maybe nothing at all.

Branches shivered overhead. Nott’s horns didn’t cast a shadow. 

And then—

Firelight.

The clearing opened around her. A bonfire roared in the center, flames leaping stories high, too big for this world, too old to be young. It looked like it had been burning since the beginning of time.

Around it, girls danced. Screaming. Laughing. Glowing. And they were naked.

Their bodies gleamed with sweat. Their mouths were open, moaning, howling, gasping joy into the trees. They looked like priestesses at a forgotten altar. Like saints mid-miracle. 

Like something out of a vision.

Rosalind froze, breath caught high in her chest.

Was this what he wanted her to see?

The fire cracked, a deep, sacred sound. Veronika Mulciber spun through the smoke, half-lost in it, as if she were being consumed and reborn at once. Druella Rosier twirled beside her, barefoot and bare-chested, glittering peach juice dripping down her chest like molten gold.

And suddenly, it wasn’t a party anymore.

It was a ritual.

“Join us, Rosalind!” Druella shrieked. “Free yourself! Let’s bury the hatchet! Cleanse ourselves in the fire!”

Rosalind’s hand flew to her mouth. Her heart hammered behind her ribs like it wanted out. Veronika and Druella danced like women possessed. All around them, sixth-year girls moved in dizzying, feverish abandon. Their laughter rose like a chant.

Then Druella broke from the circle.

She strutted forward, hips swaying with grace. Her wine-colored hair fell in glistening waves across her bare chest. Her lipstick was smudged down her chin like war paint. In one hand, she held a ripe, dripping peach.

“Here,” she said, breathless and grinning, and shoved the fruit into Rosalind’s hands like it meant something.

Rosalind hesitated for a breath, then she bit down. Peach juice gushed over her chin, her collarbone, sticky and indulgent. She moaned without meaning to.

“Good, good!” Druella crowed, already grabbing her wrists. “Come on, Sallow. Come be wicked.”

Their fingers clasped, slippery with juice and wine. Pulp squelched between their palms. And Rosalind—

Rosalind let go.

She ran into the circle like something broken loose.

She jumped. She spun. She let her limbs tangle with smoke and starlight. There was no music, only the living thump of the fire and some primal drumbeat far below the forest floor. Her dress clung to her in wet patches. Her lungs burned sweet.

Lucretia Black knelt before the flames, hands lifted in reverence. Peony Dagworth-Granger collapsed beside her, hair wild, skin glowing, giggling into the dirt.

The forest reeled around her.

And Rosalind danced.

She laughed, loud and whole. Wild. She felt her hips shift, her thighs graze one another with each movement. Her skin was fire. She could feel herself move and watch herself move, both at once—like an ancient witch watching her own spell burn.

Then Veronika was beside her, pressing close, arm slung around her shoulders like they’d always been friends.

“Sallow,” she purred, voice hot and thick, “you’re not so bad without your stuffy little girls.”

Rosalind opened her mouth. Gwen, Parisa—her whole body bristled with something loyal. But the words stuck. The potion hummed in her mouth like honey.

Then Druella was back.

She shoved a goblet into Rosalind’s hands. “Drink!”

Rosalind drank.

The wine was almost unbearable, syrupy and euphoric, thick with fruit and magic. It coated her throat. It ran straight to her stomach. Then she laughed. Hard and bright and unhinged.

She flung the goblet into the sky. It shattered midair, wine erupting into droplets of starlight, rained down like a blessing. It drenched Veronika’s shoulders. Splattered Druella’s chest.

They howled with joy. They didn’t mind. They looked divine.

“We’ve got to get you out of that dress!” Druella shrieked with delight, tugging at the chiffon on Rosalind’s shoulder. “No clothes allowed in here! Don’t you know?”

She leaned in, mouth against Rosalind’s ear, voice sticky.

“We burn the old selves down.”

Yes, she thought. Let it burn. Let it all burn.

The girl who followed the rules. The girl who pretended to care. The girl who smiled politely, lied sweetly, and kept her hunger pressed down under charm.

She could feel it rising inside her, something dangerous, something real. Her body swayed with it. Her hands itched for it.

She wanted to be undone.

She wanted—

Her breath caught.

Wait.

Where was her magic?

She blinked, disoriented. Sweat dripped down her neck. The girls still danced, still screamed. Druella spun away again, laughing like she’d found heaven in the dirt.

Rosalind stood still and reached inward.

Nothing. No flaring. No ache. No silver bloom curling under her ribs. The air around her didn’t respond. Her skin didn’t hum. The magic that usually pressed so violently against her seams was gone. Smothered.

Like it had left her.

Her mouth went dry.

She glanced at her hands. Peach juice. Wine. Glittering residue of someone else’s spell.

What was this place? What was happening to her?

“Fucking hell. This is where you brought her?”

Ares stood at the clearing’s edge, shirt unbuttoned halfway, chest rising too fast, wine-stained mouth parted like he’d just run miles. His eyes raked over the scene: Veronika and Druella draped over her, both fully nude, her own dress soaked in wine, clinging to her hips.

“Where else was I supposed to take her?” Nott appeared beside him, horns casting long shadows into the firelight. “Dru asked for her.”

“You take her to Tom ,” Ares said, too loud, like it surprised even him.

Nott rolled his neck. His horns glinted. “He’s not even here.”

“He was .” Ares’s hand twitched at his side. “He said he—fuck.” He laughed. Just once. Too sharp. “He always does this. Vanishes. Lets it burn.”

“Dru wasn’t going to kill her,” Nott smirked. “Can’t say the same for Ronnie.”

Ares didn’t seem to hear him. His jaw clenched and unclenched, eyes flicking back to Rosalind like she might melt if he looked away.

“Come on, Sallow,” he said hoarsely, offering her his hand. “Before they eat you alive.”

Rosalind blinked. The edges of the fire blurred. The girls’ laughter warped and slowed. Her limbs tingled. She opened her mouth to protest, but no argument came.

So she took his hand.

Veronika pouted, arms crossed over her chest. The firelight caught her features in strange ways, elongated and melting. The other girls flickered, blurred, and went uncanny around the edges.

Just for a second—just one blink—they looked like masks.

And then they didn’t.

Rosalind stumbled as Ares led her away, the world lurching sideways. The heat fell behind them, and with it, the noise. Slowly, the air cooled. The ground softened, grass again. Or the memory of it.

It was like waking from a fever. Or falling back into her body.

She breathed.

Her hand still clung to his. Everything was sticky. 

“Things aren’t what they seem,” Ares murmured. “This place—this night—it’s a mirror. But not everyone sees the same reflection.”

Rosalind laughed, too loudly. The sound cracked at the edges. “Nicasia said that, too.”

“Then listen to her.” Ares wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, even though nothing was there. “She sees clearer than most of us. Especially now.” 

They stepped into a quiet inlet of trees. Fog coated the moss. The air felt colder here.

Ares released her hand like it burned, then shook out his fingers, like trying to remember what they were for.

“You’re seeing something completely different than I am,” he said. “We all are.”

She looked around. The trees shivered. The sky glitched above the canopy. She felt her skin again. Her breath again.

But her magic—still gone.

“Oh! So you’re not in A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

Ares blinked. “What’s that?”

“Shakespeare. A play.” She waved her hand vaguely. “Never mind. You’d play it wrong anyway. What do you see?”

He stepped back a few feet and offered her a wide, too-knowing smile.

“We’re on a ship.”

“A ship?”

“Of course. I’m the captain.” His grin stretched. “I have the sword, don’t I? It only listens to me when I’m drunk. Or dreaming.”

“Oh,” she murmured, half-laughing. “You’ve got a sword in my version, too. But you’re Lysander. Or Demetrius. I haven’t decided.”

“Who are they?”

She smirked. “Boys who get enchanted and humiliated. Take your pick.”

He shrugged but looked distracted again. Fuck, he really was out of it. And so was she.

“What am I wearing to you?”

He blinked once. Slowly. “Just… a dress.” He paused, then added dreamily, “You looked colder before. Now you look like heatstroke.”

Her smile thinned.

She squinted at him. There was something off. Too clean. Too symmetrical. Like someone had carved his face from wet clay and forgotten to let it set.

Everything was wrong. The trees. The air. The shadows.

“Where’s Abraxas?” she asked abruptly. The world around her jumped, stuttered like a scratched film reel.

Ares’s eyes narrowed. “Nowhere. Don’t worry about him.”

Her knees gave. She dropped to what looked like a log, but it was too smooth, too still. Not wood. Not real.

The illusion rippled.

She splayed her hands across the grass. It wasn’t grass. It was stone. Cold and unyielding beneath the glamour.

“Is it always like this?” she whispered. “So wild?”

“Depends,” Ares said. “You get used to the potion. Frankly, I’m surprised Tom let you take it.”

She looked up. Her hair was sticking to her lips. “Why?”

“Because the first time guts you. Twists everything up until you don’t know if you’re kissing someone or setting them on fire.” He tilted his head. “Explains Abraxas, doesn’t it?”

She sat up fast, too fast, vision lurching sideways. Her palm slapped against a tree trunk. “Please. I didn’t even touch him.”

“Not exactly,” Ares admitted, raising his hands. “Still. It heightens what’s already there.”

She opened her mouth to protest, to deny. But wasn’t Abraxas handsome? Charming?

She swallowed. “Nicasia has wings,” she said suddenly. “She’s a fairy. Mulciber was six inches tall.”

“Salazar, I love this potion,” he breathed. “You’re seeing the good stuff. That means it likes you.”

“Yes,” she said. “Where’s Tom?”

Ares frowned. “Probably not even here.”

“Then why bring me?”

“Who knows?” Another shrug. Too casual. “I don’t question Tom.” Then, lower: “Break it once, and you don’t come back the same.”

Rosalind’s mouth twisted. “You should start.”

“Start what?”

“Questioning Tom, dumbarse.”

He never brought guests. Never showed up to these parties. Why her? Why now? She thought back—her dress, his compliment, the potion—and realized: He’d brought her here like an offering. Not to join him. To watch her.

She was dressed like a dream, drunk on a potion named for indulgence, and slick with wine and sticky-sweet ruin.

Was it a test? A dare? Or worse?

“Because—” He rubbed his temple. “Don’t worry about it. We just need to get through the next phase.”

She frowned. “Next phase?”

“Bacchanalia has… stages.” He stood in front of her, suddenly very serious. “The first is indulgence. Hedonism. Drinking. Kissing. Wandering into beds you don’t belong in.”

Rosalind nodded. That sounded exactly like what she’d been feeling.

“The second…” He paused. “Well, it gets ugly. People fight. Say things they mean. We try to control it—game it off—but…”

Her lips parted. “Why would anyone want that?”

A dark laugh rumbled from him. “Because the first part is excellent . And the second part is just as excellent as long as you don’t break a limb. Or get bitten. That’s the worst . It happened to Dru once. She had a mouth-shaped welt on her leg–”

“When does that happen?”

He lifted his wrist, instinctively, but there was no watch there, just illusion.

“You’ve been here about three hours,” he said. “According to my calculations.”

“Three hours?” Her breath caught in her throat, stomach flipping. No wonder everything felt… off . Like she’d missed a step, slipped sideways down a long flight of stairs.

“Time moves fast under Bacchanalia, Sallow.” His voice lowered further, near a whisper. “The game should start soon.”

Her pulse hammered in her throat. Hands flexed, curling against her thighs. She couldn’t fight like this. Not dizzy. Not drugged. Not without her magic.

“Will I fight you?” she asked suddenly, running her palms down her legs. Her fingers grazed the wand at her hip.

“I wouldn’t fight you,” Ares said, almost gently. Then added, “I’d crawl.” His smile flickered, too wide. “I’d bleed pretty, if it’d keep your eyes on me.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Don’t be fucking weird, Ares.”

“Why? It’s not weird. Half of my friends are cousins, and they–”

She ran a hand down her face, not caring if she smeared makeup or wine or fruit. “You’re a fucking fool, you know that?”

Ares grinned like he liked the sting. “Had to try,” he said. “Would’ve hated myself if I didn’t.”

She was going to need a very long, very cold bath. Possibly in holy water. Or lava. Lava might work.

She exhaled hard through her nose, then blinked at him. “So if not you…” Her voice pitched up, falsely chipper. “Who else can I fight? Oh! I’d love to pummel Nicasia. Maybe Amalthea.”

“Someone you feel strong emotions for,” he said tightly. “Rosier and Avery nearly killed each other last time.”

“They hate each other?”

Ares gave her a look. “Have you been paying attention at all?”

“I haven’t even seen Rosier tonight,” she snapped. “And no. I don’t pay attention to your petty social politics. My friends and I are actually friends.”

Ares laughed. “Sure you are.” Then he went still like a beast scenting blood. His hand drifted toward his sword.

“What is it?” she asked.

He didn’t answer, but the clearing rustled.

Marcellus Avery had arrived.

He stumbled into the clearing: hair a tangle of blond curls, lips stained red with someone else’s lipstick. His eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed. He was shirtless, and a string of pearls hung from his neck.

He took one look at them, Rosalind and Ares, standing too close, and smirked.

“About fucking time, Ares boy.”

Ares didn’t laugh, but he didn’t correct him either. He looked at Rosalind, and something flickered across his face. She didn’t know what it meant. But she also didn’t want to.

She stepped away. The air shifted. Her skin prickled. Clarity slid in under her ribs.

“What do you want, Mars?” Ares asked.

Mars’s grin widened. His hand dropped to his sword.

“How about a game?” he said. “It’s time someone bled.”

-.-

Something in her chest paced, waiting, hot and teeth-bared. This time, it wasn’t ancient magic. It was the potion, humming, eager to split her open.

Were they about to duel with wands? Fists? Axes? In her warped, half-dream version of Bacchanalia, the boys had swords and wine-slick mouths. Everyone looked like they wanted to bite.

She followed Avery through the forest, if it was still a forest. The trees glitched as they passed, warping in and out of shape. Ares lingered a pace behind, humming tunelessly under his breath.

When they reached the clearing, what had once been the common room, everything was gone. No tables. No wine fountain. It had been stripped clean by unseen magic, remade into something else.

Nicasia floated above them on a conjured swing of ivy and roses, glowing faintly pink. Her fairy wings twitched, lazy and luminous, as she dangled one slippered foot like a countdown. She was no longer miniature.

Mulciber, also full-sized again, cracked his knuckles.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Benedict was storming toward them, young and flushed and all wrong for this place. Lipstick smeared down his neck. Buttons misaligned. Eyes darting like prey. He looked like a boy pretending to be a man.

“I was invited. By you, remember.”

“I told you not to come when—” He seized her wrist, dragging her a few paces back. Like she was explosive. “When I realized it was Bacchanalia night.”

“No, you didn’t,” she snapped, yanking her arm free. Her voice came out too sharp. “Riddle escorted me. Not that he’s shown his face since.”

Her brain felt flayed open, but not in a bad way. Like heat on raw nerves. Her magic was quiet. Her tongue was not.

“Riddle?” Benedict blinked. “Tom Riddle brought you?”

“‘Brought’ is generous,” she said, coolly. “He watched me drink the poison and vanished. Like a gentleman.”

Where was he? Ares had said he always disappeared. Maybe he wasn’t even here.

She paused. The air shifted. Like a breath on her neck. A breeze that shouldn’t have been there. And for just a moment—no more than a blink—the world around her rippled . The trees shimmered like glass, refracting light at impossible angles, and through them she saw—

Tom.

High above. Leaning over the edge of the dormitory balcony. Not in a costume. No illusion. No potion-drunk wildness. He was dressed just as he’d been in Central Hall: polished white button-up, tie neatly knotted, hair perfect, face still.

He was watching her. 

The illusion snapped shut like jaws around a neck.

Laughter surged. Wine spilled. The forest reasserted itself. But she knew–

He’d been watching the whole time.

You smug, orchestrating bastard.

She wanted to scream. To claw at the sky. To drag him down by that pristine collar and ask—what was this to you? She’d laughed. She’d danced. She’d nearly stripped naked in the fire. And he hadn’t lifted a finger.

He’d wanted this. He’d fed it.

And now he was above her, untouched, unburned, a god in his clean white shirt, pretending he hadn’t set the temple on fire.

“He never comes to these,” Benedict said, voice tight and far away.

“Yes,” Rosalind said coldly. “So I’ve been told.”

Her arms were crossed before she realized it. Her nails bit into her skin. The image of Tom’s white shirt still burned behind her eyes.

“Who were you with?”

“No one.” Her jaw clenched. “Ares dragged me out of naked fire worship with Druella and Veronika. Very gallant.”

He grimaced. “You’re not with him…?”

“Merlin, no,” she hissed. “Avery interrupted. We were talking. It’s not—” Her voice cracked. “That’s foul, Benedict.”

“Bacchanalia makes people do fouler things.”

“And I’m not most people.”

Silence crackled between them.

“You’re sure Riddle brought you?”

“Yes,” she said. A single, flat syllable. It rang out like a warning shot.

A pause. Then, a sharp throat-clear. Rosalind turned toward it, fire already coiling low in her spine.

“Let the games begin!” Nicasia cried from her swing, voice warped with too much glee.

Rosalind and Benedict turned as one. His hand clamped tightly around her wrist.

“Don’t play,” he said.

She yanked free, eyes flashing. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Mars stepped into the center, shirtless and grinning. He looked carved out of chaos. 

“Tonight’s game,” Nicasia said, her voice echoing too loud, like it wasn’t coming from her mouth at all, “is Fox and the Hounds.”

A ripple of silence passed through the crowd. Even the forest stilled. Rosalind’s spine snapped straight. Her fingers itched for her wand.

“We haven’t played that since last year,” Paris said, arms crossed. His velvet coat hung open, no shirt beneath. His chest shimmered like he’d rolled in powdered starlight.

Rosalind’s mouth dried. Her heart picked up speed.

Mars grinned like a beast uncaged. “Rules are fucking simple. One fox. Four hounds. The fox runs. The hounds chase. If the fox gets to the Astronomy Tower first… congratulations. You’ll be the first to ever do it.”

“And if not?” Nicasia asked sweetly, tilting her head. The swing rocked beneath her like it might snap its rope.

Mars spread his arms like a stage magician about to saw someone in half. “Then the hounds do what they like.”

Laughter. Not the nice kind. The other kind.

Rosalind stepped behind Benedict, but her whole body thrummed. She could feel the moment shiver. Her blood was already running.

Her body knew it was her. Her mind was already calculating distance, speed, violence .

Of course it would be her. She was the one in the sheer dress. The one soaked in wine and spectacle. The one Tom had brought and abandoned. The odd woman out. She was already marked.

Nicasia lifted her hand, rings flashing like spellwork. “Tonight’s fox…” she purred.

Rosalind’s fists curled. Her heart thundered. She braced.

Say it. Just say it. Say my name.

“Ares Lestrange.”

Rosalind blinked.

“ What? ” Ares barked. “Ugh, fuck no .” He shoved forward, flushed. “Pick someone else. Fuck’s sake, Nicasia.”

His voice cracked around the edges, like maybe he’d thought it would be her, too.

She blinked once, and something snapped . A sudden, jagged edge of disappointment. She wanted to run. Wanted to hunt . Her skin itched for it.

“No,” Nicasia said sweetly. “And I didn’t pick you. Fate did. Consider it punishment for screwing a Ravenclaw.”

Laughter burst through the circle. Someone whistled. Rosalind slowly rolled her neck, letting the sound slide over her like smoke. She felt eyes swing back toward her.

“We didn’t—” she started, but Benedict yanked her behind him again.

“You’re not serious,” Ares muttered,

Nicasia clapped her hands, delighted. “Now. Who shall our hounds be?” 

She scanned the crowd.

“Avery, you’re out,” she said. “You won last time.”

“It was fun, wasn’t it, Paris?” Mars said.

“I cut your pinky off,” Rosier said flatly.

“And I pummeled you into the stairs,” Mars replied, smiling dreamily.

The air had changed again, less enchanted, more stripped . The grass felt too stiff. Too cold. She looked down and saw stone beneath her feet.

The glamour was bleeding at the seams.

“Let’s see… Mulciber. Obviously.”

Mulciber cracked his neck, stepping forward, looking entirely too pleased. Ares groaned. 

“Nott,” she drawled. “He’s slippery. That’ll be fun.”

Leo emerged, calm and unreadable. His usual smile stayed, but no horns this time. Just shadows behind his eyes.

“Rosier.”

Paris sighed like he’d just been asked to pick up a chore. He rolled his sleeves with a bored eye-roll..

“And—hmm. Amalthea?”

Amalthea Travers stepped forward in heels.

“Oh, come on, ” Ares groaned. “You’re sending Avery’s girlfriend after me?”

Rosalind licked her lips, the heat flaring under her skin. That same disappointment itched like a fever. She wanted to play. Let me in.

“Bacchanalia rules,” Nicasia called, eyes sparkling. “No magic until the final confrontation. No maiming. And the fox…” She grinned at Ares with too many teeth. “...gets a ten-second head start.”

“Fucking hell,” Ares muttered, yanking his wand from his waistband. The sword illusion fizzled out, evaporating in a shimmer of smoke. His face changed. No more slouch, no more grin.

I would’ve caught you, she thought, chest rising fast. I would’ve made it hurt.

Nicasia raised one hand.

“Ten,” she sang.

Ares bolted. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t look back. He didn’t wait to hear nine.

-.-

The illusion was gone. The dreamscape burned clean. There was stone underfoot. Her dress was back. She was barefoot. Breathless. Barely human. But not because of the potion.

Because of him .

Rosalind stalked up the staircase, fury blistering inside her. The animal hadn’t calmed, it had curled tighter. Sharpened. Its claws were in her throat.

And there he was.

Tom stood on the balcony overlooking the common room, arms loose at his sides, the picture of poise. That same white shirt. That same perfect knot at his tie. He could’ve walked straight out of the Ministry, untouched by anything that had happened below.

“You,” she snarled.

He turned leisurely, as if summoned by something dull. His eyes swept over her, barefoot, soaked, wild-eyed, and the corner of his mouth curled.

But she saw it. The pause. The flicker. The way his eyes stalled on her collarbone, on the line where wine had dried like blood.

“Rosalind,” he said, like a greeting. Like it was she who’d come late.

She stormed across the corridor, jabbing a finger at him. “I cannot believe you had me take that potion, and then vanished. ”

He didn’t flinch. “I told you to find me when you were able.”

“You disappeared. ”

“You arrived.” His head tilted slightly. “So… did you enjoy yourself?”

Her mouth parted in disbelief. “ They were going to hunt me. ”

She wanted to lunge. To bite. Her fingernails twitched with the urge to dig into someone’s throat. Maybe his.

“But they didn’t,” he said smoothly.

“Only because Nicasia changed her mind.”

“Then you should thank her.”

“I should claw your face open,” she said. “I should drag you down from your little perch and make you feel it. You’re insane, you know.”

He lifted one brow, amused. “You’re the one who danced with Druella Rosier while dripping wine down your chest, but yes. Let’s talk about my well-being.”

His hand lifted like he meant to trace it, then dropped, composure reasserted itself like a lock sliding back into place.

Her hands curled into fists. She wanted to hit him. Or crawl into his lap and bite until he bled. Or both.

“What did you see?” he asked next, too casually. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He didn’t touch her, but she felt it, his restraint, trembling like a live wire between them. She could practically feel it in her chest.

“None of your business.”

“You looked like you were letting go.”

She bared her teeth. “I saw a room full of people who wanted to eat me alive.”

He smiled. “Then you saw them honestly. Bacchanalia doesn’t lie. It just… unwraps.”

“Then why didn’t I see you?” she hissed. “Why did you hide?”

His voice dropped a note lower, just to make her clench. “I promised I’d behave in the Three Broomsticks. Following you into Bacchanalia wouldn’t have qualified.”

Her eyes sparked. He was drenched in composure. Untouched, unbothered. And still, his gaze swept over her. Slowly. Devouring. Her flushed cheeks. Her wine-stained skin. The dress suctioned to her thighs, to her breasts, to her hips. Her nipples visible through the silk. She saw the way his pupils dilated.

She felt his gaze everywhere.

And finally—her ancient magic opened its eyes.

She should have hexed him. Should have turned on her heel. Should have carved his smug mouth open. But her magic surged, hot and primal. Aroused. It licked at her ribs like fire. She could taste it in her mouth.

She didn’t flee. She stepped closer, licking her lips.

“Did you like watching me?” she asked. “Or did you hate watching them fawn over me?”

His silence answered for him.

She stepped closer. There was barely a foot between them now. Her magic flared, silver-blue and snarling. 

Tom didn’t move. But a muscle jumped in his jaw. His composure held. Barely.

“Did you get jealous?” she whispered. “When Abraxas touched me?”

Nothing.

“When Ares tried?”

His gaze flickered. Her smile turned wicked.

“I’d be jealous. You brought me. You paraded me in. Claimed me. And then you left me to be devoured.”

Then, cold as a curse, Tom said, “Don’t flatter yourself, Sallow.” But it came too late.

“You watched all of it,” she said. “And it ruined you.”

She didn’t flinch when he moved.

One second, he was still. The next, he had her against the wall—one hand braced beside her head, the other pressing low on her waist. His body caged hers. His breath stirred the damp hair at her temple.

“You think it ruined me?” he murmured, so close his mouth brushed her cheek. “You think I sat there and—what—suffered?”

The word shouldn’t have made her breath catch, but it did. His hand slid up, trailing over the curve of her ribs to the top of her breast. He dragged two fingers across the slick silk, gathering a line of wine and sweat.

“I got to watch you debase yourself. Rosalind Sallow, just like the rest of them.”

Then he lifted his hand to his mouth.

And licked it.

A flick of tongue. A hum of approval. He closed his eyes like he was tasting something divine.

He’d taken the same potion. She could feel it on him now. But unlike her, he’d swallowed it down and waited. Waited until it found its mark. This was Tom under Bacchanalia. 

Debasing himself for her.

Rosalind’s pulse exploded. She let out a breathless little laugh.

Tom’s eyes opened, dark and bottomless. He was unraveling. Slowly. Beautifully. Just for her.

When she pushed against him, he caught her, flat palm to her sternum, pressing her back to the wall.

And then, slow as sin, he slid it up, over her collarbone to her throat. He wrapped his hand around it, fingers splayed, thumb resting just beneath her jaw.

She could still breathe. But she didn’t.

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.

“Next time, Rosalind, be more careful where you drip your wine.”

And then he was gone.

Her magic still purred. A new mantra formed:

Kiss him. Curse him. Devour him. 

Chapter Text

Tom let the water pour over his face and down his shoulders as if it might scour the filth away. As if this shower might offer salvation.

But it was far too late for that.

Bacchanalia had sunk its teeth into him. Lust and wrath—indistinguishable now—twisted hot in his blood, flooding his mind with images he didn’t want. Couldn’t stop.

Rosalind Sallow. Drenched in wine. Laughing like the devil. Eyes alight with something feral.

He fisted his cock, furious with himself.

One moment, he’d been dragging his finger along the swell of her breast; the next, he was clawing at his own clothes like they’d betrayed him. Ripping them off. Storming into the showers. Shedding his skin.

The water was scalding. He didn’t flinch.

His cock throbbed—angry, leaking, almost painful.

She’d laughed when he whispered in her ear. And he hadn’t known whether to fuck her or hex her into the floor.

He pictured her cheeks flushed, wine glistening on her collarbone, a smug little smile that begged to be kissed or broken. His hand in her hair. Her lip between his teeth.

Her voice, low and vicious: “Did you get jealous?”

“Fuck,” he hissed, pumping faster now, knuckles white against the slick tile. 

His grip tightened. Rough. Brutal. Each stroke a punishment. His hips stuttered forward, chasing friction. His hand twisted at the base, dragging over the head, slick with need. He fucked his fist like he’d fuck her—hard, furious, desperate to leave a mark.

The steam thickened, heat drowning him. His mind filled with the phantom weight of her legs around his waist, her voice wrecked and panting beneath him.

“Yes, like that. Yes, Gods. Oh, fuck–”

He tried to shift the image, to call up something else. Anything else.

Power. Worship. Control. Destiny.

The Cruciatus Curse. The Room of Requirement. His basilisk in the pipes.

But no.

All he could see was her. On her knees, silver eyes glittering, his tie around her neck. Her hair stuck to her damp throat. Her hand between her legs—two fingers curled inside herself as she moaned his name.

Maybe she’d like it when he pinned her throat. Maybe she’d make him beg.

No. She would beg.

He’d make her.

He imagined her whispering his name as he sank into her. Her cunt squeezing him, magic sparking behind her teeth, hips canting up for more—

“Harder, Riddle. You want me, don’t you?”

His vision blurred.

He came with a strangled noise—too fast, too loud, too raw . It spattered across his hand, hot and humiliating, streaking the tile in thick, pearlescent lines. He nearly doubled over, palm pressed flat to the wall, chest heaving.

His knees trembled.

Weak.

The water beat down—merciless, punishing. He let it scald him, praying it might sear the weakness away.

He was no better than the rest of them. Worse.

Undisciplined. Human.

He stood in the steam, panting, dripping with shame.

Then, jaw locked, he shut off the water and stalked from the showers—naked, dripping, unbothered by modesty or magic, like the sting of the air might flay the softness from him.

Mars stood at the sinks. Shirtless. Shoeless. Covered in wine and lipstick and what might’ve been a bite mark. Still in that fucking pearl necklace.

He glanced over—lingered, always—on Tom’s still-half-hard cock.

“Ten galleons Mulciber throws Lestrange off the Astronomy Tower,” Mars said. “Ten more says Ares cries.”

Tom didn’t blink. “My wand,” he said flatly.

Mars startled—then turned, still grinning, and retrieved it from the mirror’s ledge.

“Best Bacchanalia of the year,” he said. “I myself attended a virgin sacrifice. Fucked Lucretia Black in the sixth-year dormitory. She thought I was Malfoy.”

He winked.

“Didn’t bother correcting her.”

Tom didn’t care, but the shame was still under his skin. And the ache hadn’t gone away.

He raised his wand. “Crucio.”

Mars’s scream split the room. He fell, shoulder slamming the sink. Pearls burst. Beads skittered across the stone like teeth.

Tom counted to four. Then six, because precision mattered.

Then stepped over him. The bastard lay on the floor, grinning up at him.

The pearls crunched beneath his feet like bone.

-.-

If a hangover from snorting Devil’s Snare lasted three days, the hangover from Bacchanalia would surely last a week.

Rosalind woke on Sunday in her dormitory, hair crusted and damp in places, reeking of bonfire smoke and something worse—her own sour sweat. The scent hit her like a punch to the gut. She gagged in bed.

The room was empty.

She peeled off her clothes—damp and still clinging to her skin—and flung her ruined underthings into a corner. Her skin was blotched purple in places—wine or bruises, she couldn’t tell.

Sunlight spilled through the tall windows. Midday. Her dormmates were long gone.

Each step toward the lavatory jolted her skull, blinding her.

Then came the nausea.

It gripped her hard, suddenly, and relentlessly. She collapsed to the dormitory floor and retched, expelling what little remained in her stomach: fruit, wine, the remnants of a pumpkin pasty from the Quidditch match. It scorched her throat on the way out.

Four minutes. That’s how long it took to crawl to the lavatory. She managed to run a lukewarm bath, climbing in before the tub had filled. The shallow water lapped at her ankles. She sat curled into herself, arms wrapped around her knees, head lolling forward, hair hanging limp and sticky.

She stared at nothing and breathed slowly.

Her magic was gurgling. That was the only word for it. Uneasy. Queasy. Off-kilter. Like it had ingested too many fizzy drinks or caught last autumn’s stomach bug. It turned and twisted inside her like spoiled milk. It was the worst hangover she’d ever had, multiplied by a hundred.

For a wild moment, she considered limping to the Hospital Wing.

But instead, Rosalind sat in a cold, pink-stained tub—its water tinged red from the wine still leeching out of her hair and skin—and felt only shame.

What a humiliating night.

(What a thrilling, humiliating night.)

The Slytherins, she thought, must have a humiliation kink. They thrived on degradation—watching each other unravel into beasts. She couldn’t imagine walking into the Great Hall later. Could barely picture facing Gwen and Parisa in the library, pretending everything was fine.

Her brother—her younger brother—had seen her like that.

The thought triggered another wave of nausea. She turned the tap hotter, scalding her skin as if that might burn the night away. Burn herself clean.

Why had she gone? Why had she taken the potion? Why had she let those ruthless, venomous Slytherins play her like that?

Her only solace was that she was the only non-Slytherin there. Maybe that meant their secrets stayed within the house. She’d never even heard of Bacchanalia. 

Or—no. That wasn’t true.

She had heard whispers of those infamous Slytherin parties—where couples fucked in plain sight, where students vanished for hours and came back changed—

Rosalind groaned and slid lower into the water, letting it scald her feet.

She hadn’t danced naked around the fire like Druella and Veronika. She hadn’t nearly shagged (or actually shagged?) in the common room like Avery and Amalthea. She hadn’t been hunted for sport like Ares—

Ares.

She barely remembered anything after Tom’s hand left her throat.

Her stomach turned. What had happened to Ares? Did he make it to the Astronomy Tower in one piece? Would she stumble down to the Great Hall only to find her cousin split into two? Pummeled into smithereens? Broken limbs? Or maybe, dying in the Hospital Wing?

Rosalind shivered despite the boiling water and reached up to shut it off.

Her mind returned to images of Tom. Tom. Fucking Tom. Always Tom.

She was sick of him—sick of his perfect face, his heavy-lidded gaze, the way his fingers had grazed her chest—the pressure of his hand on her throat.

She’d almost wanted him to tighten it. So there was finally something real. 

But now, there was nothing. No explanation. No clarity. Only a phantom ache. A game half-played. Push and pull and absence.

Well, he’d certainly pushed her hard enough last night. She needed to rid herself of him. Scrub him from her skin. Cut him from her bloodstream. He was depraved. He liked to watch her. She should want nothing to do with him.

And yet, his face haunted her. Even here, even now, his scent lingered. In her hair. In the water.

Her thighs shifted.

She told herself she was adjusting. She told herself it was nothing.

But her hand drifted lower. Just slightly. It slid down her stomach, slow and trembling, brushing the ridge of her hipbone, the inside of her thigh. Heat bloomed.

She thought of his mouth. Of that stare. Of his voice, cruelty wrapped in silk.

“You liked it, Sallow.”

The words hit her like a curse. Her eyes flew open.

She froze.

Then recoiled. Her hand yanked away. Her stomach lurched. She leaned over the side of the tub and vomited onto the tile.

It was violent. Ugly. Her chest heaved. Her throat tore.

She collapsed back against the porcelain, gasping, lips chapped, skin pale and sweating.

The water rippled—and shimmered. For a moment, silver light threaded across the surface. Thin and sharp, like a cut in reality.

Then it vanished.

She blinked. Shaking.

She lay there, trembling in the wine-stained water, chest rising and falling too fast. She should’ve gotten out. Dried off. Pulled herself together.

Instead, she closed her eyes. Let her head fall to the side of the tub. Breath catching.

And imagined him in the doorway.

Silent. Smiling.

Watching her.

But for a split second—before her fingers moved—she wondered:

Was he thinking about her?

Would he come if she called?

And then, shamelessly, she fucked herself to the thought of him.

-.-

She found Parisa and Gwen in the library an hour later, sustained by ancient magic and a few bites of toast she’d snagged from the kitchens on the way there.

“What happened to you last night?”

Her mouth opened before her brain caught up.

Don’t lie.

Don’t lie.

“I got way too drunk.” Truth. It was a truth. “And then I puked in the dormitory. Like… six times.”

She dropped her bag beside their usual table between Celtic Beasts and Danish Doxies in the magical beasts section. For years, she’d stared at the same spines, dusty and untouched. Rosalind let her head fall against the cool wood.

“You looked like you’d been shot,” Parisa said.

Rosalind blinked. She hadn’t realized her eyes were open.

Parisa had six tomes spread in front of her, including a sizeable pop-up book with a diagram of a Mirrorleaf. “I thought there was blood everywhere,” she added, still reading.

“I can’t believe you didn’t wake up,” Gwen said. She had only two books open but was scribbling furiously across a long piece of parchment. Rosalind couldn’t remember having an essay due. Her mind felt fogged, soggy, unreliable.

“Parisa yanked the covers off and was yelling in your face,” Gwen said.

Parisa flushed. “Well—like I said. I thought she’d been shot.”

“At Hogwarts? In her dormitory?” Gwen rolled her eyes. “Rosalind, have you ever heard of being shot? Muggles can be terrifying.”

Rosalind shrugged. “It was just wine.”

“Yes, we realized that when we smelled you.” Parisa leaned in and sniffed again. “Revolting, by the way. I see you’ve bathed.”

“What happened at the party?” Gwen asked, trying for casual. It felt like she was poking a bruise.

Rosalind’s magic lurched in her stomach—instinctive, defensive. On edge.

“Why?”

They didn’t answer.

So she went on. 

“It was a regular party. I drank. Other people did drugs. Someone puked on the carpet. Amalthea cried.”

“Hm,” Parisa said, clicking her tongue.

“What?” she said, too loud. It echoed in her skull like a slammed door.

“It really was just a party. They sang fight songs. Worshipped Benedict. I smoked half a pack of cigarettes.”

The lies were easy now. Familiar. Like Bacchanalia had been a dream. If she kept pretending, maybe it would solidify into truth.

Gwen and Parisa exchanged a look. A knowing one.

“We have to tell you something,” Gwen said, face tight.

Rosalind’s pulse stuttered. “What is it?”

“It’s just—” Gwen started, then faltered.

A group of fifth-year Gryffindor boys passed their table. One looked directly at Rosalind and snickered. Nudged his friend. They both laughed.

Rosalind tracked them until they vanished behind the next aisle.

“What was that?” she asked. Her voice came out thinner than she meant.

“There’s a rumor going around,” Gwen said carefully. “That you, uh… were caught having sex with Lestrange at the party.”

Rosalind stared at her. Then: “You’re joking.”

Silence.

Her expression barely changed. “Merlin’s beard,” she said. Not even a whisper. “Are they serious?”

“Yes,” Parisa said.

“You think I’d fuck my cousin?”

She didn’t mean for it to sound so flat. But it did.

Is that how I looked? That far gone? That willing? The rumor’s so believable they think it might be true.

She wasn’t Rosalind Sallow, Ravenclaw. She was the girl who fucked her cousin at a Slytherin party. That was who she was now.

“We know you didn’t,” Gwen said quickly.

Parisa said nothing. Just watched her—calculating.

“I didn’t,” Rosalind said, firmer now. Her hand thudded lightly against the table—not a slap, just a grounding. “I can’t believe I have to say this, Parisa, but I did not have sex with my cousin at that party.”

“Well, we figured it wasn’t Lestrange,” Parisa said, too dry. “But you’ve been awfully chummy with Riddle…”

“I didn’t have sex with anyone,” Rosalind huffed. Her cheeks flushed hot. Her headache pulsed behind her right eye. “I got drunk and talked and danced, and that was it.”

She didn’t kiss anyone. She didn’t fuck anyone. She barely remembered most of it.

Tom’s hand on her throat. His breath on her ear. 

“It’s just the rumor,” Gwen said gently. She reached out and took Rosalind’s hand, squeezing it. “We’ve been telling anyone who says it to fuck right off. Parisa even threatened to hex someone.”

“Yes, well,” Parisa said like it was barely worth mentioning.

Rosalind couldn’t even feel grateful. She could barely feel anything. She knew exactly who started the rumor. And her name rhymed with Ickcasia.

Her magic curdled under her skin—hot, restless, twitching for violence. Her vision blurred. Her breath caught halfway up her throat.

She pictured it—Nicasia, beaten and bloody. Nicasia, crying. Nicasia, begging for forgiveness.

She stared at her hands and imagined using them to wring Nicasia’s pretty little neck.

“There’s another thing,” Gwen muttered.

Rosalind’s gaze snapped up.

Gwen flinched. She looked at Rosalind’s eyes like she’d just seen something wrong in them. Something flickering. Something too bright.

Without another word, Gwen pulled a folded newspaper from beneath her stack of textbooks and slid it across the table.

Rosalind’s stomach dropped.

She unfolded it with shaking hands. The paper was already crumpled at the edges, like Gwen had read it five times, trying to decide whether to show her.

The headline glared up at her:

TERROR IN THE HIGHLANDS: GRINDELWALD’S FOLLOWERS BACK OR SOME ROGUE DARK WIZARD?

She slammed it down. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

“What?”

“Another two murders last night,” Gwen said, chewing the end of her quill. “This time out in Cragcroft.”

“Really?” Rosalind asked. Her voice was too tight. Her eyebrows drew together. The ache behind her eyes sharpened.

Inside her, the ancient magic stirred. Paused. Curled behind her eyes like it was reading the story, too.

Her stomach turned.

“Two wizards,” Gwen went on. “Vendors. They were found dead. Still warm. The Killing Curse.” She hesitated. “Rosalind… I don’t think you should leave the castle anymore.”

Rosalind dropped back into her chair. It felt too low. Like she was sinking into the ground.

Too much. Too close. Another attack in the Highlands. So near the castle. So near Feldcroft. And Cragcroft—

She’d just been there last week, sucking up all the ancient magic available.

“The Ministry’s handling it,” Gwen added softly. “They’re sending more Aurors. Investigating. Obviously, they think the murders are connected—”

Her voice blurred. The words fell out of order. Muffled under the pulse in Rosalind’s ears.

Surely someone would fix this. Surely someone would stop it.

But what if they didn’t?

What if she couldn’t stay in the castle? What if her ancient magic dragged her out anyway—in the dead of night—and she woke up with blood on her hands?

What if she liked it?

She'd burn the Undercroft to ashes if she had to stay here. She’d tear the walls down with her bare hands. She couldn’t be caged. Gwen couldn’t expect her to be caged.

“Wait,” she said slowly, raising her eyes.

Gwen looked truly nervous now.

Across from her, Parisa’s expression had shifted—something quiet and bracing, like she’d been preparing for this moment all morning.

“What do you mean, leave the castle?” Rosalind asked.

Gwen hesitated.

“We know you’re sneaking off the grounds,” she said carefully. Like she’d rehearsed it in the mirror.

Gwen, the gentle one. The voice of reason. The one Rosalind might not snap in half.

Parisa would’ve tried to level her.

“For the last few years,” Gwen went on. “We’ve known.”

“How?” Rosalind asked. Then, too quickly, “I’m not sneaking off the grounds. I’m just sneaking… around the grounds.”

“We don’t ask why,” Gwen said. “We won’t make you tell us.”

Parisa scoffed under her breath.

Gwen shot her a look. Then turned back to Rosalind.

“We just… we want you to stop. Please. Just promise you won’t do it anymore.”

Another scoff from Parisa. But when Rosalind turned to her, she gave a tight, pained nod.

“You could get hurt,” Gwen whispered. “Or worse.”

Gwen looked like she might cry. That was the worst part.

Rosalind nodded. Mechanically. Because that’s what was expected. “Okay,” she mumbled.

Then Parisa reached across the table and grabbed her hand.

“This isn’t one of those times where you promise and break it the next day,” she said firmly. “If you don’t take your safety seriously, we will.”

She looked at Gwen, who gave a slight nod.

“We aren’t afraid to—” Parisa swallowed, “—to tell your grandmother.”

Rosalind blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Then her voice dropped into a hiss. “You’re threatening me?”

“Yes,” said Parisa. 

“No,” said Gwen, instantly.

Rosalind’s jaw clenched. Her hands curled into fists. Her magic swelled—too fast. Too sharp. A pressure spike behind her ribs, sudden and loud.

She had no doubt she looked terrifying. Gwen had gone pale. Parisa had gone still.

Not them, she told the magic. Not them, not them, not them.

But it was hard to hold on.

“You don’t want to threaten me,” she said.

Her voice wasn’t quiet. It was empty. Like something had slipped out of her chest and hadn’t come back.

She grabbed her bag. Shoved back from the table.

And fled.

-.-

Tom stood at the edge of the Astronomy Tower and wanted to throw someone off it. Maybe Abraxas. Maybe himself.

He could still see it—last night’s delusion. The coliseum. Marble drenched in blood. Golden lions. The roaring crowd. A girl draped in torn silk and bloodlust, silver burning in her eyes.

He’d stood above it all. Crowned. Worshipped.

Then he’d come in the fucking shower, hand clenched around his cock like a cursed first year.

It was laughable. Tragic. Undignified.

Across the balcony, Abraxas and Paris looked like they’d been dragged out of a ditch. Paris had his head between his knees. Abraxas sat slouched, sour, and limp with shame. Both on their third cigarette.

Nott’s Bacchanalia-specific pepper-up potion still didn’t work. They’d all taken it—except Tom—and now relied on cigarettes to distract from the slow death throbbing behind their eyes.

Tom hadn’t touched the potion. He didn’t need it. He never needed it.

Until last night.

That was the problem.

He allowed himself indulgence. Carefully curated debauchery. He could drink, he could fuck—but he did not lose control. He did not hallucinate Roman bloodsport while stroking himself raw against cold tile. He did not dream of silver fire licking his spine.

Desire was a tool. Hunger, a symptom. He was not ruled by either.

Until last night.

The cigarette burned hot in his fingers. The smoke smelled wrong. Sweet. Clove-laced. Maybe Bacchanalia was still rotting in their lungs.

He thought he heard her laugh once, carried on the wind. But when he turned, there was nothing—just a curl of smoke and the echo of his own madness.

He exhaled through his nose. It didn’t help.

Silence stretched. Then:

“Ten thousand galleons,” Abraxas muttered, lifting his head like it weighed too much. “Either Rowle thinks this object could control the world, or he’s a fucking idiot.”

“He knows it’s not worth ten thousand galleons,” Tom said. “He wants to see how far we’d go for it. What we think it’s worth. Why we’re asking.”

Abraxas flinched. Subtle, but satisfying. Having him write to Arcturus Black—to float a request about a hypothetical dark object once owned by Frederick Rowle—had been a calculated risk.

Aside from Rosalind Bloody Sallow, he’d been consumed by Rowle and the Greenshields artifacts for weeks. Why would an ex-Auror risk everything—his pension, his title, his freedom—to steal enchanted objects and hoard them like cursed heirlooms?

Tom suspected he knew. But he hadn’t yet found the thread that tied it all together.

The Brighton theft had only confirmed his suspicions. One object taken. One only. A brutal little artifact called the Redcap Coin —etched with the Greenshields crest, iron-forged, blood thirsty. Supposedly one of the first.

The reply to their inquiry had been curt.

Ten thousand galleons.

Laughable. Fascinating. A dare, more than a price.

“What do you think it’s worth, Tom?” Paris asked, a smirk playing on his lips. “Must be some coin. Should we make him an offer he can’t refuse?”

Tom didn’t answer at first. He watched the ember at the tip of his cigarette flare, then dim.

He appreciated Rosier’s confidence in him. He always had. Paris still believed Tom knew everything. That belief was useful.

“They say the Redcap Coin was forged from battlefield iron,” Tom said. “Soaked in enemy blood. Pressed with the Greenshields crest while the metal still screamed.”

Rosalind’s voice returned, sickly sweet and spectral: Did you get jealous?

He tapped the cigarette too hard. Ash scattered across his boots.

“Dipped in the blood of your enemy,” he continued, “it grants total control—until the coin dries.”

Abraxas scoffed. “Bit theatrical, isn’t it? Imperius is faster. Easier.”

Tom smiled at him. That particular smile—the cold one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“But where’s the romance in that, Abraxas?” he said softly. Then: “Some say the Red Cap on its face smiles when the magic takes hold. Others say it drinks the soul, drop by drop, with every use. Not all at once—slowly. Patiently. Like it’s savoring the ruin.”

“Wicked,” Paris said. But his voice was less confident now.

They fell quiet again. Cigarettes crackled. Wind hissed through the arches.

Then, lazily, Abraxas said, “I think there’s a bit of Lestrange’s blood on the stairs. Pity we don’t already have the coin.”

Tom didn’t look. But Paris stood, always the showman, and walked toward the far stairwell. His dress shoes echoed across the stone.

“Ha!” he called. “Would you look at that? There is dried blood. Mulciber broke his arm in three places, you know.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I thought that was the point of that little game,” he said. “Violence. Wrath.”

Rosalind’s silver eyes flashed behind his lids—bright and brutal as she whispered something filthy about Abraxas. Her mouth inches from his. Her throat beneath his hand.

His gaze drifted across the tower. Abraxas stood stiff, very still, looking away—pretending not to feel it. But he felt it. Tom could smell it.

The memory. The shame.

He would repay him for that moment. Not with Crucio. No, no. That would be too clean. Abraxas never learned from pain. But fear— fear lingered. And Tom was nothing if not patient.

Paris wandered back, still smug. “He made it to the Astronomy Tower first, though. Technically, Ares won. Mulciber broke the rules.”

“Yes, and he was screaming about it all the way back to the common room,” Abraxas muttered, rolling his eyes. “So dramatic. As if he didn’t help invent the fucking game.”

“He thinks if he suffers loudly enough, someone will finally crown him king,” Paris said.

Abraxas smiled. “He could crawl to every tower in this castle on broken limbs and still be third place.”

“Fourth,” Paris said, eyes glinting.

“Fourth,” Abraxas echoed.

For years, Tom had watched his Knights scramble over each other like rats in a barrel—alliances forged and broken in the span of a heartbeat. All for the illusion of proximity. Of power.

Tonight, Abraxas and Paris had aligned just long enough to kick Lestrange down a step. Temporary. Meaningless. But effective.

Like dogs under the dinner table, snapping at scraps.

Tom exhaled, smoke drifting from his lips. His gaze lingered on the horizon—then dropped, bored, to the boys at his feet.

Hangovers didn’t make him anxious. They just made the world feel slow . Dull. Grimy at the edges.

Wake up. Paint on a charming smile. Haunt Rosalind Sallow. Plot the fall of the Ministry. String up his Knights like marionettes. Sleep. Repeat.

He couldn’t remember the last time any of them surprised him.

“I’m starting to forget the differences between the lot of you,” he said flatly. “You preen. You gloat. You bleed. Just like Ares.”

Silence followed. Dense. Uncomfortable. He let it settle, then flicked ash from his cigarette and turned back to the black tree line beyond the castle.

“Offer him four thousand,” he said. “See what he says.”

“You want me to pay if he accepts?” Abraxas asked, too quickly.

Tom didn’t look at him.

“Obviously.”

Another beat. Another silence. This one deeper.

Tom finished the cigarette and reached for another.

The clove-sweet smoke clung to him like perfume. Bacchanalia was still under his nails. In his lungs. In his fucking bloodstream.

So was she.

The girl with silver in her eyes. Smiling. Wine all over her tits. Screaming his name.

He lit the cigarette and didn’t speak again.

-.-

After nearly an hour of searching, Rosalind found Benedict at the Quidditch pitch, flying slow, tired circles in the dark.

“How are you airborne?” she called up to him.

The search alone—wandering the castle, asking after him, being seen —had nearly sent her back to the infirmary. Or the lake. Or off the Astronomy Tower herself.

Benedict angled downward and landed roughly in the grass, wand in hand, grimacing.

“I had to get used to it,” he said. “Tryouts. Second year.”

“You went to Bacchanalia parties in the second year?” she asked, raising a brow.

“No, Ros,” Benedict sighed. “Initiation. We drank firewhiskey, flew loops, someone vomited on a ghost. Tradition.”

“Barbaric,” she muttered.

“That’s Slytherin for you,” he replied with a shrug that made her want to shove him.

She inhaled sharply, biting her tongue. “What happened to Ares?”

Benedict grimaced again. “His arm’s broken in three places. Nott tried to fix it—ended up vanishing the bones. He spent hours moaning about it in the common room. Riddle wouldn’t let him go to the Hospital Wing until he fully came down.”

Rosalind winced. “Fucking hell. Riddle is an arsehole.”

“Everyone knows the risk. You go to that party, you might leave in pieces.”

“Not me,” she snapped. “I didn’t know—”

“Yes, well,” he said, too quickly. Too dismissively.

Rosalind bristled. “Besides, Ares didn’t exactly have a choice.”

Benedict gave her a long look. “Since when are you on first-name terms with him?”

She turned to face him. “I did not sleep with our cousin, Benedict.”

She hadn’t meant to sound wounded. Or maybe she had. Maybe she wanted him to say something —something decent, something protective. But he just looked at her—tired, suspicious—and the moment passed.

Her ancient magic flared, hot and restless, crawling up her arms.

“You were alone with him,” Benedict said, measured. “It’s not about sex, Rosalind. It’s about optics. Ares is poison, and you were flammable. That’s all it takes. And Avery—”

“Oh, Avery ,” she spat. “Yes, of course. Marcellus Bloody Avery, the unbiased witness. Saint of credibility.”

Benedict raised his palms. “Alright, alright. I believe you. But—your eyes. They’re flickering.”

Something slithered over her skin. Her magic. Or her shame. Or both. She didn’t even know what expression she was wearing anymore.

Rosalind flinched, taking a half-step back.

“Your eyes,” he said again, slower. “They flashed silver at me. Only for a second. But if I didn’t know you… I’d think you were slipping.”

She gritted her teeth. The magic inside her pulsed—too sharp, too alive. Her hands twitched.

“So Avery started the rumor, did he?” she asked.

Benedict didn’t seem to notice her unraveling. “I don’t know. Dolohov heard it from Hestia, who heard it from Lucretia, who heard it from Amalthea…”

“Amalthea,” she hissed, like she was spitting out a rotten seed. “That little decorative corpse. Of course it was her.”

“I don’t know where it started,” Benedict said, opening the locker room door. “And don’t run around lighting people on fire, shouting Benedict said! like some banshee.”

She took a step forward. He held up a hand.

“You can’t come in here. Bad luck. Slytherin rules.”

She frowned, boots just shy of the threshold. “Are you dismissing me?”

“You’re on edge. I’m not trying to irritate you. Just—go to the Undercroft. Wreck something. Get it out.”

Rosalind stared at him, then exhaled. “Fine. See you later, then.”

She turned sharply and walked back toward the castle, jaw clenched, fists curled.

Her magic throbbed like an old bruise under her ribs. Her fingertips burned.

She didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. But something rotted inside of her, furious that he didn’t try to comfort her at all.

-.-

Monday. Herbology.

Rosalind sat at her usual table, the distance between her and Parisa, Gwen, and Varinia stretching wide and silent.

They weren’t speaking.

Well, technically, Parisa was speaking. She’d said crisply, “Don’t touch anything unless I scream ‘Grab the shears!’ or ‘Now!’”

It was better this way.

Varinia hadn’t said a word. She swept in with rose-perfumed Tugwood arrogance and delivered Rosalind a single, scathing glare before turning her back, hair swinging like a curtain dropped.

Rosalind didn’t ask what she’d done. Didn’t argue. She was too tired to care. Her head throbbed behind her eyes. Her magic curled in her gut.

So she stared instead—across the room, across the greenhouse—at the Slytherins.

Avery, Ares, the usual pack. Laughing, whispering, casting glances sharp enough to flay. Avery elbowed Ares, still in his sling, and mimed an obscene gesture in her direction.

She didn’t hex him. She wanted to. She imagined it in detail. Bones shattered. Teeth caved in.

Ares deserved worse. Something ancient. Something with blood and fire and ruin.

But the worst part?

Tom.

Stupid, fucking Tom.

He didn’t even look at her. Didn’t glance. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, the picture of poise, bent over his Devil’s Tentacula like she was air.

Like nothing had happened between them. Like he hadn’t practically choked her out in front of his entire house in some twisted (hot) foreplay.

Her magic howled for him. Cursehimkisshimdevourhim. Cursehimkisshimdevourhim. Cursehim—

She bit her tongue before the last part turned into a scream.

It was only ten in the morning, and she was already considering ripping his throat out with her bare hands.

“Hand here,” Parisa snapped.

Rosalind moved without thinking, plunging her fingers into the soil. Her fingertips brushed the Mirrorleaf.

“Not there— here! ” Parisa hissed.

Rosalind adjusted, silent.

“Slag,” Veronika muttered as she passed, hefting a bag of fertilizer. With a smirk, she accidentally dropped it. Dirt exploded across Rosalind’s shoes, skirt, and sleeve. “Oops.”

Rosalind turned—slowly—to face her.

Veronika crouched beside her, one hand settling lightly on Rosalind’s calf. Her eyes sparkled.

“Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” she purred. 

“Oh yeah? And what’s that Mulciber?” Rosalind snarled.

“Your legs,” Veronika continued. “Trying to figure out why you spread them for every boy in my house.”

Rosalind kicked at her—just missed—and snarled, “I can see your roots.”

Say another word and I’ll rip them out.

Veronika stood slowly, brushing imaginary soil from her skirt. “Mind cleaning that up, Sallow?” she said lightly. “Thanks, doll.”

Her heels clicked mockingly behind her.

Rosalind stared after her, every nerve on fire, fingers twitching for her wand—or Veronika’s throat. She imagined dragging her down by the hair, her magic crackling like silver lightning from her palms.

“You’re making it worse for yourself,” Varinia muttered.

Rosalind spun. “Oh, suddenly you’re speaking to me?”

Varinia’s glare was colder than the air. “I can’t watch you make a fool of yourself.”

At the next table, Gwen froze—quill poised in midair.

“Thanks, Vee,” Rosalind said, voice sharp and bright and bitter. “Your concern is so touching. What a good friend.”