Chapter Text
Chapter 6: Broomsticks and Bruises
Lee handed me his spare set of enchanted Omnioculars with a smirk so wide I assumed he was about to roast me for something I hadn’t even done yet.
“Welcome,” he declared, throwing one arm around my shoulders like I was a co-host on a reality show about broom-based violence, “to your very first tryout day. Hope you brought snacks. And judgment.”
“I never leave home without either,” I replied, sweeping my cloak aside like a dramatic widow who moonlights as a sports commentator.
Down on the pitch, Hufflepuff hopefuls were mounting brooms and adjusting goggles like they were about to face a Hungarian Horntail. A few were visibly shaking. Then the captain strode onto the pitch, followed by the Seeker.
Tall. Tousle-haired. Radiating quiet confidence. The Stormblush Seeker himself.
Cedric Diggory.
He scanned the stands and—oh, look at that—waved at me.
Lee choked on his fizzing pumpkin juice.
“Oi,” he said, squinting through his Omnioculars. “Is Cedric Diggory waving at you?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Yes. It happens. I’m quite wave-worthy.”
Lee stared. “Okay, no. Back it up. What exactly is going on?”
I grinned. “We met in Diagon Alley this summer.”
He blinked. “That’s it? Met him once and now you’re getting elite-level Seeker waves like you’re his pre-game lucky charm?”
I shrugged, delighted. “It was fate. He was exiting Flourish and Blotts looking all broody and windswept. I was in front of Broomstix contemplating the sensual curve of a Nimbus 2000 when I felt it—that weird tingle like someone’s watching you, but not in a creepy Knockturn Alley way. More like... poetic stalking.”
Lee blinked slowly. “You scare me.”
“I told him Seekers were dramatic,” I continued breezily. “He said only when they win. I called him Stormblush. He laughed. It was a whole thing.”
Lee dropped his head into his hands. “Stormblush. You named him.”
I nodded solemnly. “He earned it.”
“Unbelievable,” Lee muttered. “I buy you one Butterbeer and you go full romantic subplot in front of a broom shop.”
“Oh, please.” I waved a hand. “I was mocking the romance. I practically winked and vanished like a scandal in velvet gloves.”
“Yeah, well,” Lee said, shaking his head, “now he’s smiling like you’re his lucky broom charm and Fred and George are going to eat this up.”
***
Cedric POV
It was a crisp September afternoon, the kind where the sun hangs low and golden like it's lazily judging your broom posture. The stands were half full—mostly housemates cheering on friends, a few second years hoping to impress early, and Lee Jordan with… her.
Alexandra Rosier.
I'd seen her earlier that week—twice, actually. Once, trailing behind the Weasley twins like a particularly fashionable storm cloud. The second time, she was nose-to-nose with Peeves in a whispering standoff that ended with him apologizing and floating away backwards. I didn’t even know Peeves could apologize.
She stood out, obviously. Not just the silver-blonde hair like spun moonlight or the way she carried herself like a queen who’d misfiled herself into the first year queue—but the way she watched everything. Keen. Amused. Like life itself was one long inside joke and she was just waiting for the punchline.
And now she was in the stands. With binoculars. Watching me.
Merlin.
I adjusted my gloves a bit too tightly and tried not to trip on grass.
Owen nudged me as we headed to the lineup. “You’re looking a bit flushed, mate. Nerves?”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I just like oxygen.”
He snorted. “Or maybe you’re getting stared at by a Slytherin who looks like she wandered out of a cursed painting.”
“She’s not—” I faltered. “She’s just… curious.”
“She’s a Rosier,” Anthony Rickett added, swinging his bat over his shoulder. “And she’s with Lee Jordan. That’s basically like being knighted into Gryffindor chaos.”
Malcolm Preece leaned in with a grin. “Think she’s scouting? Slytherin could use some tricks this year.”
I glanced back at the stands. She and Lee were talking—well, she was talking. Lee looked like he was halfway between horror and awe.
She laughed at something she’d said, tipping her head back, curls catching the sunlight like they were charmed for maximum distraction. When she looked back down in my direction, it took me a second too long to realize she was looking at me.
So I waved.
And then immediately wished I had looked cooler doing it.
Anthony let out a low whistle. “You know her?”
I shrugged, trying for casual. “Met her in Diagon Alley. Outside Broomstix. She insulted my dramatic Seeker energy.”
Malcolm blinked. “Wait, you’re into that?”
“I didn’t say I was into anything,” I muttered, but the heat crawling up my neck probably betrayed me.
Owen clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’re doomed.”
I was.
She was clever. And sharp. And somehow friends with the Weasley twins, which meant either she had a high mischief tolerance or an actual death wish. And sure, she was a Rosier, but so far she hadn’t hexed anyone or sneered like half the Slytherins did. She just... watched. Commented. Lit up when something surprised her.
And she was pretty. Too pretty.
Not in the "soft-focus fairy tale" kind of way, even though with that hair and those wide grey eyes she could’ve passed for a storybook princess. More like the sort of pretty that made you nervous. The kind that looked like it came with opinions and a wand holster.
Which, again, was concerning, because I was fourteen and she was eleven or twelve and my brain should probably stop before I ended up writing poems in my Potions textbook margins.
The whistle blew. Tryouts began.
I kicked off into the air, wind tugging at my hair, thankful for the distraction of speed and altitude.
But even as I dived for the first practice Snitch, I could feel her watching.
And maybe that was okay.
***
Rosier House, Wiltshire
28th September
Ma chère Alexandra,
At last—news from you. I confess I was beginning to wonder whether Hogwarts had swallowed you whole. Your letter arrived this morning by owl, looking a touch windblown, but intact. Tottle nearly burst into tears. She carried it on a silver tray like it was a state secret, then proceeded to sob into the curtains for a full five minutes. She misses you dreadfully. (As do I, though I tend to keep my grief more... well-combed.)
I am, of course, pleased—relieved—to hear that you were sorted into Slytherin. Anything else would have required diplomatic damage control and at least three brandy-soaked conversations with your grandfather. You spared us both. Merci.
You mention friends. I’m glad you are making some, though I admit I raised an eyebrow at the breadth of your selections. Boys, Alexandra? Weasley boys? You’ve always had an independent spirit, and I admire that... but surely we could aim for a more curated guest list next time. Still, I will say—there’s something to be said for keeping company with those who challenge you. Even if their robes don’t always match and their hair is...freestyle.
(Just don’t let them talk you into anything involving cauldrons, dungbombs, or questionable knitting. You’re a Rosier, not a cautionary tale.)
Now—on to more serious matters: your appearance. I trust you are maintaining it with the care it deserves. Clean robes, polished shoes, a neat braid or pin if your curls are particularly unruly. Remember: the first spell anyone casts is perception. I packed your mother-of-pearl combs for a reason, not as relics.
Tottle has taken to ironing your pillowcase daily out of habit. I told her it’s unlikely you’ve brought silk to school but she insists “Miss Alex always deserves softness.” She’s plotting an elaborate dessert buffet for Christmas Eve in your honour, complete with candied starfruit and her absurd snowflake-shaped meringues.
If you like, we could invite Luna and Pansy over during the holidays. I remember the Lovegood girl—odd, but harmless. The Parkinsons, of course, are quite proper. I’ll have Marius decant something special from the cellar and we’ll all pretend to tolerate each other with civility and lace napkins.
Write again soon. Not just when the mood strikes. Routine correspondence is a mark of discipline—and affection.
And Alexandra?
Be clever. But never common.
Avec tout mon amour,
Maman
(Vespera Rosier)
P.S. from Miss Tottle:
Miss Alex, Miss Alex! Oh how Tottle misses your bright little footsteps in the halls! The pillows are cold and lonely without you, and I keeps your bed warm every evening just in case you pops back for tea. I is baking every Friday in case you smells it through the air! Please don’t forget your scarf when it turns chilly—Tottle embroidered your initials in the corner with extra sparkles (they is discreet, promise!).
Christmas will be perfect if Miss Alex comes home. Tottle is counting sleeps.
Loving always,
Miss Tottle
(house-elf of the Rosiers and proud of it)
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
1st October
Dearest Maman,
I nearly squealed (quietly) when your owl arrived this morning—thank you for writing. I showed the tray the owl perched on to Eloise Midgen and told her you trained your owl to expect silver. She believes me. Honestly, I think you could convince most people the chandelier blinks if displeased.
I’ve been meaning to ask—will we be visiting Grand-Mère and Grand-Père Rosier in France for the Christmas holidays? I’d love to see the winter roses blooming at the château, and I think the cold there smells better than it does anywhere else. Also, Tottle mentioned candied starfruit and meringues, and I think she’s in a competitive baking spiral, which I fully support.
Now! Exciting news: I can’t try out for the Slytherin Quidditch team until second year (ridiculous rule, honestly), but I’ve been chosen as co-commentator for the first match. Isn’t that gloriously chaotic? I’ll be up in the stands with a magical megaphone, and I promise I won’t say anything scandalous. (Well. I promise I’ll try.)
My partner-in-commentary is Lee Jordan, and he’s brilliant—quick-witted, loud in a good way, and already planning matching scarves for us. I adore him. And the Weasley twins, Fred and George? Also brilliant. They're on the Gryffindor team (Beaters), and I swear they move like they’ve swallowed Bludgers for breakfast. They're wild, yes—but in the kind of way that makes me laugh when I don’t want to.
Speaking of surprises: Harry Potter is in my year. Yes, the Harry Potter. He’s…quiet. A bit thoughtful. But nice. It’s odd seeing people stare at him like he’s a living myth, but he doesn’t seem to let it puff him up. I think you’d find him interesting. Or at least well-mannered.
Classes are going well, mostly. Potions is trickier than expected—Professor Snape is practically a floating sneer in bat form—but I’m doing better than most. Transfiguration is hard, but I like it. There’s something satisfying about turning a quill into a carnation, even if it still leaks ink occasionally.
Also, I’ve drawn a little sketch of my dormitory—we each have four-poster beds with green velvet hangings, and there’s a tiny fireplace that crackles like it’s telling secrets. I’ll send a proper watercolour when I have more time (and less homework).
Now... Maman—this is a delicate subject, so I shall phrase it with care:
May I start saving for a broom?
Nothing extravagant, I promise. Just something respectable enough that I don’t look like I borrowed it from a first-year troll. Is that…proper? Socially acceptable? (If I do make the team next year, I’d hate to embarrass the family by flying something held together with Spellotape.)
Sending love—and this little sketch of Tottle with a tray of meringues taller than she is. Tell her I miss her terribly, and the bed here is not warm enough without her tucking me in with whispers and lint-brushed corners.
With all my best charms and cheek,
Alexandra
(Prefect-in-my-own-head, Slytherin House)
***
If I die this year—and let’s face it, with the way Neville Longbottom just yeeted himself off a broom like a cursed sack of potatoes, it’s likely—let it be known that my first near-death experience was glorious.
Flying lessons.
The moment I’d been dreaming of—not since childhood exactly, but since the day I first read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone with a mug of cocoa and no clue I’d one day live it. Somewhere, tangled between my memories and those of the original Alexandra Rosier (who, apparently, once tried to fly a family heirloom broom down a portrait-lined corridor at the age of four), the yearning had rooted itself deep. And now, here I stood—eleven years old, slightly unhinged, and very ready to commit airborne lunacy. The grass was damp, the wind howled through the Forbidden Forest like a banshee with tax problems, and twenty brooms lay in rows like wooden tombstones for our dignity. Or courage. Or collarbones.
We were paired up by house, which meant I stood next to Pansy Parkinson—whose expression suggested she was one gust of wind away from hexing the atmosphere into submission. Granger was there too, already muttering under her breath like a How-To guide on legs, while Ron Weasley eyed the brooms as if one of them had insulted Molly. (Which, honestly, in this castle, wouldn’t even be the weirdest thing to happen today.)
And then there was Harry Potter.
Hair like he'd just lost a fistfight with a pillowcase. Eyes like they were brewed in a cauldron of narrative significance. He stood beside his broom like he hadn’t just stepped onto a legendary plotline.
I almost laughed. I’d seen this scene before—on page and screen—but living it? Whole different flavor. Like watching your favorite film while knowing you’re now in the blooper reel. I already knew he wouldn’t get detention. I knew McGonagall wasn’t going to shout at him—she was going to offer him a spot on the Quidditch team. And yet, I still leaned forward, pretending to be as stunned as the rest. Acting, as it turns out, is a survival skill.
Madam Hooch barked like a hippogriff with a clipboard: “Stick out your right hand and say ‘Up!’”
Simple enough.
“Up!” I said.
My broom flopped over like it had been inconvenienced.
I tried again. “Up!”
It smacked into my palm with all the enthusiasm of a disgruntled cat. Acceptable, but not headline-worthy. Somewhere between Granger’s cautious competence and Ron’s “is this thing cursed?” flailing.
Naturally, Malfoy was at the front of the pack, twirling his broom like it was in a wand ad and winking at Pansy, who looked half-smitten and half-ready to throw up her breakfast. I rolled my eyes so hard I might’ve checked for brain fog.
“If he were any more in love with himself,” I muttered, “he’d have to file paperwork to date his own reflection.”
Then chaos arrived on cue.
Neville went airborne—unauthorized, ungraceful, and almost definitely by accident. The poor boy spun upward like a balloon released too early, and just as suddenly, crack! Down he went.
Madam Hooch sprinted off with him, yelling strict orders not to fly while she was gone, which naturally meant Malfoy decided it was time for performance theatre.
He stole Longbottom’s Remembrall. Tossed it up like a Snitch on vacation. Smirked like a villain auditioning for a perfume ad.
Then came Harry.
Calm. Serious. The protective nobility of a Gryffindor with main-character energy. “Give it back, Malfoy.”
I almost shouted at him. Don’t do it, you reckless Quidditch prodigy. Think of your house points!
But nope. Malfoy soared into the sky, graceful and smug.
And Harry followed.
No training. No permission. No logic. Just instinct—and the kind that made you question the laws of gravity. He flew like he’d been born on a broom. Like the air itself wanted to keep him lifted.
My breath caught.
“Mon dieu,” I whispered. “C’est pas humain.”
Even Pansy stopped adjusting her fringe to gape.
Harry dove. The Remembrall flashed. He caught it inches from the ground and landed like it was the most natural thing in the world. Not even winded. Just pleased.
Right then, McGonagall stormed across the pitch like a tartan thundercloud and hauled him away.
“Expelled,” I said softly, letting the word float on the wind for dramatic flair. “Genius and gone in a single day. So poetic.”
Of course, I knew better. I knew what came next.
Still, I played along. After all, the only thing more fun than knowing the future… was watching everyone else be shocked by it.
The rest of us? We actually got to fly.
Madam Hooch returned, muttering about concussions and youth, and finally blew her whistle. I kicked off gently. Hovered. Wobbled. Nearly impaled a Hufflepuff with my left knee. But after a few tries—I swear—the broom started to listen to me. Not perfectly. More like a stubborn Thestral grudgingly agreeing to tolerate your existence. But it worked.
I flew.
Not far. Not fast. But high enough to taste the sky and scream a little bit in French.
“Putain de balai de merde!” I shouted when I dipped too fast. Pansy, below, laughed so hard she nearly fell off her own broom.
By the end of it, my hair was a wind-kissed disaster and my cheeks hurt from smiling.
We trudged back to the castle, Pansy teasing me the whole way: “Language, Rosier. You sound like a very angry wine bottle.”
Outside the Entrance Hall, we ran into Fred and George and Lee Jordan.
“How’d you fly?” George asked.
“Fall off?” Fred guessed.
“Steal anything cool?” Lee added.
I shook my head, grinning. “Didn’t fall. Didn’t die. Didn’t get recruited. But Potter’s a bloody genius and Malfoy’s a show-off, and I—” I smoothed my robes with exaggerated grace, “—am patient. I don’t need to be everything yet. I’ll get my broom when it’s time. For now, I’ll talk about it better than anyone.”
Lee gave me a thumbs up. “Commentators’ club is waiting.”
So I wasn’t brilliant. I wasn’t terrible. But the sky didn’t spit me out, and I think that counts for something.
Besides—give me time. I’m a Rosier. I’ll conquer the air or die dramatically trying.
***
You know that feeling when the castle itself starts to look at you funny?
When even the suits of armor seem to whisper behind your back? Not that they have lips, but you get the idea.
I was halfway up the marble staircase when someone’s shoulder clipped mine — hard. A boy in red and gold. Older. Gryffindor. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look back. Just kept walking like I was a ghost he'd decided not to bother exorcising.
I chalked it up to hallway traffic.
Until the next nudge. And the next.
Little shoves. Bumps. Snide giggles that slithered behind me like whispers with teeth.
At first I told myself I was being dramatic. Overthinking. My family specialty — right after generational trauma and illegal dueling.
But by the time I’d crossed the second-floor corridor, I was starting to feel like a Bludger target wearing a name tag that said “Hit Me, I’m a Rosier.”
A second-year girl giggled as I passed. Not in the charming way — in the “I overheard my older sister say something mean and I’m parroting it for house points” way.
It was subtle. It was slow. But it was deliberate.
The kind of bullying you can’t prove because no one leaves fingerprints on a shove. No one writes down the slurs they hiss under their breath. They just nudge and prod and laugh and disappear. Like cowards with good aim.
I clutched my books tighter. Head high. Chin sharp enough to cut a wand in half. A Rosier doesn’t flinch. A Rosier doesn’t run. A Rosier bleeds in private and curses in Latin.
Still, I was unraveling.
And then — because the universe is not only cruel but poetic — I took a wrong turn near the fourth-floor corridor. A stupid, distracted, bruised ego kind of turn.
And I walked straight into the bathroom.
Their bathroom.
And that’s when everything stopped being metaphorical.
That’s when the violence became real.
***
Cedric POV
The corridors near the fourth-floor girls’ lavatory were usually quiet after diner—not deserted, just... hushed. Like the castle was holding its breath. I’d stayed late in the library again. Owen said I had a problem. I told him I liked good grades and peace. He said I liked avoiding people. We agreed to disagree.
I was just about to take the shortcut back to Hufflepuff when I saw her.
Alexandra Rosier. Slumped against the wall, right outside the bathroom door. One knee pulled up, a fist clenched tight against it. Her Slytherin robes were rumpled and dusted with whatever passed for grime in this part of the castle. Her hair—usually some sort of chaotic golden waterfall—looked lopsided, like it had been yanked or shoved. And her lip was bleeding.
I stopped. Blinked. Took a step forward like she might vanish if I moved too fast.
“Rosier?”
She startled—just slightly—and then immediately schooled her expression into something sharp and smug. Her default setting. But the bruises didn’t lie. Neither did the way her free hand trembled for half a second before disappearing into her robes.
I crouched in front of her slowly, careful not to spook whatever instincts had snapped into place behind those grey eyes. They weren’t sharp right now. They were stormy. Clouded. The kind of eyes you get when you’re trying too hard not to cry.
“Did someone—” I started, then stopped. She was a Slytherin. A Rosier. That kind of question would feel like pity. She’d bite it right off me.
Instead, I said, “You look like you lost a duel to a bookshelf.”
That earned me the faintest twitch of her mouth. “You should see the bookshelf.”
I smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way. “C’mon. Let me walk you to the Hospital Wing.”
“I’m fine,” she said, too quickly.
“You’re bleeding.”
She wiped her lip with her sleeve. “So are half the portraits in the east wing. Doesn’t mean they need a Healer.”
I shifted onto the balls of my feet, arms resting on my knees. “Look, I won’t ask what happened. But if you don’t want Pomfrey, I can at least walk you partway. Makes me feel less like I’m abandoning an injured Niffler.”
“Do I look like a Niffler to you?”
“Not when you’re talking,” I said gently. “But you’ve got that same defiant gleam in your eyes. Like you’d chew through iron bars before asking for help.”
She narrowed those storm-grey eyes. “Maybe I would.”
I nodded once. “That’s okay. I’ll still walk you.”
She sighed, long and dramatic like a stage actress, but when she stood, it was on one foot with the other just barely grazing the stone floor. I offered her my arm without a word.
She didn’t take it. But she walked beside me, silent for a few beats. The castle hummed quietly around us—rustling portraits, shifting staircases, the kind of ancient noise that feels like a lullaby and a warning all at once.
“You’re not going to ask who did it?” she asked finally.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t think you’d tell me,” I said simply. “And I don’t want to insult your pride pretending I have the right to demand answers you’re not ready to give.”
That startled her more than anything else. She looked up, mouth partway open, and for a second the Rosier mask cracked. She looked eleven. Small and bruised and confused about a world that let people smile to your face and shove you when no one’s looking.
“You’re weird, Diggory.”
“People say that,” I said. “Mostly Ravenclaws.”
We rounded a corner near the staircase. She paused at the edge of the shadows, straightening her robes like armor. Her chin lifted. The game face slid back into place.
“Thanks for the escort,” she said. “But if you tell anyone you saw me like that, I’ll deny it. And probably jinx your eyebrows off.”
“Fair enough,” I said, because it was.
And I watched her go, limping slightly but head held high, a little comet dragging clouds behind her.
I didn’t know what she’d gone through. But I knew what I’d seen: a Slytherin bleeding and still refusing to bow. And somehow, it made me want to both protect her and never get in her way.
Godric’s beard, I was in trouble.
***
Alex POV:
By breakfast the next morning, I had three bruises, two potions in my bloodstream, and one overwhelming desire to not be looked at like a sad exhibit at the Magical Creatures Hospital.
Which, of course, meant everyone stared.
I stepped into the Great Hall like it was a battlefield. Chin high. Slytherin robes pressed. Hair strategically curled to hide the worst of the damage. But you can’t exactly conceal a limp or the fact that your lip looks like it lost a duel with a Hippogriff.
And that’s when the Weasley twins pounced.
Well, not literally. They do pounce sometimes. But this time it was more of a synchronized hover.
Fred appeared on my left like a redheaded specter. “Rosier, darling,” he said, eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like you’ve been in a tavern brawl with a banshee?”
George mirrored him on the right, folding his arms. “And why weren’t we invited?”
I kept walking, pretending I wasn’t being bracketed by chaos incarnate. “I fell down the stairs.”
Fred gasped. “The stairs fought back?”
George leaned in, mock-serious. “Did the staircase call you a blood purist and throw hands?”
“I tripped,” I said flatly, sliding into my seat. “On reality.”
Fred plopped down across from me. “No offense, but you don’t limp like someone who tripped. You limp like someone who bit back.”
George stole a piece of toast from my plate. “And got bitten harder.”
I leveled a look at him. “Do you want your eyebrows hexed off again?”
He smiled sweetly. “Do it. I’ll tell Mum you started it.”
Fred wiggled his eyebrows. “Seriously, though. If someone hurt you…”
George’s voice dropped. “We’ve got stink pellets and a very creative curse involving nose hair.”
That did something awful to my heart. Like, crumpled it slightly.
“I’m fine,” I said softly. “Don’t waste your chaos on me.”
Fred exchanged a glance with George. “Not wasted,” he said.
Then, just like that, they started pelting each other with raisins. Because emotional sincerity from a Weasley twin can only last three seconds before devolving into breakfast warfare.
And that’s when Luna arrived.
Not walked. Floated. Like some moonbeam had disguised itself in Ravenclaw robes and wandered in by accident.
She stopped next to me and blinked at my face with wide silver eyes.
“You look like a thestral tried to braid your hair with its hooves,” she said dreamily.
“Good morning to you too, Lovegood.”
She tilted her head. “Did the ghosts hurt you?”
“No.”
“Poltergeist?”
“No.”
“Oh,” she said thoughtfully. “Then it must’ve been people pretending not to be monsters.”
And that nearly cracked me.
Luna sat beside me and started buttering a scone upside-down. “It’s alright. Sometimes they try to break things that shine too brightly.”
“I don’t shine,” I muttered.
Luna shrugged. “Not to you, maybe.”
Across the table, Fred threw a sausage at George and missed. It bounced off a Hufflepuff first year, who looked delighted.
And me? I sat in the middle of it all—bruised, bitter, baffled—and for the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe.
Even if one overly polite Hufflepuff boy had been weirdly nice about it last night. Almost… gentle.
Like he saw through the cracks. And didn’t look away.
***
Snape POV
She was limping.
Subtly. Controlled. The kind of limp that says: Don’t ask. Don’t notice. Don’t care. Most wouldn’t. Most students saw the name Rosier and filed it under prophecy, not personality.
But I notice everything. Especially silence—the kind that carries weight, like a held breath before a scream.
From the end of the corridor, I watched her shift her books in her arms, careful to favour the left. A faint swelling around her jawline betrayed a recent hex—or a fist. It flickered, then vanished beneath a glamour she must think clever.
“Rosier,” I called.
Cool. Clipped. Commanding.
She froze mid-step. I saw it—that flicker of calculation. Fight, flee, or forge the perfect lie. She hadn’t decided yet.
“Professor,” she replied. Polite enough to border on defiant.
I approached slowly. Measured. Not looming, but not gentle either.
“What happened to your face?”
“I walked into a doorknob,” she said lightly.
I arched a brow. “Was the doorknob wearing a Gryffindor tie?”
Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. But she pulled herself back into that perfect Slytherin mask. Arms crossed. Chin high. Arrogance with a side of armor. The house makes masks of children. I should know.
“Accidents happen, Professor.”
“To some more than others,” I said, narrowing my eyes.
She held my gaze. Sharp. Intelligent. Her mother’s eyes, her father’s defences. But deeper than that—something wary. The look of someone who’s learned to hear whispers not meant for her ears.
“I don’t need help,” she said. Even. Unwavering.
“How very original,” I muttered, with a snort.
She blinked. Just once.
I studied her. Not the bruises—I know how to hide worse. I looked at the way she stood. Too still. The stillness of someone who believes moving might shatter something. The stillness of survival.
I folded my arms.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’d rather be thought cruel than vulnerable. You’d rather take a hex to the ribs than admit you’re tired. You think strength is silence, and pain is weakness, and letting anyone in is a liability.”
She opened her mouth. Then closed it again.
Good. She’s listening.
I leaned in, lowered my voice.
“I know what people say about your father. And about you. They think names tell stories. That blood determines choice. That if you’re not loud, you’re hiding something. If you’re proud, you’re dangerous. They think they know you.”
I paused. Watched her. Let it land.
“They don’t.”
Her expression shifted—just slightly. Not gratitude. Not yet. But the beginnings of something: doubt. Recognition. The faintest crack in the marble.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” I said, softer now. “It’s a ridiculous expectation. I believed it once. And it left me with nothing but regrets and—”
I stopped. Words taste bitter when they brush against memory.
And a dead friend.
She tilted her head, voice light and laced with that familiar Rosier sarcasm. “Are you saying I’m allowed to cry, Professor Snape?”
“I’m saying,” I snapped, “that if you bottle it up long enough, it turns into poison. And poison is rarely strategic. No matter how pure your intent.”
She looked at me for a long moment. Like she was testing me. Peeling back layers, just to see if I’d flinch.
“I’m not like my father,” she said.
“I never said you were.”
I turned. No fanfare. No comforting hand on the shoulder. No points for Gryffindor—or Slytherin, for that matter.
But as I walked away, I said, almost as if it didn’t matter:
“You remind me of someone. She was clever, too. Brave, to the point of recklessness.”
“Who was she?” she asked.
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t have to.
Alex POV:
I hate the name.
Rosier.
It clings to me like a bloodstain that won’t scrub out—elegant in ink, vicious in whispers, and heavy as a family curse. They say it with that knowing look, that smug pure-blood sneer, as if the syllables themselves are hexes. Rosier. Death Eater’s daughter. Baby snake. Doesn’t matter that I’ve only worn the name since bloody August, like a borrowed robe that itches at the collar. Doesn’t matter that I wasn’t even born in this world.
They still shoved me into a wall.
Not hard. Just enough to say: We see you. We think we know what you are. And we don’t care if you break when we push.
I didn’t cry. I’m proud of that. I wanted to—but I didn’t.
Which is hilarious, really, because I used to be tall. Sporty. A whole-ass grown woman with a law degree, a mortgage, and a skincare routine involving more potions than Snape’s storeroom. I survived three exes, two promotions, and one judge who looked like a cursed badger. I’ve been underestimated before. I’ve been sneered at. But I was never small.
Now?
I can’t reach the top shelf in the Potions aisle. My wand hand shakes when I’m nervous. My robes are too big, my voice is too high, and my body—Merlin help me—has a heartbeat like a mouse in a thunderstorm.
Speaking of which—robes. Let’s talk about the uniform, shall we?
Yes, there are actual robes, but not the fancy drama-club stuff. These are like enormous wizarding school smocks, which is a vibe, I suppose. But at least they’ve got pockets. Thank the Founders for that. Deep ones too—perfect for hiding your wand, spare quills, emergency chocolate, and the occasional contraband Dungbomb. Underneath, it’s all pleated skirts and button-down shirts, very “we’re serious about education, even though our hallway paintings gossip and the staircases have abandonment issues.” Honestly, the look screams posh magical orphanage with a strict but quirky dress code.
But none of that matters when you’re eleven and alone and full of secrets no one would believe anyway.
Even worse, lately… I’m not sure I’m just me anymore.
There are these memories. Faint and slippery, like fog over a mirror. A hand holding a wand I don’t remember learning to use. A song I know the tune to but can’t place. A scent—vanilla, lavender, something maternal and old—flooding my senses in the middle of Charms. I caught myself humming today. A lullaby. My lullaby.
I think this girl—this original Alexandra—she’s bleeding into me.
Or maybe I’m bleeding into her.
The worst part? I’m not sure which way it’s going.
Puberty is also not helping. Everything’s sticky with feeling. Embarrassment, longing, confusion. I cried at a teacup last week. A bloody teacup. My brain is currently a soup of hormones, grief, identity crises, and the occasional irrational urge to kiss someone for no good reason. It’s a disaster. I’m a disaster. A very short, very sarcastic, very emotionally complex disaster.
But.
Even with the bruises, the whispered names, the fact that I got decked outside a toilet by girls in Gryffindor socks—
I feel lucky.
Blessed, even. Like someone cracked open the universe and handed me a second chance wrapped in trauma, glitter, and magical curriculum. I’m here. In Hogwarts. There are ghosts in the stairwells and stars on the ceilings and books that breathe (and occasionally bite, but that’s on me). I get to learn wandwork instead of contract law. I get to fly.
So no. I’m not crying tonight.
Instead, I head to the library, still clutching my ribs like they owe me an apology.
If I’m going to be eleven again, I’ll be terrifying by thirteen. I want hexes that bite, curses that whisper not today into the ears of anyone stupid enough to corner me again. No more wide-eyed victim. No more shrinking shadow.
Let them whisper my name.
Let them learn what it means to push the wrong girl.
Especially one with very sharp sarcasm and a wand in her pocket.