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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Oops, I Accidentally Wizarded

I certainly hadn’t planned for my thirtieth birthday to end like this — in a four-poster bed the size of my old studio, with silk sheets softer than the arguments I crafted in court.

Last night, I was in Saint-Germain, clinking glasses with Laura, my best friend and partner in champagne-fueled crime. We'd had enough wine to make Bacchus blush. I was halfway to tipsy existentialism, lamenting the death of my twenties like it was a French New Wave film. Life, I mused dramatically, was slipping through my fingers like overpriced hand cream from Sephora.

I blew out the lone candle on a rather pitiful chocolate cupcake, perched on a bench outside the bar where we’d been dancing — more like flailing rhythmically — mere minutes ago.

“What did you wish for?” Laura had asked, all sly grin and wine-stained lipstick, knowing full well it probably involved a morally ambiguous fictional character with great hair.

“Can’t tell you, ça ne se réalisera pas sinon!” I countered, channeling my inner eleven-year-old, which was ironic in hindsight. I bit into the cupcake like it owed me money, tossed my wish onto the ever-growing pyre of unfulfilled birthday dreams, and we tumbled back inside to dance into the small hours.

Cut to: chaos.

I woke up late. Groggy, dehydrated, already preparing my apology to the senior partner for missing our weekly Thursday meeting. Something about food poisoning. Or existential crisis. Or both.

Except… I wasn’t in my flat.

I wasn’t in Laura’s flat either.

This wasn’t even France.

The ceilings soared like opera notes, with ornate Victorian plasterwork twirling overhead like meringue on a wedding cake. Tall windows let in the kind of crisp, clean light that made everything look suspiciously expensive. Mahogany furniture stood around like it had opinions. A delicate perfume of lavender and old books clung to the air like an aristocrat’s ghost.

And me? I was lying in a canopy bed that looked like it might whisper bedtime sonnets if you asked nicely.

I blinked once. Twice. A third time for good measure.

Gosh. Where the hell did I end up? Did I sleep with someone?

No — I remembered the crowd at the bar. Students. Far too young. I was their wine aunt at best.

This place looked like Kensington on crack. The kind of place where scandalous affairs and silk dressing gowns coexist in perfect harmony. It even reminded me, weirdly, of the flat I shared with three overly artistic roommates during my year in East London — if said flat had been scrubbed of mold, dread, and IKEA furniture.

Then:

“CRACK!”

My heart launched itself into my throat like a poorly managed spell.

“Oh putain.”

I must have been drugged. That bloody cupcake! What the hell did Laura put in it? Fairy dust? Ayahuasca? A hex?

A figure popped into existence at the foot of my bed with a sound like a bubble bursting in reverse. Wrinkled, wide-eyed, and clutching a silver tea tray like it was Excalibur.

“Mistress Alexandra, would you like tea? Or perhaps warm milk with nutmeg, the way you liked as a baby?”

I stared. The creature had ears like bat wings and eyes like vintage marbles. A House Elf. Wearing what appeared to be an embroidered pillowcase with a family crest stitched in gold thread.

I was definitely high.

Or concussed.

Or dead.

But before I could ask the elf if it happened to moonlight as my therapist, the heavy oak doors swung open with the drama of a film premiere.

Enter: a woman.

Tall. Icy blonde. Regal in a way that made Queen Victoria look like a fishmonger’s wife. She swept into the room in midnight-blue robes that whispered secrets behind her.

“Darling,” she said, with an accent as aristocratic as a Fabergé egg. “Do sit up. You’ll wrinkle your curls.”

She looked familiar, in a my face is on a tapestry sort of way.

“Who… who are you?” I croaked, wondering if I still had wine breath.

Her eyes narrowed, amused.

“I’m your mother, of course. Vespera Rosier. Honestly, Alexandra, what a funny mood you’re in. Is this about Hogwarts? You’ll love it.”

Hogwarts?

Was this a joke? A hallucination? A Potterhead’s fever dream?

I sat up.

And that’s when I saw it — my reflection, faintly mirrored in the polished wardrobe door across the room.

Curly, pale blonde hair down to my waist. Skin like porcelain. Eyes the exact shade of stormy weather.

Not. My. Face.

“Oh. Putain de merde.”

Okay. As dreams go, this one was teetering on the edge of madness.
But hey — hallucinations weren’t unheard of when space cake was involved. Laura had probably laced that innocent little cupcake with something that would make even a centaur question reality. So maybe, just maybe, this was just one very thorough, very themed birthday trip of the mind. A Harry Potter-style fever dream, complete with costuming, accents, and questionable child labor in the form of a tea-serving House Elf.

Frankly, who was I to say no? For my thirtieth birthday? I’d take it with whipped cream and a side of magical delusion, merci beaucoup.

I climbed out of the absurdly plush bed — which creaked like an old wizard with secrets — and made my way across the polished wooden floors. My feet made that soft pat-pat noise that somehow felt entirely inappropriate for the level of grandeur in the room.

And then I saw it.
My reflection.

Or… someone’s.

Staring back at me from the antique mirror was a girl. But not just any girl. No, this one looked like she’d stepped out of a Pureblood perfume advert. Pale, porcelain skin. Long, icy-blonde curls that cascaded like enchanted spun sugar. Grey eyes the color of judgment and fine china. I looked like a Veela who moonlighted as a cursed doll in a haunted manor. Barbie meets Claudia from Interview with the Vampire. If someone sold me at Borgin & Burkes, I’d come with a curse and a handwritten diary full of sass.

This was not my face.
This was a face that belonged to someone who judged your entire bloodline before breakfast.

“I was never considered ugly growing up,” I mumbled, examining this suspiciously symmetrical stranger. “Sure, I had my awkward chubby phase — volleyball and unrelenting cardio saved me post-fifteen — but this? This is ancestral elegance. This is lineage in HD.”

My brain felt like it was buffering.

I turned around sharply, seeking answers from the woman who claimed to be my mother. The very embodiment of elegance, Vespera Rosier stood there like she was born in a thunderstorm and raised by peacocks.

“Mother,” I asked cautiously, hands perched on my bony eleven-year-old hips like a tiny Parisian judge, “what day is it?”

She didn’t blink. Just gave me a look like I’d asked whether Bertie Bott's beans were organic.

“The first of August, chérie. You’d better hurry — we’re taking the Floo to Diagon Alley to fetch your wand and your schoolbooks for the year.”

I froze.

My mouth went drier than a stale baguette abandoned in the Sahara.

Schoolbooks.
Floo powder.
Diagon bloody Alley.

My brain short-circuited. Somewhere deep inside, a single, deranged neuron screamed: You’ve Pottered yourself straight into the canon, you absolute lunatic.

“Wait…” I croaked, voice thin as a ghost in a corset. “Hogwarts?”
The word came out like a curse — or worse, a plot twist in a fanfiction I’d had no hand in writing.

She arched a perfectly judgmental brow, the kind that said I wear silk to breakfast and could hex you with a spoon if I felt like it.
“Of course Hogwarts. Where else would a Rosier go?”

A Rosier.
A Rosier.

My stomach plummeted through the floor like a disgraced pure-blood at a Muggle rave. I felt faint. Like I needed a fainting couch, a goblet of elf-made wine, and perhaps a light exorcism.

Because not only was I in the Wizarding World —
I was in the aristocratic, Black-adjacent, might-accidentally-kill-a-house-elf-for-sport side of it.

Send help. Or at least a fanfic author with a sense of mercy.

I could practically hear the dramatic thunderclap. My knees buckled slightly under the weight of that revelation. Rosier, as in "Dark magic and dinner parties with Death Eaters"? The kind of name that shows up on cursed heirlooms and Ministry watchlists?

Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock chimed. It sounded like it judged me too.

My head was spinning like a Hippogriff in a washing machine. I followed Vespera out into a hallway so long it could have hosted a duel and a fashion show simultaneously. The walls were lined with family portraits that moved — of course they did — and every single Rosier looked like they could disinherit you with a single glance.

Then I saw it — in the study. An open newspaper resting on a polished walnut desk, ink still gleaming. The date stamped in ornate wizarding script:

August 1st, 1991.

Nineteen. Ninety. Bloody. One.

I was in the same timeline as Harry Potter. Probably a year below him. And a Rosier. In this hair. With this mother. In this cursed dollhouse of a mansion.

Somewhere, back in Muggle Paris, my real body was probably still passed out with chocolate on its face and no idea it was now starring in a magical identity crisis.

I took a deep breath and whispered to the room:

“Okay. Sure. Let’s get a wand. Maybe a time-turner while we’re at it. And a strong drink — if eleven-year-olds are allowed absinthe.”

***

Getting dressed was… an experience. Somewhere between Victorian mourning child and gothic porcelain doll resurrected by moonlight. The kind of look that said: “I crochet hexes and drink tea made from your tears.” Honestly? I loved it.

Layers of raven-black velvet and lace enveloped me like I was about to haunt a piano. There was a high collar so stiff it could slice butter, pearl buttons that looked like they came with generational trauma, and boots that clicked like I was auditioning for a cursed ballet. A silver snake-shaped hairpin kept my curls tamed — just barely — and made me feel like I could either seduce a poet or summon a basilisk. Maybe both.

Sure, jeans were a no-go for “pureblood heiresses,” but I used to adore wearing skirts and dresses anyway. Femininity as power? I could work with that. I looked like the final girl in a ghost story… who was also the ghost.

I tiptoed down the wide staircase — two floors of brooding banisters, ancient portraits, and chandeliers that looked like they’d once belonged to a French opera house. The Rosier manor was grand in that we-own-things-you-can’t-pronounce way: gilded molding, velvet wallpaper the color of dried blood, and floral arrangements that probably had better table manners than I did.

I arrived in a hallway the size of a Parisian flat, where one wing opened onto what could only be the dining room. And there it was: a full English breakfast, steaming invitingly under silver domes. Eggs, sausages, toast, roasted tomatoes — the whole symphony. Très chic, très cholesterol.

No croissants in sight. Honestly? Merci, Dieu. Croissants are overhyped, flaky little liars that crumble the second you commit to them.

I sat at the long table — long enough to host a Ministry negotiation or a family feud — and poked at some scrambled eggs while doing what I did best: overthinking.

Rosier.
The name tugged at something in my memory, like a fangirl trying to identify a side character in the Marauder-era fanfics she used to read under the duvet. Evan Rosier. That was it. Associated with the Dark, always brooding in the background. Friend of the usual suspects: Regulus Black, Barty Crouch Jr., maybe Severus Snape if the fic got particularly emo.

But… what happened to him? Was he dead?
I squinted into my eggs, as if they might reveal the secrets of the wizarding world. Regulus? Dead. Barty? Soon to be a deranged Polyjuice problem. Snape? Still alive, and unfortunately awaiting my arrival at Hogwarts.

A tiny voice in my head whispered: Merde.
If I really was a Rosier, I had the social status of a hexed cauldron. No one would want to be friends with me unless they were Slytherins… or extremely bored.

I decided it was time to question my (newly acquired) mother — Madame Vespera Rosier, a woman who looked like she powdered with pearl dust and slept in an upright coffin lined with Chanel No. 5. Cold, yes, but elegant. The kind of cold that wore couture.

I was halfway through buttering a slice of toast shaped like it had social anxiety when I decided to broach the subject. Casually. Like a girl who definitely already knew who her father was and didn’t just wake up in a fancy manor with haunted paintings and a backstory that smelled suspiciously like plot development.

“Do you think,” I said, lightly swirling my spoon in a teacup like a refined Victorian gossip, “people at Hogwarts are going to talk about… papa?”

There. Casual. Subtle. Nothing to see here, just a well-informed daughter expressing vague social anxiety.

Vespera Rosier looked up from her eggs Benedict like a cat who’d just sensed a mouse pretending not to be a mouse. Her curls — those infamously perfect honey-brown spirals — bounced slightly as she tilted her head, examining me with the practiced poise of a woman who once told someone off using only the flick of her fan.

“Maybe, ma chérie,” she said, voice smooth as French silk and just as expensive. “But remember, in Slytherin, we might be all ambition and plotting, but we stick together. The snakes protect their own.”

She dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin embroidered with the Rosier crest — naturally — and continued:

“Your father, Evan, was an amazing young man. Brilliant. Charming. He didn’t deserve to die so young.”
Her voice wavered just slightly — the kind of emotion so tightly corseted it could barely breathe.

“Yes, he made choices. Choices not everyone agreed with. But he didn’t deserve to be killed by that stupid Auror with the one weird eye.”

Her upper lip curled ever so slightly, the way most people look at moldy cheese.

“He was not a monster. He was… dazzling. A bit reckless, yes, but magnetic. Everyone adored him. Especially the snakes. You’ll see — they’ll remember. And they’ll protect you, too.”

She smiled then, softly but with something steely behind it — as if daring the world to cross her daughter and see what happened.

I nodded slowly, chewing my toast with the theatrical solemnity of someone attending their own preemptive scandal. Okay, so my father was a dead Death Eater who worked in “diplomacy” and got obliterated by a paranoid cyclops. Not ideal PR.

Still, there was something reassuring in the way Vespera spoke about him — like he wasn’t just a tragic footnote in wizarding history. He was a Rosier. And now… so was I.

Death Eater. Dead. Definitely not dinner party conversation material at Hogwarts. I was going to have to work overtime to make friends. Maybe offer free legal advice. Or charm the House Elves.

I wandered the House in a daze, digesting both bacon and the grim legacy I’d inherited. And surprisingly, the house wasn’t all darkness and gloom. It had high ceilings painted with celestial murals, parquet floors that clicked comfortingly underfoot, and windows so tall you could mistake them for glass doorways into another century.

I paused in front of a portrait in the west salon. A young man — barely twenty, blond hair falling into eyes the same stormy grey I now wore. Evan Rosier. Handsome, in that tragic aristocrat way. The kind of face that’d look good on a wanted poster or a stained-glass window. My father.

Beside him, another painting: Vespera in her youth, curls identical to mine, wearing a knowing smirk that said I do not suffer fools, but I may marry one for politics.

So here I was.
Alexandra Rosier. Eleven-going-on-thirty.
Daughter of a Death Eater. Dressed like a cursed doll. About to enroll in the same school as Harry freaking Potter.

***

Vespera handed me a small pouch of glittering green powder with all the ceremony of a sacred rite.
“Remember, speak clearly,” she said. “Diagon Alley, nothing else.”

Right. No pressure.

I stepped into the fireplace like I was about to be sacrificed to the god of soot and bad ideas, tossed the Floo powder with more flair than necessary — blame my inner theatre kid — and pronounced, as precisely as I could:

“Diagon Alley!”

The fire roared emerald, sucked the air from my lungs, and then — WHOOSH — I was off.

It was exactly as Harry Potter described it in Chamber of Secrets — not that I was panicking, or thinking of Knockturn Alley, or clutching my elbows like my soul had temporarily dislocated. But you know. I was being flung through the magical plumbing of the United Kingdom, spinning like a sock in a cursed washing machine.

There was a deafening roar, a blur of green, a flicker of fireplace grates — and then with a dramatic whump, I landed in a soot-splattered pile on the rug of the Leaky Cauldron. Ten points to grace and composure.

My curls were a bit scorched, my pride severely bruised, but at least I was still in one piece. And not Knockturn Alley. Victory.

Seconds later, Vespera stepped elegantly out of the flames as if she did this for sport. Her robes were uncreased. Her lipstick intact. I wanted to sue.

“Lovely landing, darling,” she said with a soft, superior smile. “You didn’t scream once.”

Before I could even gather my dignity — which had scattered somewhere between the green flames and my left shoe — Vespera was already mid-swish, wand in hand, eyes narrowed like a Vogue editor confronting a fashion crime. “Tu es toute ébouriffée, ma pauvre,” she sighed dramatically, as though I’d just committed social suicide by existing with soot on my face. A soft shimmer of iridescent magic unfurled from her wand, like someone had weaponized the glow of a luxury beauty ad. In seconds, invisible hands smoothed my skirts, buffed my shoes, and coaxed my curls into perfect glossy spirals that defied both gravity and common physics. A final sparkle danced across my cheeks, leaving behind the exact kind of blush one might earn from laughing at a clever joke, not from barreling out of a medieval fireplace.

“Voilà. Now you look like a Rosier, not a chimney sweep from Les Misérables,” she said, clearly pleased. “We may travel by soot, but we arrive in style.”

Honestly, it was less a cleaning spell and more a magical makeover montage — if Fairy Godmother Barbie had gone to Beauxbâtons and had a flair for theatrical perfectionism. I offered a dry smile.

Just as I opened my mouth — likely to deliver a very well-deserved tirade about the ethical hazards of traveling via fireplace — someone stepped into view: tall, lean, and draped in so much black he could’ve been summoned via shadow.

“Professor Snape,” Vespera purred, approaching him with the confidence of someone who owned three fur-trimmed capes and a murder of ravens.

Oh. Oh. That was Severus Snape?

Not hideous, not handsome, but definitely carved from the same stone as stormy moors and existential dread. He was tall and thin, with skin so pale it looked like it hadn’t seen sunlight since the Goblet of Fire was still a teacup. His hair hung in dark, shoulder-length curtains, not greasy exactly, but with the slightly wilted air of a potion that had been stirred one too many times.

And the nose — oh, it was there. Grand, hooked, and utterly unapologetic. The kind of nose that could sniff out a lie, a misbrewed potion, or a first-year's unwashed socks from three corridors away. It suited him, in the way lightning suits thunderstorms — not pretty, but perfectly on brand.

His robes billowed around him like they had places to be and grudges to hold. The effect was very Batman goes to boarding school, if Batman had a wand, a deep distrust of teenagers, and a strong opinion on cauldron thickness.

And he was younger than I expected. Thirty-something. Still had that brooding wizard bachelor with an unnecessarily tragic past aura.

I tried not to stare. Or blush. Or look like an eleven-year-old who’d just realized her fictional potions professor was kind of… weirdly intriguing. Ew. Abort.

“Severus,” Vespera said, gesturing to me with a hand that probably cost more than my whole outfit, “this is my daughter, Alexandra. We’ve just returned from France — her early years were spent abroad, you see — but she’ll be starting at Hogwarts this September.”

She said it like it was both a joyful announcement and a low-key challenge.

“She may not know many of the children yet,” Vespera continued, her smile tightening just slightly, “and with Evan’s reputation being what it was… I wondered if you might… keep an eye on her. Just at first. Until she finds her feet.”

His eyes flicked toward me. Dark. Deep. Possibly bottomless. Was he using Legilimency?
Don’t panic. Think natural thoughts. Puppies. Books. Baguettes. No inner monologue allowed. Stop narrating, brain!

“Obviously,” he said at last, his voice as smooth and cool as a draught from the dungeons.

Short. Decisive. With all the warmth of a winter breeze and none of the hostility I’d half-feared. He looked me over once more, and there was something in his expression — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one, buried beneath a mountain of well-earned skepticism.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” he said, turning with a swish of his cloak so dramatic I nearly applauded. “Try not to get lost.”

Vespera chuckled softly. “He’s always like that.”

“I… kind of like it,” I murmured, watching his silhouette disappear into the shadowy back corner of the Leaky Cauldron like he was about to interrogate a vampire or file a complaint about the lighting.

And just like that, my first wizarding celebrity encounter was done.

Not bad for a Rosier.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Madame’s Little Menace Goes Shopping

Professor Snape, who had all the warmth of a damp cellar, had left us at the entrance of what looked to be a pub for cryptids. The Leaky Cauldron, it was famously called—a name that somehow managed to sound both quaint and medically concerning.

Inside, the air was rich with the perfume of roasted meats, pipe smoke, and what I can only describe as “wizard musk.” You know the scent—like someone bottled mothballs, antique ink, and a whiff of unspoken trauma. The walls were cluttered with crooked portraits that moved when you weren’t looking, and the tables were sticky with either beer or destiny. Possibly both.

A wizard with a beard that could double as a broom raised his tankard at us. I waved back, because what else does one do when greeted by a medieval Hagrid impersonator? Vespera merely wrinkled her nose as though the very idea of tavern furniture offended her bloodline.

Still, there was something charming about it—like discovering that your weird uncle collects cursed gramophones. Dusty, a bit gross, but oddly...cozy.

"Come along," Vespera murmured, brushing a cobweb off her shoulder as if it had personally insulted her. She led me through the pub and out a crooked back door into a small walled courtyard that looked like it hadn’t seen a cleaning spell since the Goblin Rebellions.

"Watch closely," she said, removing her wand from the pocket of her tailored forest green cloak. She tapped three bricks on the wall—one, two, three, in a rhythm that felt secretive and elegant, like a magical knock only those with expensive family crests would know.

And then—the bricks moved.

They folded and twisted in on themselves, stone grinding against stone like ancient machinery awakening after a century-long nap. Slowly, majestically, the wall reshaped itself into an arched gateway. And beyond it—

Diagon Alley.

I gasped. Not the polite kind of gasp, but a proper, full-body, dramatic gasp. The kind one saves for engagement rings or really good shoes on sale.

It was... magical. In the truest, most gobsmacking sense of the word.

Shops lined the cobbled street like drunken gingerbread houses. Some tilted to the side, others had crooked chimneys puffing out pastel-colored smoke. Signs floated, blinked, and cackled. There were displays of broomsticks twirling in place, enchanted quills scribbling in mid-air, and a barrel of screaming toffee that seemed to be selling quite well.

“I could almost hear the music of John Williams,” I whispered reverently, “and I swear to Merlin if a snowy white owl flies past, I’m going to faint.”

Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for a particularly eccentric Shakespearean play. Capes, hats, glittery brooches the size of teacups. I passed a wizard in lilac robes and sunglasses shaped like stars. A small child levitated a chocolate frog that leapt into their mother’s bag, completely ignored. Someone’s cat had three tails. Someone’s child had three tails.

It was like I had stumbled into a Renaissance fair organized by Salvador Dalí.

I followed Vespera, who was gliding toward Ollivander’s as if she’d rather die than be caught gasping at things like a common tourist. Meanwhile, I was doing my best not to spin in place like a delighted ballerina. Everything smelled of parchment, cauldrons, cinnamon, and trouble. I wanted to bottle the scent and wear it forever.

“Right,” I muttered to myself. “Thirty-year-old French lawyer inhabiting the body of an eleven-year-old Rosier witch. Definitely a coma. Or a very creative breakdown.”

But if this was madness, it was my kind of madness.

After all, I had a wand to find. And then—ink. Owls. Books. Pranks. Possibly flirting. Definitely Quidditch.

Vive la magie, I thought, grinning like a lunatic, and stepped into the fray.

First stop: Ollivanders. For my very own wand.

Merlin’s beard, I couldn’t believe it.

The shop was nestled between two taller buildings like a secret wedged into the margins of a very old book. The windows were clouded with dust and time, and a single wand was displayed in the crooked glass, lying on faded velvet as if it were Excalibur itself. Above the door, the lettering—Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.—gleamed in gentle gold.

As we stepped inside, it was like walking into the hollowed-out ribcage of some slumbering wooden beast. The air was thick with the scent of cedar, varnish, and old magic. Floor-to-ceiling shelves climbed the walls like overgrown ivy, stacked with slim, narrow boxes in shades of deep plum, charcoal, and dust. Thousands of wands. Thousands of stories. It was both comforting and overwhelming.

I swallowed. My palms were a bit clammy. Deep breath. You're a Rosier now. (Apparently.)

Vespera—my mother, I suppose—glided in beside me. She looked elegant as ever, dressed in something that made her seem like she'd just strolled out of a vintage witch fashion magazine: embroidered green robes, subtle silver jewelry, and an expression like she owned every wand in the building.

She looked around the shop with an air of cool appraisal. “Mmm. Still smells like dragon’s breath and melted walnut.”

I blinked. I hadn’t realized mothers came in this model.

“Alexandra, stand up straight, chérie. You’ll want to look alert and respectful. Mr. Ollivander is a craftsman, not a shopboy.”

I immediately adjusted my posture like a caught schoolgirl. Noted: elegant, observant, expects perfection. Possibly vampire.

From the gloom, a soft voice emerged like parchment rustling in candlelight.

“Miss Rosier,” said a man, stepping out from behind a teetering tower of boxes. “And Miss Rosier.”

He was pale and silvery, like the ghost of a violinist. Wisps of white hair curled around his temples, and his moon-bright eyes flickered between us like he was reading a particularly spicy chapter of our future.

Vespera gave him a graceful nod. “She’s ready.”

Ollivander’s gaze fell on me like a spell being cast. “Ah… a new wand for a very new witch.”

I gave a small, polite nod. Not a squeak. Progress.

Then began the process.

He murmured to himself as he brought out a long silver tape measure which—alarming plot twist—began taking measurements on its own. My arm span. My shoulder width. My wrist. My cranium. I stood there as it wrapped briefly around my forehead like it was checking my skull for secrets.

I fidgeted slightly as the wand boxes began flying off shelves on their own accord, carried by some invisible assistant or a very helpful poltergeist. My heart beat faster with each thud.

A wand. A real wand. Mine. I didn’t even know what spells I could do, but I had a list of dramatic intentions and about six revenge scenarios already queued.

“Perhaps… elm?” Ollivander mused, reaching for a box with reverence.

“Elms are lovely,” said Vespera, “though the whole pureblood nonsense is exactly that—nonsense.”

I tried not to raise an eyebrow. Intriguing. So Maman had opinions. I liked her more already.

Elm wand: fail. Too stiff. The sparks fizzled out and the wand hummed like it hated me.

Then: cherry. Too flighty.

Then: spruce. Nearly poked a hole in the ceiling.

And then…

“Hmm,” Ollivander said, long fingers trailing across a high shelf, “yes… yes. Pine. Curious. Pine with dragon heartstring.”

He handed it to me with almost ceremonial care. The wand was smooth, pale-gold wood, with a spiral twist in its grain like a ribbon wound around the shaft. It looked ancient and new all at once—clean lines and something wild, secret, coiled beneath.

I held it.

Warmth surged into my hand like sunlight through a windowpane. I gasped softly.

A soft whoosh of gold light spiraled out from the tip, dancing through the air like ribboned fireflies. I felt it—deep in my chest—something locking into place.

“Yes,” said Ollivander, voice nearly a whisper. “Yes, that’s the one. Pine chooses the mysterious. The independent. Dragon heartstring… fierce. Capable of great power.”

I was still staring at the wand in awe. It was mine. MINE.

Vespera stepped forward, peering at me with something that might have been approval. “A strong choice,” she said lightly, though I noticed the corners of her mouth twitch, ever so slightly, upward.

“She’ll be quite something,” Ollivander murmured.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

Quite something indeed.

Next stop was the shop Creepy Scrawlers Stationers.

Frankly, it looked like it had been decorated by a team of gothic ravens who had binge-read every volume of Aesthetic Witch Quarterly. The wooden sign over the crooked little shop door featured an ink bottle oozing something suspiciously shimmering, and a quill that blinked at me. Actually blinked. With lashes.

The shop itself smelled like dusty parchment, lavender, and a hint of blackcurrant jam for some reason. Delightfully confusing.

Inside, it was utter chaos. Enchanted chaos.

Shelves lined the walls, stacked with parchment that rustled by itself like it was gossiping about the customers. Some had little watermarks that moved—tiny illustrations of salamanders breathing fire at the edges, or mermaids swimming languidly through the margins. One scroll hissed when I touched it. Another purred. I was oddly okay with both.

“Careful with the Shriek-Sheets,” warned a shop assistant with green spectacles and purple hair shaped like a quill tip. “They scream if you spell something wrong.”

Noted.

Quills of every color imaginable poked out of cauldrons and jars—some sparkled, some sprouted miniature fangs, one gave me the finger. There was a section labeled Passive-Aggressive Inkpots, with names like Judgemental Jade (“It'll know if you're lying.”), Moody Maroon (“Bleeds when you cry.”), and Ink of Eternal Cringe (“Every bad love poem you write will reappear on your bedroom walls.”).

I immediately wanted three.

“Oh, look at these!” I squeaked, momentarily forgetting I was supposed to be a composed, icy-haired Rosier now. A set of Dueling Sketch Parchment unrolled itself and began drawing two tiny stick figures insulting each other in rhyme. I clutched it to my chest like a new sibling.

“I just love drawing,” I told my mother casually, trying not to sound too eager. “Well, mostly doodles. Faces. People with weird hats.”

“Then indulge yourself,” she said smoothly, flipping through a book of animated calligraphy samples. “The arts are perfectly acceptable—provided you do them well.”

Acceptable? I practically beamed. I could do acceptable.

I began stacking things into a basket that floated beside me: charcoal pencils that sketched what you thought instead of what you meant, a diary that growled when anyone but you tried to read it, some parchment that curled up shyly unless you whispered to it first, and a feather-shaped ruler that bowed dramatically every time it was used.

“Mother, may I—?”

Before I could finish, Vespera waved a gloved hand. “Take what you need. Writing is important. Presentation even more so. And it’s lovely to see you take an interest.” Her eyes softened for a second, then narrowed on a pen that was twitching like it wanted to duel someone. “Just avoid anything in poor taste.”

I was now officially the luckiest child in Diagon Alley. An eleven-year-old aristocrat with an unlimited stationary tab.

Am I a spoiled little brat? Absolutely. Do I care? Not in the slightest. Vive la plume!

My fingers itched to write something. Anything. Letters, lists, angry poetry. I couldn't wait to send my first real wizard letter.

“I’ll need to write so many letters,” I said aloud, picking up a roll of moon-kissed vellum with edges that sparkled faintly.

Apparently, our owls were already selected and awaiting us at home—Velvet and Nyx. I had never heard of a more ominous and fashionable duo. Were they both black? Did they wear eyeliner? I couldn’t wait to meet them.

I twirled a glittering silver quill between my fingers like a wand.

This shop felt like home. More than anywhere else yet.

And if I was to live in a magical dream world where I had icy blonde curls, suspiciously high cheekbones, and a mother who bought me enchanted sketchbooks without blinking—then yes, I would lean into it. With flair. And ink. And possibly glitter.

We were halfway to Flourish and Blotts when I spotted something absolutely curious across the cobbled street: a dark, velvet-curtained shop with a gilt-lettered sign that read:

“Janus Galloglass – Mirrors of Memory, Mischief & Mystery.”

The window display was a dramatic tableau of antique mirrors, some of which were whispering to each other (probably behind my back), while one long oval piece near the entrance blinked—actually blinked—at me as I passed. I stopped in my tracks.

“Can I go in?” I asked Vespera, who paused to inspect the reflection of her hat in the nearest polished shopfront, likely checking for imperfections invisible to mortal eyes.

“Not today, darling,” she said crisply. “I have tea with Lady Nott, and I don’t intend to be late because a mirror insulted your eyebrows.”

I squinted at my eyebrows in a passing reflection. They were fine, thank you very much. Expressive. Slightly judgmental. Very French.

She added, “We mustn’t dawdle. Flourish and Blotts is just ahead, and you’ll need your schoolbooks.”

I reluctantly turned away from the Janus shop, filing it under “Mysterious Places to Investigate Without Adult Supervision.” I had a growing list.

The moment we stepped into Flourish and Blotts, all other thoughts were trampled under the sheer, unholy beauty of books.

The smell hit me first—dust, parchment, spilt ink, and something inexplicably spicy. Possibly dragon dandruff. Who cared. It was divine.

The shop was enormous inside, far bigger than it appeared from the street. The ceiling stretched high into a domed vault painted like a midnight sky with glowing constellations that rearranged themselves every time you blinked. Bookshelves creaked and groaned under the weight of tomes—some stacked properly, others teetering dangerously like towers of literary Jenga. Floating ladders drifted between shelves like gondolas, occasionally honking if you stood too long in their way.

My mother had already summoned a shop assistant who appeared to be made entirely of tweed and disapproval. He began stacking a set of Hogwarts textbooks into her arms with such a lack of ceremony that I thought he might actually crush a copy of Magical Drafts and Potions.

“You may explore the nearby shops,” Vespera said, adjusting the angle of her hat with surgical precision. “But don’t wander far. I’ll meet you here, in front of Flourish and Blotts, in precisely one hour.”

She leaned in ever so slightly, a glint of amusement—or warning—in her eyes. “And do try not to adopt a cursed object or get hexed by a mirror. It’s unbecoming.”

Then, like the beautiful phantom of all things perfumed and imperious, she disappeared out the door—off to Madam Primpernelle’s Beautifying Potions and Twilfitt and Tattings, where pure-bloods were probably lined up for twelve-sickle nose refinements and embroidered gloves.

She pressed five gold coins into my hand before she left.

Five Galleons. That had to be a lot, right?

No idea. I grew up with euros, bought crisps in pounds, and occasionally traded Pokémon cards for bubblegum. Wizard money was just another fever dream.

But who cared—I had five golden coins and an entire magical bookshop to myself. C’est la vie sorcière.

I wandered toward the fiction section first. A table near the window boasted Wizarding Romance titles that made me cackle internally. One was titled “One Hex of a Man”, another “Gone With the Whirlwind Curse.” My personal favourite: “Pride, Portkeys & Polyjuice.”

I picked it up and flipped through a few pages. It involved a woman named Minerva du Pompadour who accidentally transforms into her best friend’s Kneazle and falls in love with a librarian. Frankly, relatable.

But I was supposed to be sensible. Scholarly. A Ravenclaw-in-progress.

So, I moved toward the more serious shelves, where titles like “The Essential Theory of Transfiguration: Volume I–IV” stood bound in dusty grey leather. I was immediately hooked.

I had always been obsessed with the idea of becoming an animagus. The Marauders did it for their werewolf friend, and it was described as incredibly hard, borderline ridiculous. But the best part? The animal was a surprise. Like magical horoscopes but riskier.

I imagined waking up one day as an elegant fox or a hawk or—Merlin forbid—a walrus. No. No, thank you.

Still, I clutched the Transfiguration theory book like it might whisper secrets if I held it hard enough.

Then I stumbled upon the Potions section—rows upon rows of thick tomes with names like “Poisons, Potions and Pity” and “Dodgy Draughts and Questionable Cures.” I picked a volume that looked advanced but not terrifying. If I was going to be taught by Professor Snape, I might as well impress him—or at least avoid being openly sneered at.

I added a charmingly illustrated guide to Charms (“Charmed, I’m Sure!” by Felicity Flitwick, possibly related?) to my growing pile, and tried not to feel too smug about being this productive.

Somewhere across the room, a wizard in a velvet robe with stars on it was arguing with a goblin over whether a book about dragon grooming should be sorted under Magical Creatures or Personal Care. A child chased a flying pop-up book that shrieked “BLOODY BANSHEES!” every time it hit a wall. A hippogriff skeleton (decorative, I hoped) stared down at everyone from above the counter.

It was chaos. It was glorious.

And I was in love with every minute.

Armed with new books and a grin that spelled trouble, I swept out of Flourish and Blotts and made a beeline for Gambol and Japes—because naturally, academic excellence should always be balanced with explosive sweets and portable swamps.

The bell above the door let out a cackling laugh when I pushed it open—an actual laugh, not a jingle—and the moment I stepped inside, I was hit with a smell that can only be described as equal parts sugar quill and chaos. It was like a carnival had exploded and then been hastily repaired with Spellotape and mischief.

Shelves teetered with boxes that hissed or giggled when you looked at them too long. A rack of shimmering balloons bobbed near the ceiling, glowing softly with slogans like "Not Today, Troll" and "Mood: Hexy"—those were the Non-explodable, Luminous Balloons, apparently. One of them winked at me. I winked back. We were off to a good start.

I made my way to a display of Dungbombs and Stink Pellets, discreetly taking a whiff from the safety of the label. Bad idea. My eyes watered and my brain short-circuited. Yes, this could be useful. Not that I was planning on becoming a Slytherin menace or anything—but a girl’s got to be prepared in case the castle gets... pranky.

Then I spotted it: Mood Mane Mist. A sleek little bottle that promised to turn your hair the color of your dominant mood—icy blue for calm, scarlet for rage, daisy yellow for giddiness, and an unfortunate chartreuse if you were lying. “Reveal your inner drama,” the label purred. I grabbed two.

Across the aisle, a small crate was rattling violently under a sign that read: Dr Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks – Now with Snarky Commentary! I didn't dare open it, but I made a mental note: hallway duels at Hogwarts might require reinforcements.

That’s when I nearly tripped over someone crouched near the bottom shelf, examining a handful of trick wands. He looked up, a grin spreading across his freckled face. “Careful there,” he said, voice rich with amusement. “These ones shoot out custard when you try to use them. Brutal on robes.”

I blinked. Familiar voice. Familiar smile. Dreadlocks tied back in a quick ponytail. Surely that was Lee Jordan. But I didn’t ask—canon or not, I was still new here and didn’t want to break the fourth wall of fate.

“Good to know,” I said coolly. “Wouldn’t want to waste custard unless I’m aiming it at someone.”

He laughed. “You’ve got potential. Planning to start strong at Hogwarts?”

“I’m considering a preemptive prank strategy,” I replied. “Defensive mischief.”

“Bold. I approve.”

We exchanged a few more jokes—something about enchanted fart powder and a self-inking quill that only writes insults in limericks—before I waved goodbye and wandered toward the register with my little pile of mayhem.

After stuffing my bag with mood-hair mist, prank pellets, and what I suspected might be a semi-sentient firework (don’t ask), I wandered out of Gambol and Japes with a grin tugging at my mouth and soot on one cheek. Diagon Alley smelled like parchment, pumpkin pasties, and dragon smoke—a chaotic perfume I was quickly learning to love.

That’s when I saw it: Broomstix.

It shimmered in the afternoon haze like it had been waiting for me. Or maybe mocking me. I wasn’t exactly a Quidditch fanatic—Laura was the one who could tell you which Chaser farted in a 1972 match—but I could still recognize raw power when I saw it. The shop window was a fever dream: enchanted brooms hovering like lazy wasps, streaming gold and crimson ribbons, tiny bewitched players zipping around the glass yelling tinny cheers. And in the center of it all, a Nimbus 2001, rotating like royalty on velvet.

Boys clustered around the display; noses practically pressed to the glass. One of them squeaked when the broom did a loop and flicked a fake Bludger at his face. I snorted and folded my arms.

“A little dramatic for a stick,” I muttered.

Still, I stepped closer. There was something hypnotic about it—the way the letters glinted, the curve of the handle. My reflection shimmered faintly in the glass, ghostlike among the crowd of gawking boys. A porcelain doll in a toy shop for someone else.

That’s when I felt it. That unmistakable buzz of being watched. I didn’t turn, not immediately—I just knew someone was looking.

I glanced sideways and, yep. There he was. Not one of the broom-gawkers. Just… there. Standing off to the right like he’d stepped out of a dramatic entrance spell. Thick dark hair, soft curls around the edges. Tall. Calm. Maybe a year or two older. And those eyes. Light. Greyish? Bluish? Mist-in-the-morning-colored?

He wasn’t looking at the brooms. He was looking at me.

So, I said the first thing that popped into my brain. “I always wonder how one player gets to have so much power over a match…”

There was a pause. Then his voice, a soft ripple: “How so?”

I turned just a little, just enough to catch the faintest curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t seem fair, does it?” I said, “One person decides the outcome of a whole match by catching one tiny golden ball. Everyone wants to be that player. The Seeker.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Not that I’d ever be one,” I added with a shrug. “Maybe a Chaser. I like movement. Chaos. Bloodthirsty elegance.”

“You at Hogwarts yet?”

I turned fully now, properly looking at him. He had that almost-handsome thing going on—that awkward, in-between stage where you know he’s about to become a heartbreaker and it’s honestly a little rude.

“Starting in a month,” I said. “So no Quidditch for me. Not until second year. Assuming I even make the team. Assuming I don’t get sorted into a house where they play chess for sport.”

He smiled, the kind that’s half-mouth, half-eyes. “You sound like you already know you’ll care.”

“Oh, I’ll care. If only to prove someone wrong.”

“Someone?”

I grinned. “Many someones.”

He leaned just slightly against the edge of the window frame. “I’m on a team.”

“Hufflepuff?” I guessed, pointing at the robes. “What position?”

His cheeks colored. Oh. Was I really that cute? That’s good to know.

“Seeker,” he said, swallowing.

Seeker. Of course. I looked at him properly again. Still couldn’t place his name. Laura—my best friend slash walking Potterpedia—would have known it immediately, probably listed his broom stats and favorite cereal. Me? I was just here to cause problems and buy Quidditch magazines.

“Well,” I said, pretending to brush something invisible from my sleeve, “you must be one of the dramatic types.”

“Dramatic?” he repeated, amused.

“You know,” I said, stepping back. “Steal the whole game, flip your hair, pretend it was no big deal.”

He laughed. “Only when we win.”

I liked his laugh. It was the kind that got into your skin and made you want to say something even wittier just to hear it again.

“Well, Stormblush,” I said, as I started toward the door.

“Storm—?”

“See you on the pitch,” I added, tossing him a wink.

I didn’t look back to see his reaction. Let him stew in it.

Outside, the alley still shimmered with heat and magic. My bag was stuffed with prank gear, my pockets jingled with change and fireworks, and I had a Seeker’s flustered blush tucked into my memory like a lucky charm.

I spotted her instantly—leaning against the lamppost like an enchantress in retirement, silk gloves on, hat at a perfect tilt, and a book in one hand like she was auditioning for “Witch Weekly’s Most Intimidating Yet Fashionable Mother.” Vespera Rosier didn’t do casual. She was casual’s elegant older sister who married rich and drank absinthe at lunch.

I, on the other hand, was sweating slightly, covered in glitter from the prank shop (no idea how), holding three Quidditch magazines, a balloon I’d forgotten I bought, and looking like I'd just tripped into a carnival.

“Darling,” she said smoothly, tucking the book under one arm and eyeing me like a curator appraising an artifact. “You look… festive.”

“I shopped,” I replied, which sounded cooler in my head. “Productive shopping. Strategic. Academic, even.”

She gave me the slow up-and-down. Her eyebrows climbed. “Why do you smell like sulphur and boy?”

My body betrayed me. Immediate warmth shot to my cheeks like I’d swallowed a Pepperup Potion sideways. “I—what? I don’t!” I squeaked. My voice cracked. Perfect.

She just blinked. “That blush speaks volumes.”

“It’s 800 degrees out!” I lied, dragging my sleeves down over my hands like I could somehow hide from the sun and her at the same time.

Her smile was all teeth now. “Did someone with light eyes and good cheekbones talk to you, by any chance?”

“I don’t even know what his name was,” I grumbled.

“Yet you remembered the cheekbones.” She handed back the magazine. “Noted.”

I tried to scowl but it came out more like a pouty smirk. My entire body was betraying me. Again. Stupid hormones. Stupid lovely cheekbones. Stupid mother with psychic sarcasm powers.

She looped her arm through mine. “Well, you smell like rebellion and poor impulse control. Come along, mon petit carnage, let’s go home before you set off whatever’s twitching in your pocket.”

I opened my mouth to argue—then remembered the slightly cursed Dungbomb that had been humming like a sleepy bee since I left Gambol and Japes. “...Fair.”

We began walking down the cobbled path, my bag rattling, my face still radiating heat, and her humming something suspiciously smug.

I was definitely ready for Hogwarts. But Hogwarts? Definitely not ready for me.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: All Aboard the Madness Express

A month before Hogwarts, and my life had already taken a turn for the absurd.
I was sprawled dramatically across the velvet chaise in my room, looking like a Victorian ghost with an attitude problem, waving my wand over my hair in an attempt to charm it into something resembling order.

"Mother," I called, dragging out the syllables like I was auditioning for a role in The Tragedy of My Life, Featuring Split Ends, "can you show me that spell again? The one for shine without frizz?"

Vespera Rosier swept into the room like a couture thundercloud, all silk robes and perfectly arched eyebrows. "Darling, you’re not dueling your reflection. A simple Capillaris Sleekeum will do. Now point, flick, and don’t imagine you’re fencing."

She made it look effortless, of course. One flick of her wand and her hair fell into place like obedient shadows.
Mine, on the other hand, fizzed like I'd just been licked by a lightning bolt.

And somehow, even with thirty years of life experience (and approximately zero experience being eleven), I found myself slipping into Alexandra’s mannerisms like they were broken-in ballet slippers.
Sometimes I caught myself pouting exactly right, tossing my hair with the same bratty grace — instinctive, automatic, eerie.
Worse, sometimes I knew things I shouldn’t: where the last jar of Honeydukes fudge was hidden behind the third pantry door, the exact trick to jamming the stubborn second-floor window shut.
Like the house, or maybe the body itself, whispered its memories to me when I wasn't paying attention.
I told myself it was muscle memory. Reflex. Survival.
(And maybe a little bit magic.)

"And," I said, lowering my wand as gracefully as one can when it’s tangled in hair, "what about hexes? You know, if someone pulls my braid or calls me a… Mudlover-lover or something?"

Mother gave me a look. The Look. The patented Pureblood Disdain Glance 3000.

"You will not be getting into duels, Alexandra."

"But if I did. Hypothetically. For academic defense. Girl code or boy pest repellent."

She sighed, and I won.

"Fine. Flipendo for general shoving. Expelliarmus if they’re holding something. Locomotor Wobblus if you want to ruin their posture for a week. And Confundo, of course, if you want to make them fall in love with a chair."

"Mother," I said gravely, "you’re a treasure."

Then I leaned in, whispering like a gossip-hungry Banshee, "Do you know any spells to protect a diary? Asking for a friend. Who’s me."

Mother arched a brow. "You are not hiding love poems in there, are you?"

"No comment."

"Fine. Protego Privata should do. And if that fails, write in invisible ink. Or just threaten their bloodline."

I was beginning to suspect she was joking.
Maybe.

As I scribbled the protective spell on a parchment (in glittering ink, obviously), she casually mentioned, "Lady Nott asked her son to be kind to you."

"Oh?"

"Yes, Theodore. Shy boy. Wasn’t home when I visited. But polite. Good breeding."

I nodded like I hadn’t immediately tried to remember what he looked like in the books. Spoiler: I had no clue. Thank you, vague canon.

Later that day, while Mother organized her extensive collection of enchanted lipstick (some allegedly hexed exes), I turned my attention to the real source of family wisdom: Tottle, our house elf.

She was the unofficial Queen of Secrets at Rosier Manor. She moved around the house like a scandalized Victorian maid, dusting and twirling with the solemnity of a ballerina and the outrage of a French fishwife.
Every polished bannister came with a full recounting of who had disgraced whose family at which garden party, sprinkled liberally with high-pitched curses in French that could singe the wallpaper.

It was only recently — through careful interrogation (and a small bribe involving chocolate frogs) — that I pieced together something important.
Tottle hadn’t just been the help. She had practically raised the original Alexandra Rosier — the girl whose body I now occupied.

And if Tottle’s mutterings were anything to go by, that Alexandra had been...
A handful.
"Mon petit ouragan," she called her once — my little hurricane — with a fond, exasperated shake of her head.
Spoiled, mercurial, impossible to predict: she would demand kisses one minute and hex the curtains the next.

Maybe that’s why nobody was questioning why I sometimes forgot which fork to use at dinner or why my mood could snap from giddy to volcanic without warning.
Apparently, that was just Alexandra being Alexandra.
Convenient.

Mother had supervised, of course, but from a polite distance — beautiful, aloof, more concerned with appearances than scraped knees or crooked smiles.
It was Tottle who had been the soft voice in the night, the secret co-conspirator, the guardian of small rebellions and bigger dreams.

Maybe that was why, when I asked about my father, it wasn’t Mother I trusted first.

Tottle had hesitated, her feather duster frozen mid-swish, a rare thing indeed.

"Monsieur Evan," she said softly, eyes misty, "he was... comme tous les jeunes garçons. Young, foolish, thinking he was invincible... until he realized he was not. They made promises, terrible promises, and he was too scared to say non."

She sniffed, wiping her nose dramatically on her apron, and added, "Mais il vous aimait... He loved you. That was never a lie."

We stood there for a moment, surrounded by dust motes catching the sunlight, like tiny, floating memories neither of us dared touch.

When I wasn’t interrogating family ghosts or hexing my own hair, I was curled in bed with a leather-bound notebook titled: Avoiding Certain Death: A Hogwarts Survival Guide. It included:

• Don’t follow mysterious boys with glasses, no matter how heroic.
• Avoid Halloween, Trolls, and anything that starts with a Forbidden.
• Do not enter the Forest. Even if dared. Especially if dared.
• Fluffy is not a euphemism. It’s a beast. Run.

On the desk, several parchment scrolls were strewn like ancient war maps. My Potions assignment glared at me. Snape loomed large in my imagination, all sarcasm and shadows.

Chemistry was my worst subject, so naturally I was determined to conquer Potions. With fear. And extra reading.

Transfiguration, on the other hand? Spellbinding. I had already bookmarked the chapter about Animagi and circled the line: The form is unknown until the transformation is complete.

"Please don’t let me be a ferret," I whispered.

But studying was hard when Witch Weekly beckoned. I’d become addicted. Today’s headlines:

• “Is Your Wand Length Sabotaging Your Love Life?”
• “Ten Hexes for When He Ghosts You (Literally).”
• “Celestina Warbeck’s Guide to Glamour, Grief, and Goblins.”

And then there was The Quibbler, home of delightful nonsense:

• “Exclusive: Ministry Controlled by Crumple-Horned Snorkacks!”
• “Wand Wood Astrology: Are You an Oak or an Ashhole?”

Best of all were the Quidditch magazines. Naturally, I had to pick a team—one does not simply enter Hogwarts unaligned. The Tutshill Tornados had style, but the Holyhead Harpies? All-female, all-fierce, and their captain once hexed a reporter for asking if she wore lipstick under her helmet. Girl power, broomsticks, and brutal tackles? Sold. I needed a team. A purpose. And, obviously, an overpriced scarf I could dramatically fling over one shoulder while proclaiming loyalty in the common room.

And so the days slipped by. One spell at a time. One article at a time. One late-night thought scribbled in my diary, sealed with magic, dreams, and maybe a little glitter.

***

The barrier melted around me like butter under a dragon's sneeze, and suddenly I stumbled onto Platform 9¾ — smack in the middle of absolute pandemonium.

It was a carnival of magic and questionable life choices: trunks zooming like rogue Bludgers, owls staging full-blown coups on trolley carts, and a wizard in lime-green robes chasing a hat that had apparently eaten his dignity (and possibly his toddler).

The Hogwarts Express loomed ahead, glossy and red and steaming like it knew exactly how smug it looked.

I grinned. I couldn't help it. It was real. All of it. No Netflix screen, no courtroom daydream — real magic, humming under my skin like a Niffler on a sugar high.

And then, naturally, my mother arrived at my side with the grace of a well-trained Hungarian Horntail.
Vespera Rosier, the frostiest witch this side of Durmstrang, impeccable as always — not a hair out of place, not a button unpolished. If a Dementor had a baby with a debutante, you'd get something like her on a bad day.

She handed me a small velvet pouch so discreetly it looked like we were exchanging contraband in Knockturn Alley.

"Some pocket money," she said, adjusting my robe like she was negotiating a hostile merger. "Spend it on necessities. Not... frivolities."

Translation: Spend it on quills, not Bertie Bott's Vomit-Flavored Beans.
(Boring, mother. Just say you hate joy.)

“And write to me," she added, her eyes narrowing to pure basilisk mode. "You now have a full stationery set. No excuses. Full sentences. Proper etiquette. If you end your letter with anything as vulgar as a heart doodle—” she paused, visibly repressing a shudder, “—I will personally come to Hogwarts and remove your fingers.”

I nodded solemnly, making a mental note to sign every letter with a glittering, blinking unicorn if only to test her loyalty to that threat.

“And keep your hair styled.” She attacked my curls with a comb she conjured from thin air, muttering something about “Kneazles in a windstorm.” “Presentation is half the battle, darling. First impressions last.

Survive Slytherin. Survive Voldemort’s fan club. Survive teenage hormones. But GOD HELP YOU if your hair looks wild.

Honestly, if I survived Hogwarts but had a slightly crooked braid, I’d be disowned faster than you could say "Expelliarmus."

She finished taming my curls into submission and gave a little nod, like she’d just completed a particularly annoying household chore.

Then... the unexpected happened.
She pulled me into a hug — warm, tight, and terrifyingly sincere.

I froze like a Muggle in front of a Boggart.

This wasn't part of the plan.
This wasn’t pureblood protocol.

And worst of all, my treacherous, eleven-year-old body — this body that still smelled faintly of sugared violets and expensive soap — betrayed me.
The sting hit my eyes before I could even bark an internal "Obliviate!"

No. Absolutely not. I would not cry like some overdramatic Hufflepuff during a soap opera. I was a Rosier. I had survived law school. I had survived bar exams. I had survived family reunions.

But right now?
Right now my throat was about as sturdy as a Chocolate Frog on a radiator.

"I love you, Alexandra," she said, brushing an invisible speck of dust from my shoulder.
"Have fun. Make friends. Keep your posture."

There it was. Fun. Friends. Posture.
The Rosier Holy Trinity.

I croaked out, “Right. Fun. Friends. Posture. Hair. No hearts. Full sentences. Got it."

She kissed my forehead — a tiny, proper kiss, like a signature at the bottom of a very expensive, very binding magical contract — and then turned, gliding away through the smoke and chaos of the platform.

I stood there, blinking after her, small and furious and ridiculously happy.

This was real.
This was happening.
Magic everywhere — roaring, sparkling, alive.

I gripped my trolley, straightened my doll-perfect shoulders, and marched toward the train like a wronged queen charging into battle.

If tears wanted to fall, they could bloody well wait until after I'd made at least three sarcastic friends and eaten an entire Pumpkin Pastie.

***

The Hogwarts Express rattled along the countryside like a drunken Hippogriff, and I was lounging in a compartment, feeling thoroughly pleased with myself for not having cried at the platform like a second-rate soap opera heroine.

I was halfway through mentally composing my acceptance speech for Best Undercover Witch in a Leading Role when the compartment door slid open — and in drifted a girl who looked like she had just stepped out of a particularly dreamy tea commercial.

Blond hair like a dandelion puff gone rogue.
Eyes wide and silvery as if she was perpetually seeing invisible Wrackspurts tangoing in the rafters.
Necklace made of what was, unmistakably, Butterbeer corks.

I knew her at once — Luna Lovegood, the queen of oddities. Future social pariah. Current icon.

And she looked right at me and smiled — a beatific, slightly lopsided smile like we were already in on the same very strange joke.

I grinned back.
Of course I wasn’t going to introduce myself properly. Not yet.
After all, when you’re a mystery wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a second-hand robe, you lean in.

“Name exchange?” I said, waving a hand dismissively, as if it were the height of bad manners. “Boring. Overrated. I say we invent titles."

Luna’s face lit up like a Niffler spotting a mountain of galleons. "Oh yes. Titles," she said in a dreamy voice, as if I'd just suggested we start a conspiracy against the Ministry.

I placed a hand dramatically over my heart and bowed low in my seat.
"Mademoiselle Mayhem," I declared, with a flourishing twirl of my wrist.

Luna clapped her hands once, solemn and delighted.
"Captain Cloudbrain," she said, pointing at herself with all the gravity of a queen declaring war.

We were already giggling like goblins who'd just rigged a dice game when fate decided to up the chaos ante.

The door slid open again — and in stumbled three boys, looking like they'd just escaped an explosion they might have accidentally caused.

Two of them were redheads — tall, identical, and practically vibrating with mischief.
The third was a dark-skinned boy with dreadlocks and an expression like he found life permanently hilarious. I recognized him immediately — Gambol and Japes guy! We had exchanged about six terrible puns over a fake wand display, and it had been the highlight of my week.

The dreadlocks boy grinned in recognition. "Hey, it's you! The one with the deadly puns!"

"At your service," I said, giving a mock curtsy that would have made my mother faint dead away.

The twins — noticing the bow, the smirk, the hair (because let's be honest, the doll-like blondness was aggressively attention-grabbing) — exchanged a look like they'd just been given their birthdays early.

"What’s this, a new recruit?" one said, grinning.

"Or a secret agent from Honeydukes?" said the other, winking.

"Titles only," I said primly, holding up a finger. "No names. Rules of the realm. You may address me as Mademoiselle Mayhem."

The dreadlocked boy practically vibrated with delight.
"I'm The Quidditch Oracle," he said, dramatically bowing so low he nearly headbutted the floor.

The twins barely hesitated.

"I'm General Chaos," said Twin One, flourishing an imaginary saber.

"And I'm Commander Giggles," said Twin Two, trying and failing to salute with a straight face.

We all burst out laughing — Luna letting out a soft, hiccuppy giggle that sounded suspiciously like a Flobberworm choking on a lemon drop.

They flopped into seats around us like overenthusiastic Cornish Pixies, limbs everywhere and no sense of personal space.

"So, Captain Cloudbrain," General Chaos said, grinning wickedly, "and Mademoiselle Mayhem — which House will you be terrorizing?"

"Gryffindor, obviously," Commander Giggles said with a wink. "Brave, bold, brilliant."

"Brave, bold, and boastful, you mean," I said sweetly, batting my eyelashes.

They roared with laughter — even Luna smiled serenely like a sunflower on a particularly good day.

"I reckon we ended up back in Gryffindor," said The Quidditch Oracle (Lee — not that I'd ever admit knowing his real name; titles were sacred now). "First-years like you, though? Bit harder to tell. No offense, but you don’t exactly scream ‘Hufflepuff hug machine.’”

I smiled, sharp as a cursed razor.

"Let's just say... the Sorting Hat will need a bigger shovel to dig me out of the House I belong to."

The twins looked intrigued.

"Ravenclaw?" guessed one.

I smirked wider, sharklike.
"Guess again, General."

Their eyebrows shot up.
Even Luna tilted her head thoughtfully like a Pygmy Puff sensing drama.

Truth be told, I could already hear the Sorting Hat’s ancient voice snarling "Slytherin, obviously, you little menace."
But why ruin the suspense?

Instead, I leaned back in my seat with the air of someone preparing a particularly spicy courtroom cross-examination and said nothing.

That’s when it hit me.

One of the twins — no, both of them — were absolutely adorable.

Adorable.
Red-headed.
Troublemakers.

I was in trouble.

Because somewhere deep in the confused hormonal swamp that was now my eleven-year-old body, an ancient switch flipped — the Redhead Appreciation Society banner unfurling with fireworks.

No. No no no. Bad brain! They’re thirteen! You’re — technically — thirty! This is illegal in at least twelve dimensions!

But biology, it turned out, was a crueler dictator than even my mother.

My stupid cheeks heated up faster than a cauldron under a bad Cheering Charm.

Puberty, I decided with grim finality, was absolutely the Dark Lord.
Not Voldemort.
Not Grindelwald.
Not even Umbridge.
Puberty.

And it had me firmly by the robes.

After a few hours of exchanging jokes sharper than a goblin's quill and theories wilder than a Divination textbook, I realized something important: Lee Jordan and the Weasley twins had adopted me. Not with paperwork or blood oaths (yet), but with the easy, mischievous loyalty of boys who saw chaos as a religion — and had just found themselves a new high priestess.

We sprawled across the compartment like overfed Puffskeins, swapping stories, laughing so hard I thought the windows would shatter from sheer cheek. Lee and the twins, it turned out, were seasoned Gryffindor troublemakers — and proud of it.

"We're both on the Gryffindor Quidditch team," said General Chaos (Fred, or George? At this point, it was 50-50 and I wasn’t risking my life guessing). His twin — Commander Giggles — puffed his chest out like a proud Hippogriff, basking in the nonexistent applause.

"Beaters?" I guessed, eying their arms, which looked capable of knocking a Bludger into orbit.

I leaned forward, wide-eyed, like they had just announced they could breathe underwater. "Wicked. I'd love to try Quidditch, but…" I wiggled my arm dramatically, making my skinny eleven-year-old wrist flop around like a dying Flobberworm. "Not exactly Beater material. I'd probably knock myself off the broom before the Bludgers got a chance."

Lee snorted. "You'd make a great Seeker, Mademoiselle Mayhem. You’ve already got the look — like you’re plotting world domination or a particularly nasty backflip."

I clutched my chest theatrically. "The highest compliment."

"And I'm the Quidditch commentator, by the way," Lee added, trying for casual but absolutely glowing like a Niffler in a jewellery store.

My eyes lit up. "Ooooh. Is it possible to have two commentators? Asking for a friend." I waggled my eyebrows so hard I nearly gave myself a concussion.

The boys howled with laughter.

Somewhere between a debate about which sweet would best function as an emergency weapon (Exploding Bonbons beat Chocolate Frogs, obviously) and a heated discussion on broomstick brands, I pulled out my sketchbook.

Drawing again — proper drawing, with enchanted inks that shimmered and little quills that itched to misbehave — felt like stretching after a long, uncomfortable sleep. Pure bliss.

Within minutes, I was sketching Lee and the twins as comic book heroes: Quidditch bats in one hand, dungbombs in the other, leaping majestically into battle against an army of snobby prefects. I added speech bubbles filled with heroic nonsense like "FOR CHAOS AND CARAMELS!" and "PREFECTS SHALL PERISH!"

They loved it. Lee laughed so hard he fell off the seat, and the twins snatched the sketchbook out of my hands to admire the sheer artistry of their ridiculousness.

"Frame it," one gasped. "Put it in the Gryffindor common room."

"Hang it over Percy's bed," said the other.

The mention of Percy, newly minted Prefect and current walking lecture hall, sparked a beautifully deranged idea in my brain.

I leaned in, whispering like I was delivering forbidden spells from the Restricted Section.

"You know…" I said, tapping my chin thoughtfully. "I might have heard a rumor that when you're not sorted yet, you can't actually lose House points. Or get real punishments. Something about 'innocent until proven guilty'... or, you know, Hogwarts just not wanting to deal with the paperwork."

Three pairs of mischievous eyes locked onto me like kneazles spotting a cornered mouse.

"And," I continued, voice dripping with faux-innocence, "someone might have overheard there’s a prefects' meeting today. Full of... pompous, badge-polishing, self-important future bureaucrats." I batted my lashes. "Wouldn't it be tragic if a few well-placed dungbombs accidentally went off?"

The twins looked like Christmas had come early.

"But," I added with a tragic sigh, "we’ll need someone brave and noble to lock the door behind us. Wouldn’t want them escaping too quickly, would we?"

It was official: Fred and George Weasley were ready to build me a golden statue.

Commander Giggles practically saluted me. "Mademoiselle Mayhem," he said solemnly, "you have found your people."

Lee Jordan wiped a fake tear from his eye. "It's… it's beautiful."

I leaned back smugly, already plotting which corridor would give us the fastest escape route, my sketchbook clutched under one arm like a general reviewing battle plans.

Oh, Hogwarts. You weren't ready.

***

It started, as all great catastrophes do, with a dungbomb.

One minute, the five of us (General Chaos, Commander Giggles, The Quidditch Oracle, Captain Cloudbrain, and yours truly, Mademoiselle Mayhem) were hunched outside the Prefects’ Compartment like criminals planning a bakery heist. The next — kaboom — the train shook like a Skrewt having a tantrum, and the air filled with the smell of hot, sweaty tragedy.

"DUNG BOMB DEPLOYED!" Fred (or George — seriously, I needed badges) cried gleefully, lobbing another one through the slightly open door for good measure.

Inside, shrieks of outrage erupted instantly, sounding exactly like the sound a Basilisk would make if someone stepped on its tail. I caught a glimpse of horrified faces — Percy Weasley, of course, looked like someone had slapped him with a live salmon — before Lee slammed the door shut and muttered a Locking Spell with a theatrical flick of his wand.

"We are legends!" Lee gasped, as the five of us turned and bolted down the corridor.

And then — chaos.

We tore through the Hogwarts Express like a herd of stampeding Nifflers, knocking into trunks, scattering startled owls, and sending an unfortunate snack trolley wobbling dangerously as Pumpkin Pasties and Chocolate Frogs launched themselves into orbit.

Somewhere behind us, the Prefects had broken the Locking Spell — I could hear Percy bellowing like a Ministry official who just found a form filled out in blue ink instead of black.

"AFTER THEM!"

"SWEET MERLIN, THEY’RE ORGANIZED!" I shrieked, barely dodging a flying cat carrier. A tiny puffball of an owl whizzed past my head, hooting its indignation.

Beside me, Fred and George were cackling — not laughing, cackling, like fairy tale witches who had just invented a new flavor of mischief.

Lee was trying to run while still giving live commentary: "AND THEY’RE SPRINTING DOWN THE THIRD CARRIAGE! A TRULY MAGNIFICENT ESCAPE FROM THE FORCES OF ORDER!"

Luna, ethereal and serene as always, floated after us like a dreamy little cloud, tossing handfuls of invisible fairy confetti (or possibly just wriggling Doxy repellent) into the air for ambiance.

We zipped past compartments, faces blurring by — scandalized first-years, hooting third-years, and several Hufflepuffs who looked like they wanted to file a formal complaint.

I was laughing so hard my ribs hurt. My hair whipped into my mouth. Someone — I think Lee — tried to use a spell to speed us up and accidentally turned George's shoes into squeaky rubber ducks.

That’s when I crashed into him.

Coming around a corner like a mad hippogriff, I barreled straight into the boy from Diagon Alley — the one with the soft brown curls and the blush like sunrise behind freckles.

Our eyes met for half a second.

Him: startled, blushing, adorable.

Me: disheveled, flushed, eleven years old again and absolutely not okay with finding this adorable boy so inconveniently cute.

"Oh, um, hi, sorry, chaos, later!" I blurted, probably sounding like I had been hit in the head with a Quaffle.

Then I shoved off him like a launching broomstick and sprinted after the twins, who were screaming something about "Save yourselves!" and "Every man for himself!"

Behind me, I heard a faint, bewildered, "Good luck?" from Cute Diagon Alley Boy, as Luna skipped past him, trailing a gentle mist of dreaminess and quiet carnage.

We hit the next carriage and Fred yanked open an empty compartment door.

"In, in, IN!" he barked like a manic drill sergeant.

We all piled inside — limbs flailing, sketchbook flying — and slammed the door shut just as a furious gang of Prefects stormed past like stampeding Erumpents.

For a moment, we were silent.

Panting.

Sweating.

Grinning so hard it hurt.

Then George wheezed, "Best. First. Day. Ever." and the compartment exploded into wild, gasping laughter.

I collapsed against the seat, giggling helplessly, as Luna flopped beside me with a contented sigh, like she had just finished a nice afternoon gardening.

And as the Hogwarts Express rumbled onward, shaking from our collective hysteria, I knew it in my bones: I had found my people.

And Hogwarts — poor, beautiful, doomed Hogwarts — had no idea what was about to hit it.

As the Hogwarts Express rattled along like a drunk dragon trying to do ballet, our hiding compartment had officially turned into a war council of absurdity.

Fred was half-sprawled on the seat, sketching dramatic stick figures on the foggy window. George was inventing increasingly illegal-sounding prank ideas involving enchanted treacle tarts. Lee was interviewing Luna about her favorite color in case he needed it for "battle strategy."

I had just finished a very dignified drawing of Percy Weasley, mid-dungbomb crisis, labeled “Lord High Commissioner of Smelly Despair,” when Fred leaned in, all mock-seriousness and gleaming eyes.

“So," he said, voice low and ominous, "about the Sorting Ceremony."

I looked up sharply. I’d been expecting this.
The twins had that look — the one Kneazles get right before they pounce on your ankles.

“You know they make you fight a troll, right?” said George, solemn as a Ministry memo.

Luna tilted her head thoughtfully. "Is it a friendly troll?"

“Very friendly," Fred said gravely. "It gives hugs. Deadly hugs."

Lee was doing a terrible job of pretending not to laugh, coughing violently into his sleeve.

I narrowed my eyes at them, twirling my quill like a tiny weapon.
“Oh, absolutely. And if you survive hugging the troll without becoming its chew toy, you get to wear a little badge that says ‘I wrestled a troll and all I got was this stupid house.’”

George gasped in mock admiration. “She’s onto us, mate. She’s seen through the noble Gryffindor tradition!”

“Yeah, sorry," I said breezily, sketching a tiny troll in the corner of my notebook labeled Sir Huggles the Doom Troll. "If a troll ever does manage to crash Hogwarts, I’m not wrestling it. I'm putting a dungbomb in its breeches and running for the hills."

Everyone snorted.

“Seriously though,” I added, lifting an eyebrow, “if Hogwarts security is so bad a troll could just stroll in one day, I’ll prank the bloody thing. Swear it on my new stationery.”

Somewhere in the future, October 31st quivered nervously.

George wiped tears from his eyes. “Merlin’s beard, Mademoiselle Mayhem, you’re evil.”

“Chaotic neutral,” I corrected loftily. "I cause trouble, but I look cute while doing it."

Fred clutched his heart. "She’s one of us!"

"One of us!" Lee echoed, pounding the seat dramatically like a goblin demanding gold.

Luna just beamed at me serenely, as if she had always known I belonged here — even before I did.

And as the train steamed toward Hogwarts — toward castles and trolls (maybe), and moving staircases, and midnight adventures — I realized something warm and fizzling was blooming in my chest.

This was magic.

Not the spells, not the potions — but the laughter, the chaos, the utterly ridiculous friends.

And I wasn’t about to let a little thing like reality ruin it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Sorted and Slightly Damned

The Hogwarts Express groaned and squealed like a grumpy dragon as it finally lurched to a stop at Hogsmeade Station.

The whole train immediately exploded into chaos — trunks flying off shelves, owls shrieking indignantly, someone losing a shoe to the stampede. I half expected a goblin revolution to start in the next five minutes.

I tugged at my new wizard robes, which felt somewhere between "cozy" and "being eaten by a very gloomy tent," and tried not to trip over the hem.

"Well," I said, clutching my sketchbook like a life raft as the twins, Lee, and Luna squeezed into the corridor beside me, "this has been a riot."
I grinned at them, trying to ignore the prickly ache blooming behind my ribs. "Maybe we’ll never speak again."

The twins blinked at me like I'd announced I was about to spontaneously combust.
"You’re dramatic," said General Chaos (Fred, probably).
"I approve," said Commander Giggles (George, definitely).
"And we will talk again," added Lee, his dreadlocks bobbing as he nodded seriously. "You’re practically an honorary mischief-maker now."

I laughed — a sharp, bright sound that bounced around the train walls like a rogue spell — but inside, it pinched.
Because the truth hovered unspoken in the air between us, heavy as a Howler waiting to explode:
They didn’t know yet.

They didn’t know who I was.

Not Alexandra-whatever-title-we're-using-for-chaos, but Alexandra Rosier — pureblood princess, unwanted daughter of a dead Death Eater, walking scandal on tiny legs.

And they definitely didn’t know that when the Sorting Hat got its greedy hands on me, it would scream "Slytherin!" faster than you could say "family disgrace."

I could already see it:
Their smiles slipping.
Their jokes dying.
That awkward little shuffle backward like I'd sprouted Basilisk scales.

Still, for a glorious moment, they didn’t know.
And I could pretend.

"You’re gonna be Ravenclaw, for sure," said Lee confidently. "You’re too clever not to be. Sketching us into comics? Brilliant."
The twins nodded so hard I thought one of them might sprain a neck.

I shrugged in a way I hoped looked mysterious and cool. "Maybe. Maybe I’m secretly plotting your downfall."
Fred (or maybe George) winked. "We like a girl with ambitions."

The air outside was sharp and cold as we tumbled out of the train, the scent of wet grass and old magic filling my lungs.
Hogsmeade Station stretched out like a crooked postcard — dark platforms, huffing carriages, and the feeling, strong and electric, that something huge was about to start.

"First-years!" bellowed a lantern, or possibly a man holding a lantern — it was hard to tell under the beard.
"First-years over here!"

Luna grabbed my hand — all dreamy and calm, as if she didn’t notice the chaos swirling around us — and tugged me toward the voice.

The boys waved after us, vanishing into the crowd of upper years with grins and mock salutes.
I threw one last look over my shoulder, memorizing them before reality caught up.

Before they found out.

Before everything changed.

The crowd of first-years shuffled and jostled like a herd of mildly confused Puffskeins as we followed the booming voice toward the end of the platform.

That was when I saw him.

Harry Potter.

In the flesh.
In the messy hair.
In the way-too-big clothes like he’d been mugged by a laundry basket.

And right next to him — a ginger whirlwind who could only be Ron Weasley, the boy the twins had mentioned with an affectionate sigh that said "he’s hopeless, but he’s ours."

Following a literal mountain of a man.
No, not a mountain.
A walking, talking, slightly shaggy hill wearing a giant overcoat.

Hagrid.

I had known — academically, theoretically — that Hagrid was big.
But standing there in my eleven-year-old skin, I realized:
Big didn’t cover it.
Big was a kitten next to Hagrid.

The man was a sentient oak tree.
If he sneezed, he could probably launch half the first-years into orbit.

I instinctively edged closer to Luna, who smiled serenely at the chaos like she was on holiday in a rather curious garden full of small stampeding creatures.

My heart thudded ridiculously.
Harry freaking Potter.
I mean, sure, I wasn’t technically supposed to care. I was supposed to be cool, detached, mysterious.
But inside?
Inside, my brain was shrieking like a teenage girl at a Weird Sisters concert.

Still, I didn’t approach.
What would I even say?
"Hello, nice scar, want to be lifelong besties before you find out I’m low-key Voldemort-adjacent?"
Yeah. No.

Instead, Luna and I squeezed into one of the bobbing boats at the edge of the dark lake.
Two other boys plopped in with us — dark-haired, nervous-looking, and both clearly too distracted by the view to worry about introductions.

Good.
Titles and fake names would have been a nightmare to invent at this speed.

The boats jerked forward of their own accord, gliding out across the black glass of the water.

And then—

The castle.

Hogwarts rose out of the night like something from a fever dream — all soaring towers, sharp spires, and windows glowing gold against the navy sky.
Reflections of torchlight flickered on the lake like dancing will-o'-the-wisps.
The air smelled like mist, stone, and the kind of ancient magic that made your teeth hum if you stood too close.

For once, I didn’t even have a sarcastic comment lined up.
I just stared, open-mouthed, as the boats floated silently toward it — dozens of little glowing dots bobbing along the water, like part of some mad, enchanted parade.

Even the boys in our boat forgot to look terrified.
Even Luna looked... quietly reverent, as if she was seeing something she’d dreamed about and had only just realized was real.

I hugged my sketchbook to my chest, thinking fiercely:
Better than the movies. Better than any story.
Real. Mine.

I could almost hear the castle breathing — the creak of old stones, the soft crackle of spells hanging in the air like invisible cobwebs.

This wasn’t just a school.
It was a living, growling, ancient beast.

We huddled together in the echoing entrance hall like a colony of very nervous bats.
The stone walls soared up into shadows. Everything smelled of cold stone, burning torches, and that thrilling, slightly terrifying tang of magic about to happen.

Before anyone could start panicking audibly, the doors at the far end swung open with a solemn creak.
And she swept in.

Professor McGonagall.

She wasn’t just tall — she had the kind of posture that could slice through solid marble.
Her tartan robes flared out behind her like battle flags, her glasses glinting with a look that said I could transfigure you into a footstool in five seconds flat. Behave.

Every first-year immediately forgot how to breathe.

Including me.

It was magnificent.
She looked like the living embodiment of "I am disappointed in your entire bloodline."
I wanted to applaud.

While McGonagall began her brisk speech about houses, points, triumph, shame, public humiliation, and eternal glory (okay, maybe I was paraphrasing slightly), I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye.

A toad.
Attempting a daring solo escape mission.

I bent down casually and scooped up the squishy little daredevil just before he could hurl himself into oblivion.
He blinked up at me, looking deeply unimpressed.
Clearly, he was used to being thwarted.

Neville Longbottom — I recognized him from the train — turned beetroot red as he stumbled over.
“Trevor! Oh — thank you!” he gasped, stuffing the toad back into his pocket like he was trying to smuggle contraband.

I handed Trevor over with the ceremonial seriousness he deserved.
"You know," I said thoughtfully, "if he’s going to keep throwing himself into mortal peril, he probably deserves a better title. Sir Hopsalot, perhaps? Knight of the Noble Order of Frogkind?"

Neville blinked at me.
Then, to my surprise, he grinned — big, wide, and genuine.
"Sir Hopsalot," he repeated, giggling a bit.
Trevor looked profoundly offended.

Victory.
One smile achieved.
New record: 3 minutes into Hogwarts, zero enemies, one honorary frog knight.

Meanwhile, across the hall, the drama was beginning.
Draco Malfoy — platinum blonde, nose already tilted at an impressively obnoxious angle — was making his move toward Harry.
A social ambush, disguised as friendliness.
Classic.

I watched from a safe distance, arms folded.

Not that I was planning to get involved.
Malfoy was already putting off the vibe of a very small, very rich aristocratic ghost who had opinions about cutlery.
Besides, the way he held out his hand — like he was expecting Harry to kiss it instead of shake it — made me snort under my breath.

Oh please, little lord Malfoy, I thought, amused.
Try not to dislocate your own shoulder from patting yourself on the back.

Still, I couldn't help but eye him sideways.
If I ended up in Slytherin — and let’s be honest, odds were about ninety percent — he might be one of my classmates.
Hopefully, he was less horrible in bulk quantities.
Like anchovies.

Somehow, I doubted it.

Harry, of course, took one look at the offered handshake like it was a dead ferret and turned away.
Smooth as butterbeer.
The air between them crackled with the kind of tension you usually only saw in duels and very awkward family dinners.

I clutched my sketchbook tighter to my chest and smirked a little.

***

The Sorting Hat was a dark, ancient thing that looked like it had survived more than a few headstrong students—and perhaps a few too many accidents. I was already feeling the weight of every single person’s gaze piercing through me like a thousand little daggers.

Luna squeezed my hand and gave me that dreamy, slightly out-of-place smile before floating off to the Ravenclaw table like she belonged in a painting. Good for you, Luna. You don’t have to deal with the entire school wondering if you're a ticking time bomb of family drama.

I followed her with my eyes, but only for a second, before I saw the next student’s name on the list. Please don’t let it be me yet. Please don’t let it be me yet.

And then—“Draco Malfoy”. Oh, great. I glanced up just in time to catch his platinum blond hair gleaming under the torchlight. He was looking at the Sorting Hat with a mix of supreme arrogance and barely concealed smugness, like he was about to be crowned king. The Hat barely touched his head before it practically shouted, “SLYTHERIN!”

The Slytherin table erupted into applause. Draco gave the slightest, most practiced smirk before gliding over like he was auditioning for a role in a Shakespearean play. Gotta give him credit—he's got the drama of an entire theatre production.

“Nott”—McGonagall called next. Slytherin, unsurprisingly.

Pansy Parkinson was up next, and—SLYTHERIN—naturally, like a snake that just shed its skin and was ready to bite.

“Parvati Patil,” McGonagall called, and finally, someone who looked at least halfway human. But—GRYFFINDOR. She gave a little cheer, but honestly, you could practically hear the applause of a thousand other girls in the Gryffindor tower just waiting for the next “Lioness” to join the pride.

Then—Padma Patil. A Ravenclaw. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so relieved to be sorted into a house of nerds and brilliant minds, but there she was.

And then, of course, Sally-Anne Perks, who was a sort of blank canvas of a person. She didn’t seem like she had an ounce of drama in her, and you could practically hear the scribble of a million “I’m just here for the food” thoughts in the air. She was sorted into God knows where—it didn’t really matter.

The room fell into a deep, collective breath, like a room full of broomsticks waiting for the first gust of wind to send them flying. Harry Potter—the Harry Potter—was called up next. The Golden Boy. The Boy Who Lived. The kid with a lightning bolt scar that probably had its own fan club by now.

“Harry Potter!”

The hall instantly burst into applause. It was like a mini Quidditch match had broken out, but instead of a bludger, the crowd was hitting him with love and admiration. I half expected a shower of confetti and some House-elves to start dancing, it was that dramatic. But Harry, to his credit, just looked awkward, as though he’d never gotten used to being adored for reasons beyond his control. Like a particularly confused troll in a dainty ballet class.

And then, right before he made his way up to the stool, he glanced at me. Of course he did.

“Er… you look nervous,” he said, like it was the most normal thing to say in the middle of a Sorting Ceremony. Not exactly the most profound observation, but hey, he was Harry Potter. He probably had the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders—nervousness was a luxury for people like me.

I shot him a glance, eyebrow arched, and gave him the driest look I could muster. “Well, no kidding. You’re about to be sorted into your magical destiny, and I’m about to be judged like a toad at the bottom of a very big, very dark well. Of course, I’m nervous.”

He blinked at that, like my sarcasm had just tried to Transfigure into a blasted boogeyman right in front of him. He looked down at his shoes, his cheeks going a shade redder than a Howler in full scream. I had to stifle a snicker.

“Er, yeah. Good luck, then?” he muttered, trailing off, not quite sure if I was actually serious or just really, really bad at small talk.

“Well, thanks,” I said with a half-grin, the sarcasm practically oozing out of my pores. “But I don’t think you’ll be talking to me again after this.”

He frowned, as if my words had made him rethink everything—except before he could say anything more, the Sorting Hat landed on his head with a soft thud, and he had that awkward moment where he looked back over his shoulder like he’d forgotten something—maybe the fact that I just predicted he’d never speak to me again.

And then—“GRYFFINDOR!”

The room erupted like fireworks. Of course. Of course, he’s a Gryffindor. Everyone went mad, the Gryffindor table practically throwing a party for the boy who had literally just been sorted. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. You’d think he was getting crowned King of Hogwarts or something. Harry looked a little flustered, his cheeks pinkening. He met my gaze again, this time with that same sheepish, slightly confused smile—like he had no idea why I was even in the same room as him, let alone why I was staring at him like I’d just seen the world’s most expensive chocolate bar.

I could hear McGonagall reading off the names, but none of them were registering. I was already mentally preparing for my name to be called.

And then, it was—“Alexandra Rosier.”

The room seemed to grow heavier at that exact moment. The sound of every other person’s name just faded, and I could hear nothing but the roaring in my own ears as I walked toward the stool. The Slytherin table was quiet—too quiet. I knew it. I knew they were waiting for me to fail. And I could already hear the whispers: Rosier? Like the Death Eater?

I was already clenching my fists in my pockets, the cool air of the hall now oppressive, like I could feel the pressure of a thousand judging eyes all at once.

McGonagall adjusted the Sorting Hat on my head. I could feel the fabric pressing down, and for a second, I thought I might faint right there. But then—“Hmm, interesting…” The Hat murmured in my ear. It knows. It knows who I am. It knows who my family is.

“You’ve got quite the mind for art,” the Sorting Hat said, sounding almost approving. “Clever, but that’s not enough to sort you into Ravenclaw. And Hufflepuff? Too soft for that.”

Please. Please. Not Slytherin.

The Hat seemed to consider me for a long moment. It was so quiet, I almost thought it had gone to sleep. Then, I heard the voice that felt like it had cracked my very soul.

“SLYTHERIN.”

The room went dead silent for a beat, and then the Slytherin table erupted into applause—half-hearted, but still, it was there. I barely heard it over the pounding in my chest. The Gryffindor table? That’s where I felt the real weight of the room. Every eye—every single eye—was fixed on me, and you could hear the whispers before they even began: Rosier? The Death Eater’s daughter?

I took a breath, walked stiffly to the Slytherin table, and sat down as gracefully as I could, though I could barely keep my hands from trembling. This was it. My entire Hogwarts life had just been decided, and there was no going back now.

I strode into the Slytherin table with all the grace of a cat who had just been told it couldn’t knock something off the shelf. I was greeted with the familiar scent of fresh ambition, mingled with just a hint of fear. A powerful combination. The seats around me seemed to vibrate with expectation, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of Draco’s over-the-top enthusiasm or just the fact that Slytherins are professionally excellent at making new people feel like they’d walked into a particularly classy snake pit.

Draco Malfoy was practically hopping in his seat, his blonde hair gleaming like it had been dipped in cauldron polish. “Alexandra!” he exclaimed with all the subtlety of a basilisk in a china shop. “Welcome to the best house at Hogwarts! Let me introduce you to everyone.” As if I had any choice.

He gestured grandly to a few nearby students, each one looking like they’d been bred for the sole purpose of looking intimidating while making sure their robes never touched anything untidy. There was Theodore Nott, who had about as much expression as a petrified frog. Nott eyed me carefully, a studious expression on his face as if deciding whether I was worth more than a polite nod. And to be fair, I wasn’t sure if I was either.

Draco leaned in, eyes practically sparkling with the excitement of having another Death Eater descendant on his team. "Nott's good. He’s basically a nice guy when he’s not playing wizard chess or avoiding everyone else’s eye contact. You’ll get along, trust me."

I nodded, offering Nott my best I’ll-be-charming-until-you-push-me-too-far smile, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he glanced away like I was a slightly puzzling piece in a very complicated jigsaw puzzle. I wasn’t sure if it was my bloodline or the way my icy curls swirled around me like a charming snowstorm, but something about me clearly wasn’t passing the “Slytherin test” just yet.

Then came Millicent Bulstrode, chewing something with the fervor of someone who had just realized the last pack of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans was about to be confiscated by a Prefect. She was about as graceful as a troll, but with more attitude—and that was saying something. Next to her was Tracey Davis, who nodded at me politely, though the look in her eyes suggested she was trying to figure out if I could be useful to her social portfolio or if I would be better served as a cautionary tale for younger students. Daphne Greengrass, quietly elegant in a way that felt almost alien to me, gave me a slight, calculating smile, probably weighing the odds of how long it would take for me to become a thing in Slytherin.

But Pansy Parkinson—Pansy was a different story. She was watching me with the sort of intensity I usually reserved for my wardrobe choices, trying to determine exactly how dangerous I was to her position as top-tier queen bee of the Slytherin social hierarchy. Honestly, it was like watching a cat eyeing a particularly stylish mouse. The mouse would have been me, of course.

“Nice curls,” she commented, and I nearly choked on my own response. I didn’t think she was being complimentary, but there was something about the way she said it that made it sound more like a veiled threat than a haircare tip.

“I’ll try to keep them out of your way,” I said, shooting her a smirk that could melt a charm.

She narrowed her eyes, clearly unsure whether she wanted to hex me or become my best friend. Or maybe both. “I saw you with the Gryffindors earlier. Having fun, were you?”

I shrugged. “Do what I like, when I like. You might want to try it sometime,” I replied breezily, not even bothering to hide the mischief in my eyes. It wasn’t like I was trying to cause trouble. But if I could make Pansy squirm a little—well, it was a bonus.

There was a long, quiet pause before Daphne Greengrass finally spoke up, her voice as smooth as a polished emerald. “You know, Pansy... I think she might be more of a challenge than you’re used to.”

I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, but it sure felt like one. I flashed Daphne a grin, and Pansy, predictably, scowled. Good. I had no interest in playing nice if that’s what they expected.

“Challenge accepted,” I said with a wink, and with that, the conversation seemed to settle into some bizarre game of social chess—only no one had bothered to explain the rules yet.

The rest of the feast passed in a blur of food that seemed too fancy to touch, whispers about the new arrivals, and a steady stream of students glancing at me like I was some exotic species that had just been dropped into the middle of their well-ordered ecosystem. I wasn’t sure how long it would take for the novelty to wear off, but I did know one thing: I wasn’t about to let anyone decide what I should be doing. I didn’t take orders, not from Draco, not from Pansy, and sure as hell not from anyone else who thought they could teach me a lesson.

Besides, I didn’t come to Hogwarts to blend in. I came to stir things up. And if they didn’t like it, well—there was always the option of making things even more interesting.

***

I should’ve seen it coming.

The moment we waltzed into their train compartment, twirling a liquorice wand like a general inspecting her troops, I should’ve known she was trouble. The kind of trouble that slips dungbombs into prefect pockets, turns corridor patrols into obstacle courses, and charms portraits into staging midnight singalongs.

We were still basking in the glory of our last masterpiece — Lee levitated into a stack of cauldron cakes, Percy howling like a banshee about “school property!” — when it happened.

"Rosier, Alexandra!"

The name cracked across the Great Hall like a misfired spell.

For a heartbeat, the entire universe slammed the brakes.
Not the ‘ah, how lovely, let’s ponder life’ kind of pause.
No — the ‘someone just fed a troll a trumpet’ kind of pause.

Fred, mid-swig of pumpkin juice, dropped his goblet. It hit the table with a splash that looked a lot like Ravenclaw’s star Prefect now wore a very suspicious wet patch.

Lee actually choked on his treacle tart.

And me?
I think my brain fell out of my ear.

Rosier.

BLOODY HELL.

That wasn’t just any name. That was Rosier — pureblood elite, dark magic pedigree, the kind of name you heard whispered behind curtains when adults thought you were asleep.

I leaned in so fast my forehead cracked against Fred’s.
We both winced, hissing under our breaths.

"Tell me that’s not our future general of chaos," I croaked.

"Maybe it’s a different Rosier?" Fred whispered, but he sounded like he was trying to convince a Blast-Ended Skrewt not to explode.

Together, we stared, dumbstruck, as she strutted forward — grinning like a cat who’d just stolen all the cream and framed the dog for it.
The Sorting Hat barely brushed her curls before it screamed:

"SLYTHERIN!"

You could practically hear the mood shift.
Murmurs slithered across the hall like loose bowtruckles.
Every head seemed to swivel, whispering behind hands.

Fred hissed, "Is it too late to fake amnesia?"

"Way too late," I muttered, heart sinking and soaring all at once. "She knows about the licorice incident. We're doomed."

Still — even as that prickling fear crept up my spine — I couldn’t look away.
Alexandra wasn’t shrinking or scowling like a lot of new Slytherins did under the spotlight.
No, she grinned, tilted her chin up higher, and practically dared anyone to look down on her.

Luna Lovegood drifted by, humming to herself, utterly unbothered.
“She doesn’t feel terribly evil," she said dreamily. "More like… someone who’d hex your shoes together if you annoyed her."

Honestly?
Fair enough.

Fred nudged me hard enough to nearly knock me off the bench.
"Mate. Decision time. Either we pretend we don’t know her and live, or we stand by our future dark overlord."

Lee coughed. "You’re joking, right? Abandon Mademoiselle Mayhem? The one who orchestrated the prefect prank?"

I hesitated for maybe half a second.

Then I grinned — the full, teeth-baring, up-to-no-good kind of grin.

"If we're going down," I said, "we're taking the biggest cannonball into chaos we can."

Fred slapped the table. "To the Slytherin table, boys.
Operation: Rescue the Dark Lady Begins!"

Lee grabbed a spare treacle tart for strength.

And together, we stood — weaving through the shocked Gryffindors — heading straight for the enemy lines.

Straight for Alexandra Rosier.

***

The Great Hall was a fever dream of noise and candlelight, but somehow, the Slytherin table had gone colder than a Dementor's armpit.

I was still reeling when I heard it.
Boots. Fast. Heavy. Wrong direction.
Gryffindors at the Slytherin table.

Fred, George, and Lee stormed over like a trio of particularly unruly comets, scattering the nearest first-years like bowling pins. A couple of Slytherins — Malfoy included — looked like they might actually vomit from the sheer impropriety of it all.

Draco Malfoy, nose in the air, curled his lip. "Lost, are you, blood-traitors?"

Before I could even blink, Fred executed the most ridiculous, swooping bow known to wizardkind, nearly clocking an innocent third-year in the face with his elbow.

"Madam Rosier," he announced, in a voice dripping with fake reverence, "we have just uncovered a horrifying truth — you, in fact, are a terrifying Dark Lady in training. Please, kindly advise if we should begin drafting our tragic, unjustly-imprisoned backstory speeches now."

"Because," George added, flipping a fork between his fingers like he was auditioning for a circus, "I'd prefer mine to involve a wild broomstick chase, mistaken identity, and at least three broken hearts."
He paused thoughtfully.
"Preferably not mine, but I'll take one for the team."

Lee Jordan, lagging slightly behind, flopped down onto the bench beside me like a man personally wronged by gravity. "Oi, save me a spot in the wanted posters, yeah? 'Known associate of Alexandra Rosier: Dead or wearing deeply embarrassing Azkaban robes.'"

I opened my mouth — maybe to protest, maybe to throw pumpkin juice in their faces — but Draco beat me to it, voice like poison.
"Rosier," he sneered, loud enough for half the table to hear, "I'd be careful who you let sit with you. Some blood can't be scrubbed clean."

My stomach twisted.
For a moment — just a sliver — I hesitated.

Were they still my friends? Could they still be?

The twins turned toward Malfoy in perfect sync, faces angelic, eyes glinting with pure, undiluted menace. Fred grinned wide enough to show teeth.
George cracked his knuckles, slow and deliberate.

"She said we're her friends, mate," Fred said, voice light as spun sugar and twice as deadly.
"And you know what they say about Gryffindors," George chimed in, slinging an arm around my stiff shoulders like we were starring in some deranged house unity poster.
"We pick our own bloody family."

I found my voice — rough and rasping, but mine.
"They're my friends," I said, clear enough to echo off the stone walls.
Even if the words trembled at the edges. Even if some dark, traitorous part of me wasn't sure anymore.

Fred caught the wobble in my voice. Of course he did.
So he leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, "Relax, Dark Lady. Worst case scenario, we become your lovable henchmen. We can look menacing. Watch."

He pulled the most exaggerated, terrifying face imaginable — tongue out, eyes crossed, hands clawing at the air like an angry Flobberworm.
George immediately followed suit, pretending to melt dramatically into a puddle on the floor.
Lee began fake-choking on his pumpkin juice, possibly on purpose.

I snorted so hard pumpkin pasties nearly shot out my nose.

Around us, the Slytherins stared like we’d just sprouted wings and started singing Muggle show tunes.

Good.

Let them.

Fred straightened up, ruffling my hair like I was a particularly chaotic Kneazle. "If you're evil," he declared solemnly, "we're evil, too. Matching cloaks and everything."

George winked. "Shotgun designing the logo."

"And if you do betray us in a storm of dark magic and betrayal," Lee said, raising his goblet in mock-toast, "we'll haunt you. Very dramatically. Think wailing chains and ominous whispers at three A.M."

I grinned — sharp, defiant, mine — and lifted my own goblet back.

"Then I guess you're stuck with me," I said.

Across the room, Dumbledore rose to give some end-of-feast speech, but I barely heard it over the buzz in my chest.

These idiots had chosen me.

Rosier or not.
Slytherin or not.
Friend or future dark overlord — they didn't care.

And Hogwarts? Hogwarts was about to learn exactly what kind of chaos they'd unleashed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Sweet but a Slytherin

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in thirty years of life — and one absolutely bonkers train ride back into an eleven-year-old body — it’s this:
Confidence is 90% pretending you know what you’re doing and 10% refusing to die of embarrassment.

Which is exactly what I told myself as I stalked after the long line of green-trimmed robes, heading straight into the dungeons like a particularly mouthy lamb to a particularly judgmental slaughter.

The air grew colder with every step, the kind of cold that seemed to whisper things like "You don't belong here" and "Better brush up on your hexes, sweetheart."
Torches hissed along the stone walls. The ceilings got lower. The shadows got creepier.
Honestly, if a vampire had popped out offering me a nice cup of blood tea, I probably would’ve accepted out of pure social panic.

Finally, we stopped in front of a blank stretch of stone wall.
The seventh-year prefect — all hair gel and sneer — turned around like he was auditioning for Most Dramatic Man Alive.

“Password?” he demanded.

I braced myself. It was going to be something horrifically on-brand like “Supremacy” or “Bloodlines Unite.” I could feel it in my bones.

Instead, the prefect smirked and said,
"Viper’s Jest."

The wall gave a low rumble, then shuddered open, revealing... honestly? A vibe.
The Slytherin common room looked like someone had asked, "What if a vampire also ran a five-star hotel?" and then just... went for it.
Black marble floors. Velvet emerald chairs. High-backed gothic sofas positioned just so beneath windows that looked out into swirling green water.
Everything smelled faintly of old money, seaweed, and moral decay.

I let out a low whistle under my breath.

Damn, Hogwarts. You really said “Underwater Goth Palace” and meant it.

The Slytherin first-year girls' dormitory looked like the sort of place where tragically poetic heiresses waste away from "melancholia" while lounging in silk nightgowns and sighing dramatically into the abyss.

The stone walls gleamed like polished obsidian, reflecting candlelight in a way that suggested at least three ghosts were watching from the corners. Emerald velvet draped the four-poster beds like someone had attended a funeral and thought, “You know what this needs? More glam.” The floor was black marble and colder than my mother’s silences when I used the wrong dessert spoon. Overhead, a silver chandelier swung gently, casting shadows long and twisted enough to suggest the room was hosting a séance for the shattered dreams of disgraced purebloods.

I was home.
Ten out of ten—would absolutely scheme world domination from here.

I claimed the last free bed with a satisfyingly dramatic thud—because if you’re going to make an entrance, you might as well make the furniture feel it. Shoes kicked off, trunk flopped open like a fainting noblewoman, I took a quick mental headcount of the competition.

Pansy Parkinson sat primly on her bed, looking like a raven at a crime scene—equal parts judgmental and possibly complicit. She radiated Victorian firestarter energy, the kind of girl who’d set the drapes alight just to match her aesthetic. Daphne Greengrass, on the other hand, moved like she’d been filmed in slow motion since birth—probably had very firm opinions about the correct temperature of Earl Grey and whether emeralds or sapphires were more aristocratic. Millicent Bulstrode was deep in mortal combat with her bed curtains, yanking them around like she was trying to summon the ghost of some ancient Bulstrode matriarch to weigh in on proper curtain dominance. And Tracey Davis… sweet Merlin, she was clutching her book like it was a portkey to safety, eyes wide in a silent plea not to be recruited into whatever law-skirting nonsense the rest of us were clearly destined for.

In short: I was going to fit in beautifully.

I was still calculating my odds of surviving the year without being poisoned by a roommate when I decided:
Priorities.
Shower first. Existential dread later.

The bathroom was huge, made of black marble and silver fixtures, and smelled like rich people pretending they weren't dead inside.
Perfect acoustics, too.
Which is how I ended up giving the Slytherin dorm an unsanctioned, full-volume, no-prisoners pop concert.

"Oh, she's sweet but a psycho, a little bit psycho, at night she's screamin'—"

The tiles echoed my voice back like a whole demonic choir was backing me up.
I spun under the enchanted water jets, slipped a little, recovered with a bow no one but the bathroom mermaid portrait saw — and kept right on howling like a woman wronged on live television.

Somewhere outside, I heard laughter.
And not just polite tittering, but full-body, banshee-grade shrieking.

I emerged fifteen minutes later wrapped in a towel, dripping water like a dramatic shipwreck survivor, hair sticking up like I had lost a wizarding duel to a hairdryer.

Standing against the door, arms folded, was Pansy Parkinson.
The way she looked at me was less "new roommate" and more "interesting specimen for my villain origin story."

"Is this going to be a regular occurrence, Rosier?" she drawled, voice like butter knives tapping champagne glasses.

“What, my shower concerts?” I said innocently, flicking a droplet of water at her nose.
“Obviously. If you’re lucky, I’ll start taking requests.”

Pansy blinked once.
Then snorted — not the dainty kind you do behind a silk handkerchief, but an actual snort that would have gotten her banished from the Greengrass dining table forever.

“At least you can carry a tune better than Daphne,” she said loftily, shooting a poisonous glance at Daphne.

From across the room, Daphne shrieked, “Slander!” and buried her face in a sequined pillow.

Pansy slinked closer, circling me like a cat debating whether to knock a vase off the counter.

“You’re very…” She twirled her finger in the air like she was stirring a particularly judgmental potion. “Loud. For a Rosier.”

I widened my eyes in mock innocence and tucked my hands behind my back.
“Better than being quietly tragic,” I said sweetly, in a voice thick enough to butter toast.

She paused — eyes narrowing, calculating — and then, like the Grinch discovering the true meaning of Christmas, grinned.

A sharp, predatory little grin.
If we'd been crows, we would have started cawing and stealing wedding rings together on the spot.

She flopped onto the edge of my bed with the heavy-limbed grace of a creature that knew it could bite you and get away with it.

“Fine,” she said airily, like she was knighting me.
“I suppose I’ll tolerate you. On the condition you help me prank Malfoy.”

I raised my eyebrows so hard they nearly achieved orbit.

“Does terrorizing our classmates count toward House Points?” I asked, because it felt important to know the metrics of success.

Pansy gave me a look that screamed what kind of remedial idiot question is that.
“Obviously."

And just like that —
Two villains. One dormitory. Unlimited potential for chaos.

***

Breakfast in the Great Hall was a riot of colors and smells — a swirling hurricane of toast smoke, pumpkin juice vapors, and adolescent body spray.

I plopped myself down at the Slytherin table between two girls arguing about whether bloody Mary's were a brunch drink or a battle strategy, and helped myself to enough bacon to bribe a small army.

Halfway through my third piece, I saw him.

Anonymous Boy from Diagon Alley.
Still anonymous. Still devastatingly golden in that way only Quidditch boys and minor Greek deities managed to be.

He sat at the Hufflepuff table, laughing at something, all sunlight and friendliness and not-looking-at-me.
Obviously.

The second I spotted him, my stomach — which up until now had been happily focused on bacon — did a weird, traitorous swoop, like a cartoon character falling off a cliff.

He was wearing the Hufflepuff Quidditch robe, because of course he was.
Of course he was a golden boy on a broomstick.
Of course he was basically carved out of butter and serotonin.

And, naturally, he was never going to speak to me again.
Why would he? I was a Slytherin. A Rosier.
Daughter of a dead Death Eater.
One bad Daily Prophet article away from being officially declared Bad News.

Biting viciously into a piece of toast (a toast that did nothing to deserve my existential resentment), I sulked my way through breakfast, wondering if I could die of secondhand embarrassment without even getting up from the table.
Maybe if I stayed very still and radiated pathetic abandoned side character energy, the ground would just swallow me.

***

Walking to Defense Against the Dark Arts felt like hiking to my own execution — minus the last meal and the stirring orchestral soundtrack.

My mind wandered dangerously.

Was I dead?
Was this heaven?

It could be, I reasoned.
I mean, if you squinted and ignored the whole "sleeping in a dungeon" thing, Hogwarts was basically paradise.
Magic, floating candles, enchanted staircases trying to kill you — who needed eternal rest when you had this?

Maybe I was in a wizarding-themed coma.
Maybe some nurse was reading Harry Potter out loud at my bedside and my poor scrambled brain had just decided to live here now.

In most fanfictions, the heroine desperately wanted to go back to her "real world."
You know, to resume her thrilling life of homework, taxes, and arguing with customer service agents.
Not me.

Why would I want to go back?
Back to fluorescent lighting and existential dread?
Back to group chats named "Work Memes" and scrolling Instagram at three a.m. and pretending to enjoy kale?

No, thanks.
The universe handed me a wand, a spellbook, and a second chance.
I was keeping them.
They could have my muggle self back when they pried it from my cold, magical hands.

Still, I had to admit —
Something weird was happening.

Every day I spent in this world, I felt a little more... Rosier.
Not in the "plotting blood purity and manslaughter" way, thankfully.
But in the creeping, slippery way my body kept dragging me down to my eleven-year-old self.

My legs were shorter. My emotions were louder.
Suddenly, I had Feelings about boys who didn't know my name.
I wanted to stomp my foot and declare things like "I can handle myself!" at inappropriate moments.

It was horrifying.
It was also kind of exhilarating.

For the first time in what felt like a century, I wasn’t pretending to be an adult.
I was just... me.
Flawed, messy, eleven-going-on-eleven-thousand me.
And honestly?
It felt good.

***

The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom smelled like mildew, stale robes, and the faint, spicy tang of fear.

Professor Quirrell stood at the front, hunched and trembling, like a Victorian ghost who just realized he missed his own funeral.

I slid into a seat near the back, surrounded by Slytherins and a few brave Ravenclaws, and tried not to look like I was plotting anything (even though I absolutely was).

At first, everything seemed normal.

Quirrell stammered his way through an introduction about "d-d-d-d-defensive s-spells" while Tracey Davis silently placed bets under her breath about whether he would faint before lunch.

But then —
I felt it.

A shift in the room.
Like the air got heavier, thicker, like trying to breathe through a wool sweater soaked in cold water.

My skin prickled.
Not just "I forgot to do my homework" prickled.
Danger.

Big.
Ugly.
Carnivorous.
Danger.

I slumped lower in my chair, keeping my face carefully blank, but every survival instinct I had (and several I didn’t know existed) were SCREAMING.

Professor Quirrell shuffled past my desk — and the sensation intensified.
Like something ancient and furious just brushed a ghostly hand down my spine.

For half a second, my vision blurred, and I saw —
(not saw, felt) — something inside him.
Something hungry.

I locked eyes with Pansy across the aisle.
Her mouth was open slightly, like she'd caught a whiff of the same horror I had, but couldn't place it.

Quirrell kept bumbling along like nothing had happened, of course.
The coward.

Meanwhile, I sat there grinning like a deranged gremlin, because that’s what you do when you're eleven, and the universe decides you are now a minor player in the Coming Apocalypse.

Welcome to Hogwarts, Alexandra Rosier.

First period: existential horror.
Second period: mild hexing practice.

As he stumbled to the front of the room, mumbling something about "v-v-vampires in Albania," I scribbled a very important mental note on the corner of my parchment:

Mental Note: Act like I don't know he's an evil backpack.

I gave my best "attentive innocent student" face.
(Which, judging by the sharp glance Pansy shot me, probably looked more like I had swallowed a lemon and was pretending it was a profound moral lesson.)

Quirrell's voice wobbled as he explained the terrifying dangers of pixies.
(Yes. Pixies. The horror.)

Meanwhile, I kept stealing sideways glances at him, trying to act normal.
The kind of normal where you definitely don't know your teacher is possibly harboring a soul fragment of the Dark Lord behind his head.

No big deal.
Just Hogwarts things.

When the bell finally rang, I shot out of the classroom like a Niffler after a gold coin.
Pansy caught up with me, poking my side.

"What's got you so twitchy, Rosier?" she asked.

"Rien du tout," I lied breezily.
"Just feeling... très normal about our very normal, totally un-cursed professor."

She narrowed her eyes. "You're so weird."

"Thank you," I said, tossing my hair and striding off down the corridor like I wasn’t internally screaming.

Because if there was one thing Hogwarts had taught me already, it was this:

Stay weird.
Stay alive.
And, for the love of Merlin, never trust a man in a suspicious turban.

***

If there was one thing that made absolutely no bloody sense about this place — besides, you know, literally everything — it was the House system.

Like.
Imagine being sorted into an aesthetic.
And then having people hate you because your scarf was the wrong color.
Very logical. Très mature.

I slipped into the Transfiguration classroom, the soles of my borrowed school shoes squeaking indignantly against the stone floor.
The room was half-full already: neat little clusters of Ravenclaws, Gryffindors talking too loudly, Slytherins slouching like misunderstood Victorian poets.

And there — near the window — was my person.
Luna Lovegood.

I sagged with relief like a house-elf seeing a sock.

We’d met only yesterday, on the Hogwarts Express.
Me, a newly transplanted French lawyer in the stolen body of a cursed pureblood heiress,
and her, a delightful lunatic with radish earrings and the social fearlessness of a cat knocking over a priceless vase.

We’d pranked the uptight prefects together, charmed each other’s pumpkin pasties to sing rude songs about authority figures, and somehow ended up recruited by the Weasley twins into their cause of "wholesome, educational chaos."
It had been perfect.
It had been easy.

And then at the Sorting Ceremony, when the name Rosier fell like a guillotine blade from the Sorting Hat’s brim,
I had seen her expression.

Curious.
Dreamy.
Not a hint of judgment.

Not like the others.
Not like everyone else.

Small mercies, mon dieu.

I shuffled over, trying to pretend my green-trimmed robes weren’t flashing "Inquire Within for Family Curse Information!" like a neon sign.

Luna looked up from her parchment — she had drawn a diagram of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack using two quills and a half-eaten biscuit — and beamed.

"Allo, Alexandra," she said airily. "I saved you a seat. It's a little sticky, but it builds character."

I laughed — short and shocked — and sat down anyway.
Sticky friendship was better than none.

Across the aisle, two Slytherins — I recognized one from breakfast; he looked like he’d been born scowling — whispered to each other, their eyes darting to me and then away.
I caught a snippet: something about "traitor" and "bloodlines" and "stupid French accent."

Enchanté , you little moldy croissants.

Meanwhile, McGonagall had glided into the room like a particularly majestic crow of doom.
She raised a severe eyebrow at the sight of me — all frosty curls, sharp grey eyes, and doll-like cursed menace — sitting quite cheerfully next to one curious Ravenclaw.

Her lips pressed into a line thin enough to slice bread.
But — to her credit — she said nothing.
Probably too busy recalculating her retirement options.

As I unpacked my wand (12¾ inches, suspiciously spiteful), Luna leaned closer and said, "I don't mind about your family, you know. It's very silly to think you'd be anything like them."

Just like that.
No drama.
No pity.
No "oh but surely you're different."

And something inside me — some brittle, cracked place that had spent the whole morning bracing for exile — just… softened.

"Merci," I said quietly. "Tu es une vraie amie, Luna."

She beamed, utterly unbothered by the fact that her matchstick had just tried to burrow into her notebook.

Meanwhile, the weird House competition was already crackling in the air.
Invisible lines drawn in blood and sarcasm.

Slytherins huddled with Slytherins.
Ravenclaws perched near Ravenclaws.
Gryffindors yelled across tables like they were hosting a howler convention.

It was childish.
It was petty.
It was… kind of hilarious.

Truly, mes amis, Hogwarts was less an academic institution and more a permanent Quidditch match where the players wore resentment instead of uniforms.

McGonagall ordered us into pairs.
Most students instantly magnetized toward their Housemates like depressed fridge magnets.

I stayed put, next to Luna.

"Let's make a needle," Luna said brightly, as if transfiguring objects was a hobby she occasionally enjoyed between encounters with sentient furniture.

I twirled my wand — it slipped clumsily between my fingers like a slippery fish — and focused.

Result?
The matchstick did transfigure… halfway.

Now I had a sort of matchstick-needle hybrid, bristling dangerously and wriggling on the desk like it wanted to duel me.

"Très impressionnant," I muttered dryly. "It has ambitions."

Luna nodded serenely.
"I think it wants to be a sword when it grows up."

***

By the time lunch rolled around, I was starving enough to consider eating my wand. Fortunately, the Great Hall had other plans: golden platters of roast chicken, steaming potatoes, and a treacle tart so glossy it could’ve moonlighted as a mirror in a fairy tale.

I had just stabbed a suspiciously jiggly green pudding when a voice called out from further down the Gryffindor table:

"Oi, Dark Princess!"

I looked up, already smirking.

Lee Jordan was waving me over, dreadlocks bouncing, eyes alight with whatever glorious scheme he’d cooked up during History of Magic (where I was pretty sure he’d been doodling a Quidditch pitch instead of taking notes).

I shuffled over with my plate, ignoring the way half the Gryffindors were now side-eyeing me like I’d marched in wearing a basilisk.

"Dark Princess?" I said, sliding onto the bench beside him. "Is that my villain name?"

"Absolutely. You sound like someone who keeps a diary made of human skin."

"Merci, I’m flattered." I batted my lashes. "I prefer leather-bound, but I’ll consider flesh-bound for dramatic flair."

He laughed, full-bodied and delighted. "You’re weird, Rosier. I like that."

Coming from a bloke who once commentated an entire match in limericks, I took that as high praise.

"So," he said, leaning in conspiratorially over his mashed potatoes. "Your idea from the train? Co-commenting matches?"

I raised an eyebrow. "The one where I yell witty insults from the tower while you provide actual facts?"

"Exactly that one." He grinned. "I think it’s bloody brilliant. Quidditch could use a bit of Slytherin sass — spice things up, you know?"

I tilted my head, considering. "I do bring spice. Like paprika. Or arsenic."

He whooped at that, drawing a few startled glances from nearby Hufflepuffs.

"And," he added, a bit softer now, "it’d be good to have a girl up there. We never do. You’d bring a whole different perspective. Plus, selfishly, I get to hang out with you more. You’re fun. And dangerous. Like... an unsupervised cauldron."

My cursed little doll face cracked into a grin I couldn’t suppress.
Gods, it felt good to be seen as something other than “Rosier, probable Death Eater in training.”

"Flatter me more," I said. "It’s good for my complexion."

Lee stabbed a chip dramatically. "Right, but you’d need to ask Snape. He’s your Head of House. If he doesn’t melt into the floor out of horror first, you’re golden."

"Ah yes," I said, sipping pumpkin juice like it was wine. "The greasiest bat in the dungeons. I’ll schedule a séance."

Lee snorted. "Once he agrees — and he will, because I’ll pester him until he does — you’ll need to know exactly who’s who on the pitch."

He gave me a mock stern look. "No calling the Keeper ‘that tall one with the hair’."

"Fine," I said. "But I refuse to be impartial. I will absolutely compliment the players I like and blatantly ignore the ones I don’t."

He just grinned wider. "Honestly, that’s half the fun. Objectivity is overrated. Plus, it means I get to argue with you on air."

I tapped my chin thoughtfully. "Debates. Slytherin vs Gryffindor. Sarcasm vs righteous shouting. Do we get robes and dueling pistols?"

"I’ll bring the confetti," he said solemnly.

At that moment, Fred and George Weasley plunked down across from us, identical grins lighting up their faces like mischievous twin lanterns.

"Did we hear something about our favorite tiny terror becoming a Quidditch commentator?" Fred asked, reaching for a roll.

"Because that," George added, "would be hilarious."

"Truly," Fred said, nodding. "A Slytherin with a mic and no filter? Finally, justice."

George leaned forward. "But you’ve got to know who’s who. Tryouts are coming up. Come watch."

"And memorize the teams," Fred said. "Preferably without nicknaming everyone ‘Blondie’ and ‘Scowly.’"

I placed a hand over my heart. "I would never. I shall be precise. I shall be professional. I shall—"

"Call Flint 'Jaws' and Angelina 'the goddess of velocity'?" Lee guessed.

I beamed. "Exactly."

Fred whistled. "She’s gonna cause riots."

George clinked his goblet against mine. "To our Dark Princess of Quidditch."

"To chaos," I said cheerfully, and drank like it was poison I’d personally brewed.

***

There are few journeys in life as perilous as the one from the Great Hall to the dungeons after lunch — especially when you’re trailing behind a swarm of Slytherins who walk like they’ve just been personally offended by the floor.

I was beside Pansy Parkinson, who was monologuing at top speed about her new emerald ink ("It shimmers under moonlight, Alexandra, moonlight, do you even comprehend the poetic power?!"), while I nodded absently and tried not to trip on my own robes.

In my hand, folded twelve times and slightly greasy from being stored next to roast potatoes, was Lee Jordan’s Sacred Scroll of Quidditch Hotties. He’d handed it over after lunch like it was an ancient grimoire, complete with dramatic flourishes and an actual title: “So You Want to Commentate, But Everyone’s Hair Looks the Same.”

I skimmed the list, half-muttering under my breath:

“Flint — Slytherin — brutal jawline, hit a Bludger at a professor once.”
“Spinnet — Gryffindor — basically a comet with limbs.”
“Diggory — Hufflepuff — absurdly golden, may cause spontaneous swooning in corridors.”

I stopped walking.

My stomach did a very illegal thing. A swoop. A flutter. A something that reminded me I was now cursed with a teenaged metabolism, a tragic concept I was still grieving.

Diggory.

Cedric Diggory.

The cute boy from Diagon Alley.

The boy who had definitely — definitely — blushed when I looked at him. Who had turned the colour of a sun-ripened tomato in August. Who had the sort of bone structure that made your soul reconsider celibacy.

Of course he was the Hufflepuff Seeker. Gosh. It was obvious. He’d told me, when we were both loitering outside Quality Quidditch Supplies like broom-obsessed pigeons. We had talked. We had talked. In front of Broomstix, for Merlin’s sake.

Laura, my Potterhead best friend from my Muggle life, would’ve known immediately. She’d have screamed, “That’s Cedric Diggory!” on sight, probably cried a little, and then demanded his autograph, a lock of hair, and a photo together.

I gripped the parchment like it had insulted my ancestors.

“He’s a child,” I whispered.

“What?” Pansy blinked.

“Nothing,” I coughed. “Just allergic to... Hufflepuff pollen.”

Inside my mind, the lawyer in me had launched into a full courtroom meltdown.

OBJECTION, YOUR HONOUR — HE IS A FOETUS. A FETUS. AN INFANT WRAPPED IN QUIDDITCH KIT.

How had I, a woman who once negotiated hostile takeovers in stilettos, been reduced to hormonal gasping over a boy who probably still had a curfew?

I needed an intervention. Or a hex. Or a large medieval bucket of ice.

“Abort mission,” I hissed to myself. “Abort. He is a toddler with cheekbones. Abort like your life depends on it.”

We descended into the dungeons, the air growing colder, thick with the scent of mildew and something vaguely reminiscent of burnt asparagus.

Professor Snape’s classroom loomed like a medieval oubliette, lit only by candles and despair. I dropped into my usual seat like a dramatic Victorian heroine, limbs arranged just-so, parchment unfurled, quill at the ready.

The classroom looked like it had been decorated by a depressed bat with a fondness for pickled horror. Shelves of floating entrails, jars of things that twitched if you looked at them wrong, and the gentle aroma of damp stone and subtle resentment. Welcome to Potions with Professor Severus "Dry Shampoo Is for the Weak" Snape.

I took my seat next to Pansy — who immediately confiscated the edge of my parchment to doodle a hexed caricature of Draco with a frog face — and tried not to visibly shiver. Not from fear. From aesthetic disappointment.

Snape swept in like a thundercloud with a personal grudge. He stood in front of the class, black robes billowing like he was being fanned by invisible Death Eaters. He gave us a slow, loathing look that really said: “I have regretted this career path since the womb.”

Then his gaze landed on the Gryffindors, and he spoke in a voice so dry it could sand wood.

“Ah. Potter. Our newest celebrity.”

It was like watching a slow-motion train crash made of sarcasm. I winced. Poor Harry looked like he’d swallowed a Bludger.

Snape began his slow torture of asking Harry impossible questions about bezoars and wormwood. Across the table, Hermione’s hand shot into the air with the urgency of a person dying to be useful. My instincts kicked in.

French survival instinct + thirty-year-old lawyer brain = intervene tactically.

I raised my hand — not in a “teacher’s pet” way. No, no. Elegant, casual. As if I’d just remembered the answer mid-philosophical monologue.

Snape's gaze flicked to me. "Miss Rosier?"

"Bezoars," I said smoothly, adjusting my cuffs like a Parisian heiress at brunch, "are stones taken from the stomach of a goat. They're used as antidotes for most poisons. In Persia, they were once worn as protection, though I wouldn’t recommend it as a fashion statement."

There was a pause. Snape raised one single eyebrow, like I’d just done a backflip while reciting the ingredients of Amortentia in iambic pentameter.

“Correct. Five points to Slytherin.”

Hermione made a noise like she’d swallowed her own ambition.

I gave her a diplomatic shrug. Team effort, chérie.

Then it was time to brew. Our first potion: something allegedly “simple.” Which, in Snape’s vocabulary, translated to: “Make one mistake and I will haunt your great-grandchildren.”

Thank the enchanted heavens for the fact that I’d spent August buried in potion books like a N.E.W.T.-cramming Ravenclaw on firewhisky. I followed the instructions to the letter — except for two tiny flourishes. I stirred clockwise instead of counterclockwise on the fourth cycle (for aeration, obviously), and added a cheeky extra swirl at the end. The result?

My cauldron shimmered like moonlight on absinthe. Pansy was impressed. Hermione looked personally offended. And Snape… well. He stalked past, peeked in, and made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a grunt of approval — or indigestion. Hard to tell with that one. “If sarcasm was an ingredient,” I muttered under my breath, “he’d be brewing Unstoppable Doom right now.”

Pansy snorted and got docked a point.

Worth it.

 I lingered after class like someone about to propose a morally ambiguous business deal. Which, in a way, I was.

“Professor Snape?” I said as I approached his desk, pretending not to notice the cloud of misery still lingering in the air from Neville’s melted cauldron.

He looked up with the wary patience of a man fully expecting to hear about a missing cat or an exploded nose.

“I wanted to ask you something.” (Don’t stare at him. Don’t think about his cheekbones. Don’t notice the dramatic tension in his coat stitching. He is 100% human vinegar. Snap out of it, Alexandra.)

"Yes, Miss Rosier?" he said slowly, clearly curious why I wasn’t vanishing in a trail of smug green smoke like the rest of my House.

“I was approached by Lee Jordan,” I said, careful to sound more diplomatic than excited. “He asked if I’d co-comment the Quidditch matches with him.”

Snape tilted his head. “Jordan. The Gryffindor commentator with the subtlety of a Howler.”

“That’s the one,” I said sweetly. “He thought a Slytherin voice might… balance things out. I assumed I needed your permission.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly — amused, or calculating, or maybe both. “A Slytherin commenting on inter-House sports…”

Then, a pause. A smirk. “It may prove… educational for the others.”

“Exactly what I thought,” I said innocently, already drafting jokes about Hufflepuff drills and Ravenclaw aerial math strategies.

He waved a hand. “Very well. You have my approval. Just ensure your commentary is as sharp as your ambition.”

“Oh, sharper, sir,” I promised with a grin. “And at least half as petty.”

As I left the dungeons, I felt ten centimetres taller and considerably more chaotic. The Slytherins eyed me warily, and I offered them a slow, sinister smile.

The commentary box would be mine.
And so would the dramatic monologues.

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.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Pumpkins, Pranks & Prefects

The week before Halloween had Hogwarts vibrating with a dangerous combination of pumpkin spice and pent-up magical energy. Peeves was on a tear, Filch was muttering darkly about stringing students up by their ankles (again), and someone—possibly me, probably me—had replaced all the House points hourglasses with enchanted lava lamps.

But before I could enjoy my masterpiece of psychedelic sabotage, we had Charms class. And Professor Flitwick, with the cheerful optimism of a man who hadn’t yet realized I was about to test the structural integrity of both gravity and patience, announced:

"Today," Flitwick squeaked cheerfully, "you’ll be working in pairs to levitate and stabilize a tower of five stacked teacups. Grace, control, and finesse—no crashes, no spinning out of control."

He glanced directly at me for that last bit. Rude.

I was paired with Theodore Nott, who had learned not to question me when I said things like, “This spell might meow. Just go with it.”

"How is this academic?" Theo muttered, trying to stack his cups without shattering the entire set. "I feel like I'm in a porcelain-based survival challenge."

"Magic is performance, darling," I said, flicking my wand. "Wingardium Leviosa."

The stack rose, teetered, wobbled—and then, with a subtle charm I may or may not have picked up from the twins over a suspiciously long evening of ‘theoretical wandwork,’ the cups began to spin in a synchronized spiral. Glitter burst from the top like it was a stage show finale.

Also, they meowed. Just once. For dramatic effect.

Fred and George, peeking in from the hallway under the guise of "accidentally being lost near first-year Charms again," both choked trying not to laugh.

"Brava!" Fred mouthed.

"Tell them the glitter is for aerodynamic stability," George added, giving me a thumbs-up.

Theo burst out laughing. "You're literally learning magic through mischief. At this point, it’s academic fraud."

"Academic innovation," I corrected, admiring our floating feline disco tower.

Across the room, Hermione's eye twitched. Her tower of teacups hovered perfectly—stable, symmetrical, boring. Not a single sparkle. Not even a polite purr.

"That's not the assignment," she hissed to Padma. "She’s just… improvising!"

"Improvising successfully," Padma whispered.

Professor Flitwick clapped like an overexcited pixie. "Miss Rosier, that's one of the most creative uses of the Hover Charm I’ve ever seen! Ten points to Slytherin!"

I took a theatrical bow. “Merci, Professor. The teacups are simply expressing their joy.”

Ron leaned toward Harry from the Gryffindor table, eyes wide. "Blimey. I thought she was just weird, but that’s actually wicked."

Pansy, who had been watching me with the expression of someone who can’t decide if they’re annoyed or impressed, finally huffed: “She practices more than the rest of us. She just disguises it as pranking.”

Hermione inhaled sharply like someone had insulted Hogwarts: A History.

"Learning through mischief," she muttered. "That is not how structured spell progression works."

I smiled sweetly at her. “Some of us are just autodidacts in the fine art of chaos.”

Flitwick continued to praise the technique. Theo continued laughing. And somewhere in the hallway, Fred dropped his quill from trying to write "Operation Cup Disco" on his hand.

All in all, a very productive class.

***

A few days later, the Great Hall looked like a pumpkin had exploded across it—and I meant that in the most complimentary, high-fashion runway sense of the phrase. Floating jack-o’-lanterns drifted above us like festive skulls on parade, each with a grin more psychotic than the last. Candles floated mid-air in sassy clusters, dripping wax like they were too emotionally burdened to remain solid. A silver haze of spider silk was artfully draped across the rafters—clearly staged by a ghost with an eye for gothic glam—and the enchanted ceiling showed a moody thundercloud threatening drama but delivering only aesthetic.

And me? I was seated at the Ravenclaw table next to Luna “Commander Cloudbrain” Lovegood, Lee “Quidditch Oracle” Jordan, and the Weasley twins—Fred “General Chaos” and George “Commander Giggles,” both currently stuffing their faces with treacle tart and whispering like overly caffeinated pixies plotting a coup. Our expressions: glazed with sugar and mischief. Our intent: catastrophic.

“So,” I said, swirling my pumpkin juice like it was a glass of aged firewhisky, “we’re going with the floating pumpkin choir and the haunted bathroom mirror. Perfectly tasteful. Deeply unhinged.”

Luna nodded sagely. “The mirror’s ready. It told me this morning that I would ‘develop gills and kiss a centaur by next Tuesday.’ Which is sweet, isn’t it?”

“Romantic,” Fred muttered. “And deeply concerning.”

George wiped tart off his mouth. “The pumpkin lyrics are final, then?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “They will float in dramatically at dessert and begin a haunting rendition of Gossip Most Ghastly. The chorus starts with ‘Snape’s shampoo is actually mooncalf mucus’ and builds into a crescendo with ‘Filch was once a veela and still weeps at sunset.’”

Lee wheezed into his pumpkin juice. “This is the legacy I want to leave behind.”

Then, more softly, George leaned over and nudged me with his elbow. “Hey… things better now?”

“Hm?”

“The bullying,” Lee said, unusually serious. “You never said what house they were from. But you looked wrecked that day. Did it stop?”

I stared at my reflection in the pumpkin juice for a second—tiny, amber-tinted, with a fleck of cinnamon clinging to my nose like a clown nose of misfortune. Then I shrugged. “Gryffindor girls. Older. I didn’t catch names and I’m not in the mood to start pointing fingers in the dark. What’s the point?”

George’s jaw ticked. Lee frowned in that very specific way people do when they’re thinking about setting someone’s quill case on fire out of loyalty. I could feel the simmer of protectiveness like heat beneath the banter.

“It’s stopped,” I added. “For now. Anyway, have you met me? I’m not that easy to break.”

“Good,” George muttered, slinging an arm across my shoulders with casual menace. “Because I am easy to provoke.”

Lee raised his mug. “To vengeance, should it ever be required.”

“To vengeance,” I echoed, mock-toasting with a pumpkin tart.

Across the hall, someone yelled that Harry Potter was Gryffindor’s new Seeker.

I blinked. “Huh.”

“Cool,” said Luna, dreamily examining a floating spiderweb.

Fred raised a brow. “Not interested in Harry Potter?”

“I’m curious,” I said, noncommittally. “But not invested. I’m reserving my excitement for when he starts levitating house-elves by accident or reveals he’s actually a Crup in disguise.”

George offered me a dramatically solemn nod. “Reasonable.”

We clinked pumpkin juice mugs in solidarity. Somewhere, a jack-o’-lantern winked.

Tomorrow, Hogwarts would tremble beneath our prankcraft. And tonight, I would go to bed with glitter in my hair, pumpkin seeds in my shoes, and a sense of purpose in my soul.

The Great Hall glowed like a haunted opera house. The pumpkins were ready to sing. The mirror was whispering doom.
And I?

I was just getting started.

***

The Slytherin common room, with its green-glass gloom and crypt-chic lighting, was buzzing with post-feast smugness. Boys were bragging about Quidditch trials, girls were sharing pumpkin pastilles and gossip, and I… I was humming Måneskin.

Not just humming. Beggin’.

And not just casually. I was doing the sort of theatrical, under-my-breath rendition that meant: “Please note, mischief is afoot and I’m the one footin’ it.” Pansy had clocked this early on—she now referred to it as my “Shower Siren Phase.”

“You really shouldn’t sing songs like that in here,” she said sweetly beside me, watching Malfoy lounge on a velvet settee like a molting ferret who just discovered mirrors. “If the other purebloods catch the lyrics, they’ll think you’ve joined a rock band. Or worse—Muggle Studies.”

“I’ll consider your warning,” I whispered back, grinning like the cat that already ate the Kneazle and was working on dessert. “But also, if I don’t do this, I might explode.”

We struck. Silent wands. Whispered incantations. A perfect duet.

By the time Malfoy stood up to smirk his way across the room, the back of his robes had been charmed to periodically flash phrases like:

• “My mummy buys my broomsticks!”
• “I kissed my mirror goodnight.”
• “This robe was tailored by Dobby.”

Every time he passed a reflective surface, the charm triggered. Flash. Flash. Flash. Like a fashion disaster had entered a disco.

I sipped my pumpkin cider and hummed louder.
“I’m beggin’, beggin’ youuu…”

Pansy bit her lip so hard she might’ve drawn blood. Her voice wobbled with delight. “He deserves it. For hexing that Gryffindor boy last week just because his wand was chipped.”

“Neville,” I muttered. “He stuttered trying to cast Lumos and Malfoy called him ‘barely a squib with a surname.’” I shrugged. “Not exactly a heroic vendetta, but I’ll take the poetic justice points.”

At that moment, Theodore Nott—who always looked like he’d just come back from mentally judging the universe—glanced up from his book. His eyes tracked Malfoy’s flashing backside, blinked once, then flicked to me.

He said nothing at first. Just arched one brow like a question mark with ennui.

Then, deadpan:
“Subtle.”
Beat.
“But effective.”

I tipped my imaginary hat. “All art is communication.”

He smirked, which was basically Theodore’s version of standing ovation. I couldn’t be sure, but I think I impressed him. Or at least mildly amused him, which was basically a Slytherin love letter.

Meanwhile, Malfoy walked past a suit of armor and caught sight of his glittering shame. He spun around, shrieking like someone had suggested he share a dormitory with a Hufflepuff.

Pansy and I were already halfway up the girls’ stairs, doubled over with silent laughter.

I hummed the next verse of Beggin’ all the way up to our dormitory.

Justice was sweet. Especially when it came in green silk robes flashing public humiliation.

We tumbled into the dorm like tipsy pixies, still high on glee and petty revenge. The Slytherin girls' room was bathed in its usual green glow, like we were all meant to be raised under water or mildly radioactive.

Pansy collapsed dramatically onto her bed, arms splayed like a tragic heroine mid-opera. “Tell me again,” she gasped, breathless from laughter, “how you managed to put ‘I kissed my mirror goodnight’ on his back without actually dying from internal combustion?”

“It was an act of divine will,” I said, flopping onto my own bed and kicking off my shoes. “Or pure spite. Hard to tell the difference these days.”

She turned her head, staring at me with a sly grin. “Nott saw it, you know.”

My eyebrow went up. “He saw Malfoy.”

“No. He saw you seeing Malfoy. Which, in Slytherin speak, is basically the same as flirting with knives.”

I laughed. “Please. Nott looks at everyone like he’s trying to calculate whether they’re worth the calories of conversation.”

Pansy rolled onto her side, propping her head up with one hand, full of that wicked glint only she could pull off while still wearing a silk bow in her hair. “Still. He smirked. At you. That’s practically a proposal. You’ve cracked him.”

“I haven’t cracked anything,” I said, pretending not to be slightly pleased. “If anything, he cracked a grin. That’s different.”

She sniffed, satisfied. “Well. You could do worse. You could be dating Draco.”

We both shuddered, then burst out laughing again.

The laughter faded to a warm hum. Outside the windows, the Black Lake rippled under the moonlight like an enormous, brooding puddle of secrets.

Pansy sighed, brushing hair from her face. “So. Halloween.”

I looked at her.

She wiggled her brows. “Your new ginger chaos twin boyfriends. What’s brewing?”

“I don’t know, officially,” I said, pulling a face that suggested innocence. “But Luna has requisitioned thirty-six pumpkins, Lee keeps muttering in rhyming couplets, and Fred keeps asking if I’ve ever seen a banshee lip-sync.”

“Brilliant,” she whispered, starry-eyed. “This year is going to be incredible.”

“Oh, we’re all going to detention by November.”

“Worth it.”

We fell into a comfortable silence. Somewhere above, a cauldron bubbled or maybe someone’s cat was snoring. In a place like Hogwarts, it was hard to tell the difference.

“I like this,” she murmured, eyes on the canopy. “Plotting things with you.”

I smiled at the ceiling. “You bring the dramatic eyeliner. I bring the unhinged schemes. We’re unstoppable.”

And somewhere in the castle, I knew a pumpkin was being carved with ominous artistic ambition.

Halloween was going to be deliciously deranged.

***

George’s POV

There are few greater pleasures in life than the moment just before a prank goes off—the delicious tension, the collective hush before the storm, like the castle itself is holding its breath and whispering, “Please don’t blow up the ceiling this time.”

We were all crammed behind a statue of Gregory the Smarmy, which honestly felt like poetic justice. Luna was perched cross-legged on Lee’s shoulders, humming something suspiciously fae. Fred was unspooling enchanted pumpkin string like he was wrapping a cursed Christmas present. And Alexandra—our little pocket-sized hurricane—was whispering final lyrics into one of the jack-o’-lanterns like she was casting a forbidden spell.

“Remind me again what the floating pumpkins sing about?” I asked, because I lived for the nonsense.

Alexandra grinned like a sphinx with a sugar high. “Gossip, of course. Scandal. Conspiracies. One of them claims Snape washes his hair in mooncalf mucus.”

Lee cackled. “I added one about Filch once having a torrid romance with a banshee. Bit of a soprano.”

Luna blinked dreamily down at us. “I taught one to say, ‘You will marry a Hungarian Horntail and name your child Trevor.’”

“Brilliant,” I whispered, wiping a fake tear of pride from my eye. “My chaos children are growing up.”

“Children?” Alexandra elbowed me. “I’m the reason we had to reattach the Fat Lady’s frame last week.”

“She’s not wrong,” Fred added. “The girl’s unhinged. I love it.”

We clinked fizzy pumpkin juice bottles like battle-ready centaurs and slipped into the Great Hall just before the feast.

And oh—it was beautiful. The hall was draped in floating jack-o’-lanterns already, but ours—ours came alive.

With a synchronized POP, three dozen extra pumpkins shot up from under the tables, spinning in midair with glowing green eyes and toothy grins. Then they began singing.

"Snape’s cloak is just hair grease sewn together!"
"McGonagall does karaoke in Paris!"
"Dumbledore eats lemon drops made of secrets!"

The hall went feral. Plates dropped. Pudding flew. Someone (we think Zacharias Smith) screamed and ducked under the table.

Harry and Ron were howling. Hermione looked both scandalized and like she wanted to ask how we did it for academic reasons. Even Percy choked on his pumpkin tart, which frankly deserved an award.

Fred and I, of course, did our best shocked faces.

“Who would DO such a thing?!” Fred gasped, clutching his chest like a fainting governess.

“This is an OUTRAGE,” I cried, clapping Lee on the back so hard he nearly face-planted into the custard.

Professor Flitwick dropped his wand laughing. Snape was glaring so hard, one of the pumpkins cracked in midair. Glorious.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, Alexandra leaned toward me and whispered, “You owe me three pumpkins and a new bottle of disappearing ink.”

I saluted her. “For you, Mademoiselle Mayhem—anything.”

Gods, it was good to have a prankster crew again. A proper little gang of chaos-sowing goblins with a flair for dramatic irony and property damage. Hogwarts would never recover.

And honestly? That was the plan.

***

Fred’s POV

If there was one place in Hogwarts you didn’t want to be when a floating pumpkin sang about Professor Snape using mooncalf mucus in his hair—it was the exact place the prank had been launched.

Which, of course, is where we were.

The four of us—me, George, Lee, and Alexandra “Might-Be-A-Goddess-Of-Havoc” Rosier—were crouched behind the old stone balustrade above the Great Hall. Below, chaos was blooming like fireworks made of rumor and pumpkin guts. Students were wheezing with laughter. Teachers were swatting floating jack-o’-lanterns like angry pigeons.

And the best bit? Our little orange choir was still going strong.

“Snape dated a banshee once,
Sprout grows puffpods that can dance—
McGonagall’s tartan is a sentient romance—”

Lee was wheezing. George was doubled over. I couldn’t feel my ribs anymore.

“Who even wrote that line about Flitwick’s tragic poetry phase?” I asked.

Alexandra raised a hand with perfect serenity. “Guilty. It rhymed with ‘toad fancier,’ and I stand by it.”

She was grinning. That wild, wicked, unrepentant grin that said she knew exactly what she’d done and had no intention of pretending otherwise. Merlin help me, it was dangerously charming.

Then came the voice.

“Explain yourselves.”

Instant cold bucket of doom.

We turned as one—like guilty garden gnomes caught in the compost heap—and saw Professors McGonagall and Snape standing behind us. Snape’s glare was so sharp it could’ve shaved a hippogriff. McGonagall looked like she was considering hexing us all into plaid socks.

Snape’s eyes immediately landed on Alexandra. “The Rosier wit, wrapped in Gryffindor recklessness,” he sneered. “A dangerous combination.”

And just like that, Alexandra stepped forward like she wasn’t facing the two scariest professors in the castle. She even brushed a leaf off her shoulder like she’d just finished a particularly satisfying tea break.

“Before you assign blame,” she said, voice smooth as charmed silk, “I feel compelled to clarify a few legal ambiguities.”

Oh no. Oh no no no. She was going full lawyer on them.

George and I exchanged delighted looks. Lee leaned against a gargoyle, bracing himself for a show.

McGonagall arched a brow. “Is that so, Miss Rosier?”

“Yes, Professor,” Alexandra said, slipping effortlessly into courtroom cadence. “First, the pumpkins were repurposed, not destroyed—transfigured temporarily, and no lasting harm was done to school property. Second, the content of the lyrics falls under parody, which is protected under wizarding comedic tradition per the precedent of Weird Willy vs. The Goblin Choir, 1742.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “You’re quoting goblin court rulings now?”

“Correct. Third—” Alexandra stepped forward, the balcony light casting her in a cinematic glow, “—none of the lyrics targeted students. Only staff. And from the laughter below, I would argue that morale has increased school-wide. We’ve performed a public service.”

Lee blinked. George mouthed, “Where does she learn this stuff?”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy watching her hands gesture as she continued—light, clever, just the right amount of melodramatic.

“Furthermore, no students were maligned. Only adult figures of authority, whose reputations are, arguably, enhanced by mystique.”

Snape looked like he’d swallowed a lemon and the seed was growing. McGonagall, to my astonishment, was smirking.

“Ten points for style, Miss Rosier,” she said dryly. “And twenty points from Gryffindor for audacity. You four—detention. Filch.”

Snape’s robes flared as he stormed off like a thundercloud with hair.

As we trailed out—heads high despite our doom sentence—I caught George sneaking a look at Alexandra.

That same grin again.

Was he thinking the same thing I was?

Because I didn’t fancy her. Not like that. Probably. Maybe.

But I was thinking about how her brain worked like a charm gone slightly wrong—brilliant, wild, unpredictable. And that smile of hers when she got away with something wicked—it made the air crackle. It made me wonder what it would be like if we kept teaming up. If we stopped being two twins and a Lee... and started being four chaos artists.

I didn’t fancy her. I just... wanted to know what she’d think up next.

And maybe—just maybe—George did too.

Hell of a Halloween, that one.

And it wasn’t even over.

***

Alex’s POV

I can still hear the screeching of the doors as they burst open. It was a sound that could only mean one thing: sheer, unadulterated chaos. Professor Quirrell stumbled into the Great Hall, eyes wide, wild with terror. The man looked like he'd just seen his own reflection in a mirror that didn’t need a cleaning charm, and then some.

He lurched forward, arms flailing, and collapsed like a freshly pruned tree. A resounding thud echoed through the hall as his body hit the floor with a rather ungraceful flop. The students screamed in one unified gasp, a collective alarm bell that rattled the very foundations of Hogwarts.

“THE TROLL!” Quirrell managed to croak out from his prone position, his voice shaking.

The panic started spreading faster than a fire after a Bludger hit it. People were jumping up, scrambling in all directions. The noise was a mishmash of terrified shrieks, stomping feet, and an overall sense of ‘This is it. The world is ending.’

Meanwhile, Percy—good ol' Percy—stood up straight with all the self-important dignity of a pompom-haired chicken who'd just won a prize for most useless advice.

“Right, everyone! Calm down!” Percy barked, voice a bit too high-pitched for his usual 'I’m in charge' tone. “Form an orderly queue! No one leave the hall! We must... must...”

I couldn’t help it. Fred and I exchanged a glance, and I caught George trying—and failing—not to laugh.

"Honestly, Alex," Fred said with a raised eyebrow, glancing over at me. “You did say you’d deal with it differently."

The whole train carriage had snorted when I said that if a troll could stroll in one day, I’ll prank the bloody thing. Even now, with the imminent threat of a troll roaming around, I couldn’t help but feel that a good old prank was the perfect way to take the edge off.

George burst out laughing, nearly choking on his own spit. “Prank the troll? What’s next, chucking a Snitch at it?”

“Better than letting Percy get his hands on it.” I nodded toward the puffed-up prefect, now looking around as if he was expecting some sort of medal for not fainting.

“Speaking of which,” George continued, his voice full of barely-contained mischief, “I think we need to deal with Percy first. No way we’re letting him steal the show.”

“Agreed,” I said, already preparing my best swooning face. I gave Fred a wink. "Watch this."

I sauntered over to Percy, my footsteps measured and deliberate. I let the drama of the situation sink in for maximum effect, slowing my pace as I approached him.

"Save me, oh Prefect of my heart!" I practically cooed, flinging my arms theatrically around him. “I’m positively swooning at the thought of this beast!”

The twins’ snickers were almost louder than the pandemonium. Percy, bless him, looked like he had no idea whether to run or faint. His face went crimson, like a tomato that had been overripe for just a bit too long.

“Rosier—w-what are you—” He stammered, clearly lost in the maze of my flirty nonsense.

“Save me, Percy, for I am but a helpless damsel in need of a knight!” I whispered, leaning in close, giving him a wicked grin.

Fred and George lost it, clutching each other for support. They were doubled over, laughing so hard that George almost dropped Luna’s ridiculous pumpkin hat, and Fred’s face was turning redder than a Weasley family reunion.

“I think we can safely say," Fred said between breaths, "the troll will be the least of our worries now.”

Percy turned a shade of purple I didn’t think was physically possible, and I pulled away dramatically, tossing my hair over my shoulder like the star of some ridiculously over-the-top drama. “I’ll leave you to it then, my brave, brave Prefect.”

He was still standing there, eyes wide, as if I’d just hit him with a Confundus charm.

The twins and I, however, were already starting to lose it again.

“Next time,” George managed to say, still wheezing with laughter, “we leave the troll in the hands of someone who doesn’t faint at the sight of it.”

“Or someone who doesn’t lose their head at the sight of a pretty face,” Fred added, grinning at Percy.

For a moment, I forgot all about the troll. I was too busy laughing with my new partners in crime, Fred and George. And really, if the troll wasn’t going to be our problem, I had a feeling dealing with Percy was going to be much more fun.

As the chaos unfolded around me, I couldn’t help but think: this entire situation was suspiciously convenient. Quirrell was such a terrible actor; it was almost painful to watch. He was probably the worst at pretending anything was real. His face, the way he collapsed—it screamed ‘I’ve been paid to cause panic.’ It made me wonder: had he let the troll in himself? Was he really this incompetent, or was this all part of some grand, twisted plot?

The thing is, I knew the truth. I knew Quirrell was a bad guy. I knew about Voldemort, about the stone, about the whole lot of it. It was part of the whole Harry Potter universe, after all. And while I was extremely tempted to intervene—because, let’s face it, who wouldn’t want to punch a villain in the face and save the day?—I couldn’t. I had to let the story play out. In the end, the good guys win. They always do.

But...

I couldn’t help but wonder how much my presence here, in this world, was changing things. What if the butterfly effect was more real than I realized? What if my jokes, my pranks, my mere existence was messing with things in ways I couldn’t even begin to understand?

I mean, sure, I was having fun. I was making some good friends, pranking some pompous purebloods, and generally enjoying my first Halloween in this magical madhouse. But, as I watched Quirrell from the corner of my eye, still clutching his head and mumbling about trolls in the hallways, I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe my arrival had set something else in motion. Maybe some things were supposed to be left alone.

But then again... where’s the fun in that?

By the time the troll had been subdued—or, more accurately, had been turned into a very large, very comical pile of unconscious beast—things had gone from chaotic to downright farcical. Students were still skittering around the corridors like startled house-elves, their robes flapping like the wings of a frantic owl. It was as if the entire school had collectively lost its mind, and frankly, I was thrilled.

Over on the far side of the hall, some Ravenclaws were trying to do an impromptu victory lap, but mostly ended up tripping over their own feet, their glasses askew, looking more like they were trying to escape a swarm of enchanted dungbeetles. Meanwhile, the Gryffindors were either puffing their chests out like they’d just single-handedly taken down the troll (Harry and Ron included, naturally), or standing in stunned silence, clutching their brooms as though the troll had been a very inconvenient guest to the Quidditch match they hadn’t even started yet.

And then there was me, leaning against the cold stone pillar like a spectator at a particularly entertaining Quidditch match, watching the scene unfold with the same detached amusement you’d get from watching someone else’s very chaotic, very magical trainwreck.

This was the magic of Hogwarts, wasn’t it? Madness and mayhem wrapped in velvet and draped with glittering charms. It was the kind of night where you expected the walls to start singing ballads or the candles to leap from their holders and start gossiping about who snuck into the Forbidden Forest. And here I was, watching it all like some slightly deranged commentator in a game I wasn’t sure I’d ever really understood.

As the scene began to settle, I felt something settle inside me, too. It was like I’d just had a tumble through a field of enchanted daisies, only to end up lying back on the softest bed of clouds. For all the madness, there was something so perfectly... Hogwarts about it. And I couldn’t help but feel right at home in the chaos. There was a strange sort of beauty in it—like a firework going off in the middle of a snowstorm: messy, but undeniably magical.

I folded my arms and leaned back, allowing myself to take in the delightful absurdity of it all. The whole castle, it seemed, had been shaken from its usual, haughty calm into a whirl of excitement. Magic had spilled out everywhere like a potion knocked over in the middle of a particularly clumsy class. It wasn’t neat, it wasn’t predictable, but it was utterly alive.

And as I watched the teachers attempt to corral students who were still trying to act like they'd actually done something heroic, I felt the grin creep onto my face again. Hogwarts might be a place of old curses and secret corridors, but it was also a place where chaos reigned supreme, and if there was one thing I could get behind in life, it was a good, old-fashioned chaos.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Of Brooms, Maps, and Minor Detentions

The stone walls of the dungeon weren’t quite as dreary as the reputation suggested. Mostly because I was too busy smirking at Fred and George, who were fidgeting like they’d just stolen another batch of joke shop supplies. They were actually trying to act all innocent, but their faces were an open book, and the twins were the kind of book you couldn’t stop reading—cover-to-cover ridiculousness.

The fact that we were all here together, in the same dank room under McGonagall’s watchful gaze (who still looked suspiciously pleased with herself) made it seem a lot like a sitcom waiting to happen.

So, naturally, I decided to stir the cauldron. Because if you’re going to be stuck in detention with the Weasley twins, you might as well give them something to chew on.

“I think I deserve a reward for being so... cooperative,” I said, lounging back in my chair. “Maybe a little something for making detention a bit more fun?”

Fred raised an eyebrow, suspicious but intrigued. George mirrored him. “What’re you thinking, Mayhem?”

“Oh, nothing too scandalous,” I said, pretending to twirl my hair like some Hogwarts princess. “Just a tiny favor. A little... request. I know you’ve got that Map.” I let the words hang in the air like a firecracker. “The Marauder Map. Don’t try to deny it. You’ve got it, don’t you?”

The twins froze, their expressions the picture of synchronized panic. “What—what are you talking about?” George stammered, though his voice had just the tiniest tremor.

I grinned. “Oh, come off it. I know a Marauder when I see one. I’m not completely blind, you know.”

Fred and George exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible look. "How do you know about it?" Fred asked slowly, but his curiosity was piqued, and I could see the wheels turning in his head.

“I’ve got... sources,” I said airily. “Let’s just say my father had a lot of interesting friends, and some of them were very fond of maps and sneaking around.”

Their faces tightened, but I couldn’t help teasing them. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to get you caught. Just... thought I might borrow it sometime. You know, for the odd wander around the castle.”

There was a long pause.

“Uh, we don’t know if that’s a great idea, Alex...” George said cautiously.

“Yeah,” Fred added, “we definitely don’t get caught enough already.”

I winked. “You should be careful. The Map can’t be too much fun if it’s always leading you into trouble.”

The twins exchanged a look—half exasperated, half intrigued. “Yeah, well, maybe we’ll think about it. But no promises,” Fred said. “Besides, the whole point of the Map is that it’s fun.”

“I get it, I get it,” I said, leaning back and raising my hands in mock surrender. “But only because I’m the best at finding ways to make even detention fun.”

***

Fred's POV

Later that evening, after detention and Alex’s masterclass in backchatting-with-style, George and I were sprawled on the Gryffindor common room couch like tragic Victorian ghosts. The Marauder’s Map lay between us on the carpet, the candlelight making its ink shimmer as names skated around the parchment like they were late to something scandalous.

And there it was again: Alexandra Rosier.

Still weird to see it in ink. Still weirder to feel like we almost liked her more than some people we’d known since first year. (Sorry, Lee.)

“She’s too funny to be real,” George muttered, watching her name hover near the Slytherin common room. “I’m starting to think we hallucinated her.”

“She’s like if a hurricane had a to-do list,” I muttered, tapping the Map. “How does she know about this? You think she nicked it while we were sleeping?”

“I don’t think she even sleeps,” George said. “I think she just charges her chaos battery on moonlight and espresso.”

I snorted. “Still—she shouldn’t know about the Map. That’s like... Marauder Legacy 101.”

George shrugged. “She’s a Rosier.”

“Exactly. Which should mean bad news—but instead she’s... sort of... hilarious?”

“She called McLaggen a ‘walking broom handle dipped in entitlement.’”

“She stole Malfoy’s shampoo and replaced it with blue dye. He looked like a sad Puffskein for days.”

“But she’s also got that... weird edge. Like she’s bluffing her way through everything.”

George nodded. “Fake it till you make it.”

“Yeah. But fake what?”

We both paused as her name stopped moving near the dungeons, again. Probably brooding dramatically. Or performing a soliloquy to a wall. You never knew with her.

“You remember last week?” George asked quietly. “Those older Gryffindor girls cornered her after Potions.”

I winced. “Yeah. Called her a ‘Death Eater’s legacy.’ Said her father probably taught her hexes as lullabies.”

“She didn’t hex them. Just smiled that weird smile and walked off. Like it didn’t bother her.”

“It did.”

“Oh, yeah.”

That was the thing. You could see it, if you looked close. Underneath the cheeky smirks and over-the-top dramatics, Alexandra Rosier was... faking it. Every second. Like she was performing a version of herself she hadn’t quite finished writing yet.

“She avoids Potter and Ron,” George noted suddenly, as if reading my thoughts.

“She ducks out of the room every time they walk in. And it’s not fear. It’s... guilt? Shame?”

“Mate, her dad was Evan Rosier.”

“And he’s dead,” I added. “But still. Death Eater baggage.”

“And Slytherin house isn’t exactly making it easy for her. They keep expecting her to act like her name.”

“But she keeps acting like—”

“Like us.”

That was the weirdest bit. In three months, she’d become more of a friend than some of the people we’d dormed with for almost three years. She got our jokes. Matched our pranks. She had excellent comedic timing and an even better aim with dungbombs.

But still... the Map.

“How does she know about it?” I asked again, quieter this time. “She said something about her father’s friends—”

“She could be bluffing.”

“She probably is.”

“But she’s bluffing really well.”

There was a pause. George looked at me. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Oh yes.”

We leaned in together.

“Test mission.”

George grinned. “See if she’s really got the guts. Or if it’s just glitter and dramatics.”

“And if she pulls it off—”

“She earns access to the Map.”

“And a custom prank.”

“Maybe a nickname.”

“Oh, she already has a dozen. Lady Chaos. Slytherin Spice. The Rosier Riddle.”

“She signed a detention form as ‘Commander of Mischief.’ McGonagall didn’t even blink.”

We both laughed, but it faded into thoughtfulness.

“I like her,” George said at last.

“Same. Even when she’s being cryptic and a bit terrifying.”

“She’s not evil.”

“No. But she might be trying not to be.”

We watched her name shift again, now heading toward the Owlery. Midnight owl deliveries. Probably dramatic letters to the moon. Or a pigeon.

“She’s one of us,” I murmured.

George nodded. “Yeah. But let’s make her prove it.”

***

Alex's POV

The wind slapped me in the face like a jilted Hippogriff—cold, dramatic, and with the emotional subtlety of a Shakespearean banshee. My cloak flapped behind me like I was auditioning for a gothic opera titled “Melancholy in the Nosebleeds.” I perched on the edge of the stands like a judgmental crow with a flair for dramatics, surveying the chaos below with the air of someone who knew exactly how many limbs would be broken by lunchtime.

Down on the pitch, the players were mounting their brooms with the grim determination of medieval knights galloping into battle—if said knights had forgotten their armor, duct-taped on their shin pads at the last minute, and were fueled by breakfast cereal and spite. The air was buzzing—not with magic, but with the collective shriek of seventeen hormonal teenagers who all thought they were the main character.

It was the first match of the season: Slytherin versus Gryffindor. The Hogwarts equivalent of throwing two angry cats into a cauldron and shaking it. The tension in the stands was thicker than Madam Pomfrey’s emergency bruise balm, and twice as flammable. You could practically carve it into slices and serve it with a side of pumpkin pasties.

Quidditch, I had come to realize, wasn’t just a sport—it was Hogwarts’ legally dubious version of aerial gladiator combat, with a dash of unresolved House trauma and just enough safety regulations to make Madam Hooch sleep at night (barely). It was less "friendly competition" and more "therapy session with broomsticks and mild concussions." Blood, sweat, tears, and at least one molar were statistically guaranteed to hit the pitch before the Snitch even showed up.

And who, you ask, had the great honor of narrating this high-speed, midair soap opera?

Why, of course—me.

Because when chaos needs commentary, clearly the universe looks around and goes, "Ah yes, that sarcastic gremlin in the oversized cloak will do nicely."

Lee Jordan, Hogwarts’ resident Gryffindor hype-man and walking Red Bull, handed me the magical megaphone like a war-weary general passing his sacred blade to a far sassier, significantly more fabulous lieutenant. His eyes sparkled with the manic energy of someone who’d consumed three Pumpkin Pasties, a liter of Butterbeer, and the concept of responsibility—then immediately rejected the last one.

“Ready to rock the pitch, Rosier?” he grinned, bouncing like a Niffler in a jewelry store.

“I was born ready,” I said, flipping my hair with the force of a dramatic revelation in a Regency drama. “Someone has to bring taste, sarcasm, and emotional trauma in vocal form to this chaos. Frankly, I’m performing an act of public service. You’re welcome, Hogwarts.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lee bellowed into the megaphone like the town crier of doom, “joining me for what is absolutely going to be the most gloriously unhinged Quidditch commentary in living memory—Slytherin’s very own Alexandra ‘Don’t Call Her Cute Unless You Want to Die Sparkly’ Rosier!”

Polite applause echoed through the stands, accompanied by a few wolf whistles, a dramatic gasp from someone in Ravenclaw, and one rogue Hufflepuff howling, “GO GET ‘EM, GLITTER GREMLIN!”

“Thank you, darling,” I cooed sweetly, waving like a dethroned royal sent into exile for crimes against fashion—and possibly poisoning someone's shampoo.

Then, into the mic, with all the gravitas of a prophet foretelling doom at a glitter convention:
“Welcome, welcome to today’s sky-high spectacle of near-death and House pride. Gryffindor versus Slytherin: the match of the century—if, of course, you count centuries in how many students plummet dramatically while screaming. Buckle up, children. Or, if you’re a Ravenclaw, buckle your existential dread. It’s going to be a bumpy, slightly sparkly ride.”

Lee cackled beside me like a man possessed by equal parts caffeine and chaos. “Alright, alright, we’re live—Madam Hooch has the whistle, and the players are ready!”

Below us, brooms kicked off like cats startled by an ill-timed Alohomora—a blur of limbs, egos, and highly questionable aerodynamics. The match began with all the grace and subtlety of an explosion at Zonko’s, if Zonko’s had been stocked exclusively with over-caffeinated teenagers and unresolved House rivalries.

“AND THEY’RE OFF!” Lee roared.

“Like Firewhisky at a Gryffindor party,” I purred into the mic. “Look at Angelina Johnson—she’s slicing through the air like a phoenix who just found out her ex is dating a Veela. That’s not flying, that’s revenge in motion. And hot on her tail is Alicia Spinnet, trying her best to appear composed and not like she’s having a spiritual crisis because she might’ve left her wand in the girls’ loo. Spoiler alert: she did.”

Lee wheezed beside me like he'd swallowed a Dungbomb. “Spinnet passes to Johnson—back to Spinnet—Slytherin Beater Derrick is closing in—”

“And promptly tripping over his own ambition,” I sighed. “Honestly, Derrick, I’ve seen better coordination from a troll attempting ballet. If he swings that bat any harder, he’s going to dislocate a philosophical concept.”

The crowd screamed. A Bludger shot past so fast it gave me a new parting.

“And here comes Bletchley, looking like he’s just remembered he left a cauldron burning in his dorm,” I added sweetly. “Ah, the smell of panic and overcooked arrogance—it’s game day, baby.”

A Bludger screamed past, close enough to part my hair like a vengeful hairstylist with a grudge and no license. If I were three inches taller, it would’ve been a parting and a lobotomy. Fred Weasley intercepted it mid-air with the kind of casual flair that bordered on insulting.

“And there’s Fred Weasley, flying like a caffeinated banshee with a hero complex,” I drawled into the mic, twirling the cord like I was hosting the Met Gala of mayhem. “Honestly, if showmanship had a patron saint, it’d be Fred in those windswept curls. Look at him—he’s practically flirting with the Bludger. That’s not Quidditch, that’s foreplay with sports equipment.”

Fred swung his bat like it owed him money, and the Bludger went hurtling toward Adrian Pucey with all the grace of a Howler on a Monday morning.

“BOOM!” Lee howled, nearly levitating out of his seat. “That’s gonna bruise!”

“Poor Pucey,” I sighed with mock solemnity. “No dignity, no points, and now—judging by that impact—absolutely no collarbone. Fred, sweetheart, if the Ministry ever needs a one-man riot squad, they should just throw you at the problem and let physics handle the rest.”

“GEORGE WEASLEY ON THE REBOUND!” Lee cried, eyes wide with glee.

“Yes, behold—George Weasley, the twin with marginally better hair today,” I announced like I was commentating a royal joust. “Look at that majestic arc. That poetic bat swing. That dangerously charming smirk. He’s not hitting the Bludger—he’s composing sonnets with it. That one’s flying straight like a love letter... except with more potential for skull fractures.”

George, mid-dive, had the sheer audacity to wink at us.

“He heard that!” Lee elbowed me, practically vibrating with delight.

“Of course he did,” I sniffed. “He’s a Weasley. They run on chaos, compliments, and carbohydrates. I say something once and it echoes in their DNA.”

Meanwhile, Harry Potter—eternal golden boy of Gryffindor, Chosen One, accidental chaos magnet—was currently flailing through the sky like his broom had just received bad news and a nervous breakdown all at once.

“Oh look,” I cooed into the megaphone, “our beloved Boy Who Lived is now the Boy Who’s Breakdancing Midair. It’s either possession, poltergeist, or his broomstick has taken up modern interpretive dance as a form of protest.”

Lee squinted at the sky like he was trying to decode ancient runes. “Do you think he’s okay?”

“I think he’s redefining Newton’s laws and probably inventing a few new ones—none of which are flattering. Honestly, he’s moving like a ferret riding a thundercloud in tap shoes.”

Lee let out a snort. “Still, he’s hanging on.”

“Barely,” I said, leaning dramatically on the railing. “It’s less Quidditch and more interpretive sky-flailing. But I’ll give it to him—he’s got the grip strength of a clingy ex and the survival instincts of a particularly determined barnacle.”

“Ten points for style?” Lee offered, half-laughing, half-concerned.

“Minus five for sanity,” I replied primly. “But yes, he is, against all odds and broom-based betrayal, still alive. So... hooray, team Gryffindor? May the wind eventually be less passive-aggressive.”

Fred swooped past again, bat raised like a vengeful Cupid, if Cupid had a bat and a vendetta. The Bludger he launched struck a Slytherin Chaser mid-pass with the elegance of a Shakespearean tragedy and the force of an angry Hippogriff in a china shop.

“Oh, splendid shot!” I trilled. “Fred Weasley: the Michelangelo of mayhem, sculpting bruises midair with all the flair of a rockstar in a broomstick ballet. That wasn’t just a hit—it was a romantic overture in the language of blunt-force trauma.”

From below, George cupped his hands and yelled up, “That’s going in the scrapbook!”

“Do you have a scrapbook?” Fred shouted back through a wheeze of laughter.

“I will after this!” George crowed.

I leaned into the megaphone, smirking like a queen announcing an execution. “You boys are dangerously photogenic when causing orthopedic distress. Please, don’t let me interrupt your artsy rampage.”

The match escalated with the kind of chaotic fervor normally reserved for family reunions with too much Butterbeer. Slytherin surged forward with all the finesse of a troll in tap shoes, brute force clearly their love language. Gryffindor, to everyone’s surprise—including possibly their own—was holding formation like a mildly competent army of caffeinated ducks.

Which was either shocking or a minor Hogwarts miracle, depending on how you felt about Oliver Wood’s locker room speeches. Personally, I suspected he gave them while shirtless and crying into a Quaffle.

And then—like an overcaffeinated opera reaching its final, shrieking note—the chaos crescendoed.

“LOOK OUT!” Lee hollered, clutching the edge of the commentary booth like it was the last Chocolate Frog in existence.

“Harry’s broom is—oh sweet Circe, he’s doing the ‘Whirling Wombat’ again,” I moaned, shielding my eyes with all the dramatic flair of a cursed widow. “Hang on, Potter! The Snitch is not worth spinal reconstruction!”

And then. He did it.

Potter caught the Snitch.

With. His. Mouth.

“Did he just—?” Lee choked, eyes bulging like a toad at a talent show.

“He did,” I said, stunned.

“Caught the Snitch—” Lee wheezed.

“WITH HIS TEETH,” I shrieked into the megaphone. “Someone give that boy a toothbrush, a trophy, and maybe a tetanus shot. Gryffindor WINS, and Hogwarts’ dental plan just spontaneously combusted!”

The stands erupted like a volcano made of overexcited twelve-year-olds and questionable house pride. Red and gold banners flapped like phoenixes in a disco. The Gryffindor section basically self-immolated from sheer euphoria. Somewhere, Oliver Wood was probably sobbing tears of joy into his Quidditch gloves and planning to legally adopt Harry.

Lee turned to me, looking like he'd just seen magic and survived.

“Final score: Gryffindor 170, Slytherin 60!”

“And one emotionally scarred Snitch,” I added. “Poor thing’ll need therapy after that oral encounter.”

“I would riot,” I declared, placing a hand over my heart like a tragic heroine in a third-rate play, “but I’m too impressed. And mildly traumatized.”

Fred and George were practically glowing as they strutted off the pitch—radiating victorious chaos like gods of mayhem with broomsticks. They glanced up at the commentator’s box, all smug satisfaction and tousled hair.

Fred gave a casual wave.

George blew a kiss with the confidence of someone who’s definitely framed a detention slip.

“Oh no,” I muttered, horror and admiration warring inside me. “They’re going to be unbearable. They already thought they were icons—and now they’ve got statistical backup.”

Lee was wheezing beside me. “You’re obsessed.”

“I’m observant,” I corrected primly. “There’s a difference. One involves binoculars and plausible deniability.”

Below, the crowd was flooding out like someone had shaken a Pixie nest over a Quidditch pitch. Students babbled, tripped, cheered, and tried to start conga lines. I handed Lee the megaphone like it was a mic dropped post-performance, then flicked imaginary glitter off my cloak with a flourish.

“Well, I was brilliant,” I said breezily, stretching like a diva after a sold-out show.

Lee gave a low whistle. “Devastating. I think Pucey’s developing a complex.”

“He’s welcome to try,” I replied. “But fair warning—I’m small, fast, and I bite. Also, I know where he keeps his hair gel.”

Lee glanced behind me, lips twitching. “Heads up. The Weasley menace approaches.”

Fred and George were cutting through the dispersing crowd like redheaded hurricanes, all windswept hair, flushed cheeks, and that insufferable “We just carried Gryffindor to eternal glory, where’s our statue?” energy.

Behind them, Pansy Parkinson twirled her green scarf like it contained secrets and dramatic tension. Daphne Greengrass followed with the air of someone who would rather be hexing her own shoes than hearing the word Quidditch again.

I paused.

“Rain check,” I told Lee, already backing away. “Tell Fred he owes me three Chocolate Frogs and a compliment for that ‘romantic trauma’ line.”

“You sure?” Lee asked, already half-laughing.

I nodded, sweeping down the stands like a queen exiting a war-torn battlefield—if the battlefield smelled like sweat, victory, and mild concussion.

Halfway down, I glanced back.

Fred and George were still looking up, their grins wide, their eyes full of future schemes and stolen quotes. I could practically feel them planning some outrageous tribute—or revenge.

Quidditch was completely ridiculous.

It was also kind of perfect.

“Nice one, Potter,” I murmured. “But if anyone asks, MVP goes to the Weasleys. And maybe me. Obviously.”

And with that, I vanished into the castle like a smug little legend cloaked in sarcasm and leftover confetti.

“There she is!” Pansy trilled as I approached. “Our little commentator with the Gryffindor tongue and Slytherin fangs.”

Daphne smirked, lips barely parting. “You’re becoming a bit of a hybrid, Alex. A Grifflerin. Or a Slyffindor. Merlin help us all.”

“I prefer ‘unholy alliance,’” I said, flipping my hair dramatically over my shoulder. “Or possibly ‘catastrophic prophecy in motion.’”

Pansy cackled, looping her arm through mine as we walked across the lawn. “You do know the Gryffindors are all looking at you like they don’t know whether to hex you or kiss you?”

“I inspire confusion,” I replied solemnly. “It’s a gift.”

But just as we reached the edge of the crowd, I glanced back—just once—and caught Harry Potter staring at me from across the pitch.

Not glaring. Not even confused. Just… watching.

Like he was trying to figure something out.

And I knew exactly what was going through his head: Who even is she? Why does she speak like that? Why does she make me laugh even when she’s mocking me?

He had tried to talk to me a few times. Polite hellos, awkward attempts at small talk near the library, even once in Potions when Ron had nudged him and said something that ended in, “Go on, ask her!”

But I’d shut it down every time. Not unkindly. Just… firmly.

Because the truth was, I didn’t want to get involved.

Not with him. Not with them.

The Boy Who Lived, the Bookish Heroine, and the Food-Obsessed Sidekick—I’d read that story. I’d loved that story. But I wasn’t supposed to be in it.

I didn’t know how I’d ended up here—dropped into a plotline thick with prophecy and trauma and destiny—but I knew better than to poke the timeline. I wasn’t about to become a butterfly wingbeat that turned Ron into a Death Eater and Hermione into Minister for Magic by third year.

No, thanks.

I could already tell I was attracting too much attention just by existing—a Slytherin girl making friends with Fred and George, running her mouth like a Gryffindor with caffeine poisoning, and casually roasting half the school from the commentary box.

Damage control, I reminded myself.

Keep your head down, help a few people from the shadows if you must, but stay off the front lines.

I had almost made it to the Slytherin common room without being accosted. Almost. I’d even taken the long route, dodging through tapestry shortcuts and pretending to admire medieval wand-carving in an empty corridor. But you can’t hide from destiny. Or from Weasleys.

“Oi, Rosier!”

Fred’s voice rang out like a summoning spell made entirely of trouble and dramatic timing.

I turned slowly. They were standing at the end of the hallway like a pair of smug bookends, wind-tousled, cheeks flushed with the glow of athletic superiority and mild megalomania.

“I knew we’d find her,” George said, eyes twinkling. “The Queen of Commentary herself.”

“Your voice is still echoing in my skull,” Fred added. “It’s like being lovingly insulted by a sarcastic pixie.”

I crossed my arms. “If you came here to gloat, please form an orderly queue behind half of Gryffindor and at least three enchanted confetti cannons.”

Fred grinned. “We came to thank you, actually. For immortalising our greatness with poetry. That Bludger line? We’ve had three people quote it to us already.”

George stepped closer, pulling a crumpled bit of parchment from his pocket. “We’re transcribing the highlights. For posterity. And maybe T-shirts.”

“Oh no,” I said flatly. “You’re making merch.”

“Absolutely,” Fred replied. “We’re calling it the Rosier Collection. Sample item: ‘Artist of Aerial Pain’ hoodie.”

“I’m flattered. And terrified.” I backed up a step. “Should I expect royalties, or just a lifetime supply of Chocolate Frogs and chaos?”

George smirked. “Both. And maybe a badge. ‘Official Weasley Biographer.’”

I snorted. “No offense, but if I start chronicling your lives, I’ll need hazard pay and an Unforgivable Curse exemption.”

Fred leaned casually against the wall. “Come on, admit it—you enjoyed it.”

I tilted my chin. “I was inspired. Watching you lot nearly kill yourselves in the name of glory has a certain poetic charm.”

“Oh, she likes us,” George said with a grin so wide it might have its own postcode.

“I tolerate you with style,” I corrected. “Big difference.”

Fred mock-gasped. “Is this how you flirt? Because it’s working.”

I raised a brow. “Is this how you flirt? Because it’s tragic.”

There was a beat of silence. Then we all laughed.

“Alright, Rosier,” George said, eyes gleaming. “Here’s the deal—we’re declaring you the honorary third twin.”

“Do I get a plaque?”

“No, you get pranks immunity and a backstage pass to our inevitable comedic empire.”

Fred held out a hand. “Deal?”

I looked at it. Then at both of them. Then, sighing with the melodrama of someone clearly doomed, I shook it.

“Fine. But if you quote me again, spell my name right.”

“Always,” they said in unison.

As they walked off, already arguing about whether “Whirling Wombat” or “romantic trauma” was the better print slogan, I allowed myself the tiniest smile.

Chaos recognized chaos.

And apparently, it wore red and gold.

That night, after the game, the adrenaline had worn off and the castle was nursing its collective hangover of victory, shame, and quidditch chaos. The dormitory was so quiet you could hear a gossip die. Only the soft silver flicker of enchanted sconces lit the room, as though Hogwarts had politely dimmed the lights in case the drama wanted to sneak back in later wearing a nightgown and an alibi.

Pansy was already asleep, snoring softly like a tiny, judgmental pug. She occasionally mumbled venomous things about Gryffindor in her sleep—her subconscious, it turned out, was just as houseist as her waking self.

Daphne lay on her bed like a Victorian ghost bride awaiting her tragic backstory. Limbs elegantly arranged, complexion perfect, only the steady rise and fall of her chest confirming she hadn’t died of aesthetic ennui.

And me? I was horizontal, dramatically, as one does when one is confronting an existential crisis wrapped in Egyptian cotton. My eyes were glued to the ceiling like I was waiting for the cosmos to break character and confess this was all a very elaborate immersive theatre piece.

The canopy above me glittered with enchanted stars, twinkling away like a smug astronomy app. It was both charming and vaguely intrusive. I had spent a week in September eyeing them with suspicion—what if they were dream-tracking? What if I snored something incriminating?

I sighed and flopped onto my back, arms crossed behind my head like an underachieving philosopher in a teenage girl's body.

It was alarmingly easy to forget, sometimes. That this wasn’t my world. Or—technically—it wasn’t supposed to be.

Back in the Before, I had a job. A flat. A lease signed in blood (or close enough—London rent prices). A phone permanently tethered to my hand. A Spotify playlist for every mood, including “Summoning the Will to Email” and “Dramatic Walk Through the Office Like I'm on ‘Suits.’” I was a lawyer. A grown-up. A tax-paying, coffee-dependent adult with a mild skincare obsession and a very strong opinion about fountain pens.

And yet here I was. Curled under emerald-green sheets in the girls' dormitory of Slytherin House, with pale icy-blond curls that would’ve made Lucius Malfoy pause and wonder if Narcissa had something to confess.

Honestly, I still did a double take in the mirror every morning. I’d never been a blonde—especially not this kind of blonde. This was Bond villain hair. This was “my ancestors owned a suspicious number of castles” hair. I used to be brunette—sensible, practical, the kind of hair that made HR trust you. Now I looked like I’d wandered out of an ancient tapestry to hex someone for using the wrong fork.

I let out a breathy laugh, just loud enough to startle myself.

If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be living at Hogwarts, dodging Peeves, exchanging insults with Pansy Parkinson like it was foreplay, and plotting chaos with the Weasley twins like some kind of ginger anarchist sandwich—I’d have asked if you’d been licking toads recreationally.

And yet...

I didn’t miss it.

The old world.

Not really. Not the office with its soul-sucking fluorescent lights, or the courtroom drama that was never as glamorous as the shows promised. I didn’t miss the endless parade of unread emails or the existential dread triggered by Excel spreadsheets.

Well—maybe I missed one thing. Laura.

My best friend. My partner in brunch-based crimes. The only person who understood why I needed three separate notebooks to plan one mildly productive weekend. But everything else?

Gone. Like a bad haircut and a worse boyfriend.

And the guilt? Still there, lurking like a disapproving Victorian aunt, but quieter each day.

Because here, even with the looming shadow of prophecy, the omnipresent danger of magical misadventure, and the very real possibility that I’d slip on canon and land on a plot twist—I was breathing. Actually breathing. For the first time in what felt like years.

I wasn’t supposed to be happy in a magical boarding school run by emotionally stunted adults and possibly cursed architecture. But I was. Giddy, rebellious, and praying to every available cosmic power that the universe wouldn’t suddenly audit its files and realize it had made a bureaucratic mistake.

Let me stay.

Please let me stay.

I closed my eyes. Briefly. Because of course, he had to show up.

Harry Bloody Potter.

Back in my world, I’d loved him. Devoured the books. Screamed at the movies. Cried into my popcorn when Sirius died. Argued passionately that he should have ended up with literally anyone else. (Sorry, Ginny. You were done dirty by bad pacing.)

And now?

He was a boy. Just a boy. With glasses always sliding down his nose and a lightning scar that hadn’t yet hardened into myth.

He’d been nice to me, once. Before he knew my name. Before he realized I wore green and had the resting smirk of a Slytherin. Ron had tried, too—earnest and baffled and painfully ginger.

But I couldn’t let myself go there. Not into that plotline. Not near that destiny.

That story wasn’t mine.

So I stayed in my self-appointed lane: part sarcastic observer, part chaos goblin, part off-brand Hermione with fewer rules and better shoes. I’d become damage control with lip gloss. The Greek chorus with better hair.

But commentary wasn’t enough anymore.

I sat up, shoving back the duvet with the elegance of a gremlin crawling out of a blanket burrito, and tiptoed to my trunk. The false bottom opened with a whisper and a smug little click—thank you, Undetectable Extension Charm, for letting me hoard secrets like a raccoon in a library.

Inside: notebooks. Five, thick, magically protected, and charmed to repel water, fire, and roommates with boundary issues.

This was the Vault.

Inside: everything. My memories of the canon. The major events, the minor ones. Friendships to keep, betrayals to dodge, Quidditch scores that might accidentally butterfly effect themselves into war. Who lived. Who didn’t. What I’d already meddled with—and what I was trying desperately not to ruin.

And somewhere between timelines and to-do lists, there was me. Alexandra Rivière. French. Thirty. Coffee-powered. Former brunette. Daughter of a woman who once stared down a Parisian judge so hard he transferred to maritime law out of self-preservation.

I had to remember it all. Because if fanfiction had taught me anything, it was that the self-insert always forgets something vital. A date. A prophecy. The correct horcrux order. And then boom—canon collapse and everyone dies wearing bad outfits.

Not me.

I would not be the girl who forgot the plot.

I replaced the Vault, cast a security charm with more sass than necessary, and slid back under my covers like a dragon curling around its hoard of secrets and sarcasm.

Only one thing was missing.

Music.

No Spotify. No ABBA, no Florence, no screaming along to early 2000s heartbreak ballads like I was the protagonist of a rom-com having a wine-fueled epiphany.

But I had a plan.

Operation Mixtape Resurrection was underway. The Room of Requirement would be my private concert hall. I’d find a way to charm a Walkman, build my own wizarding aux cord, and make Hogwarts reckon with the full power of my chaotic playlists.

If I had to be a time-traveling, dimension-hopping interloper in a magical boarding school, the least the cosmos could do was let me bring my tunes.

I smiled into my pillow, curled deeper into the green, and let sleep take me.

Some girls dream of magic.

I got it.

And I was never letting go.

***

Bonus Scene : Vengeance on the Gryffindor Bullies

There are moments in life when you realize you’ve peaked. Your magnum opus. Your Mona Lisa. Your prank so devastatingly divine it deserves to be engraved on a goblet in the Hall of Eternal Sass and whispered about by scandalized portraits for centuries.

This… was that moment.

Fred and I were seated in the Great Hall like butter-wouldn’t-melt cherubs at a Regency garden party. Angelic. Serene. Deeply suspicious. Between us lounged Alexandra Rosier, Slytherin’s very own chaos nymph, wrapped in braids, lip gloss, and the smugness of a cat that had not only caught the canary but also filed a patent for it. She sipped her tea like she was narrating her own villain origin story—eyes glittering with the satisfaction of poetic justice served on fine china.

Across the battlefield of breakfast sat Fiona McMillan and Marianne Bell—fourth-year Gryffindors and human versions of “Bless your heart.” Fiona, a walking shampoo commercial with terminal Main Character Syndrome. Marianne, older cousin to Katie Bell and living proof that nepotism can’t buy taste. They were the type who flipped their hair like it paid rent, flung around backhanded compliments like confetti, and a month ago… decided Alexandra Rosier was beneath them.

Cornered her in the bathroom. Pushed. Sneered. Spat names that would’ve made even Peeves clutch his pearls and file a complaint.

And did Alexandra run crying to us?

Oh, honey. No.

She zipped it up like a couture secret, filed it under “irrelevant,” and moved on with her lip gloss unsmudged.

We didn’t find out until Pansy Parkinson—who gossips with the delicate tone of a funeral director reading aloud your sins—dropped it over breakfast like it was nothing more than a note about the weather.

And Alexandra?

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, flicking her eyes away like the subject bored her. “Not worth it.”

Which is how we knew. It absolutely was.

So we got to work.

We brewed. We plotted. We whispered in hallways like gothic nannies with grudges. Two overcaffeinated house-elves and one very opinionated French duchess portrait later, the stage was set.

Fred gave the nod. I tapped my silver egg cup like I was knighting a prank. The spell ignited like a Firewhisky bonfire at a scandalous wedding.

KA-BOOM.

Two Howlers burst into the air above the Gryffindor table like angry red bats with a flair for the theatrical. Scarlet scrolls unfurled mid-flight, mouths opening wide like they were about to sue someone.

Fiona and Marianne froze mid-toast—marmalade hovering, mouths half-open, and eyes filled with the sort of dread usually reserved for exam results and love letters from Snape.

And then the screech began.

“ATTENTION, STUDENTS! THIS IS A COURTESY ANNOUNCEMENT REGARDING PERSONAL HYGIENE—”

I choked on my milk like it had personally betrayed me. Fred slammed the table so hard you'd think he’d just seen Merlin pole-dancing on a broomstick.

“FIONA MCMILLAN AND MARIANNE BELL, YOUR BATHROOM HABITS HAVE BEEN FLAGGED FOR—CONCERN.”

The silence that followed was not awkward. It was delicious. The kind of silence that says, ‘Oh, someone’s reputation is about to be set on fire and we brought marshmallows.’

Alexandra sipped her tea. Delicately. Like she wasn’t the architect of social annihilation in pastel nail polish.

“IT APPEARS NEITHER OF YOU UNDERSTAND HOW TO USE SHAMPOO. PERHAPS THAT EXPLAINS WHY YOUR HAIR NOW RESEMBLES A FLOCK OF ELECTROCUTED TOADS—”

Cue glamour failure.

And Morgana preserve us—the reveal.

Fiona’s hair went off like a fireworks display at a poodle convention. Neon green, frizzed out like a Crup caught in a blender. Marianne’s bun exploded into something that looked like a kelpie on a bad acid trip.

A gasp swept the Great Hall like a fashion critic entering a wizarding Walmart. Hufflepuffs stared. Ravenclaws gasped like Victorian ladies watching someone eat soup incorrectly. Lee Jordan climbed onto a bench like a proud stage mum.

And then—oh, and then—

“AS FOR THAT UNFORTUNATE ODOR… PLEASE CONSULT MAGICAL CREATURES. YOU NOW SMELL LIKE FERRET URINE MIXED WITH DESPERATION.”

A second-year dry-heaved. A Gryffindor fainted face-first into her pumpkin juice. Somewhere in the castle, Nearly Headless Nick whispered, “Iconic.”

Fiona whimpered. Marianne crawled under the table like it was a bomb shelter, which only made her hair inflate with the enthusiasm of a cursed soufflé.

Alex leaned in, voice low and dripping with venomous grace. “You forgot to mention they’re violent, territorial harpies with the emotional range of a teaspoon and the morals of a Kneazle on ketamine.”

I grinned. “We thought we’d let your lyrical finesse speak for itself.”

Fred twirled his spoon like he was conducting an orchestra of chaos. “Besides, this isn’t our story to tell.”

Alex’s gaze stayed locked on the scene across the hall, her expression the epitome of composed wrath. Then she said it—calm, clear, no fanfare needed.

“Fiona McMillan. Marianne Bell. Absolute cowards in designer robes.”

She named them.

Fred and I sat in stunned silence. That was it. That was the moment. That was the sparkly, vengeful finale we’d been praying for.

“I’m putting this in our memoir,” I whispered.

Fred nodded solemnly. “Chapter Twelve: The Gremlin Ascends.”

Alex smirked, tilting her head like a bored duchess. “You two are idiots.”

“And yet,” I said, raising my toast like it was a trophy, “here we are—your loyal court jesters.”

Right on cue, Fiona shrieked—high and piercing—as her breakfast sausage sprouted legs, blinked, and sprinted off her plate in a burst of glitter and fart clouds.

(Yes, we hexed the sausages. No, we do not regret it.)

Alexandra Rosier smiled—her real smile. The dangerous one. Crooked. Bright. Unapologetically wicked.

This wasn’t just revenge.

This was doctrine.

Mess with a Rosier, and you don’t just lose face.

You smell like ferret pee for a week.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9 : The Weasley Trials & the Château Chronicles

Fred’s POV

It was just after curfew, and George and I were perched on a ledge near the third-floor statue of Gregory the Smarmy, whispering like two over-caffeinated goblins conspiring to rob Gringotts blind. Which, for the record, we weren’t doing. Yet.

“She’s late,” George grumbled, eyes flicking down the corridor like he expected her to materialize in a puff of glitter and poor life choices.

“She’s dramatic,” I said, stretching my legs like a lounging cat who’d just won a duel. “She’ll show up exactly seventeen seconds after we give up hope and start a deeply philosophical conversation about cheese. Brie always summons her.”

Sure enough, exactly seventeen seconds later—

Click. Shuffle. Dramatic flick of wandlight.

Enter: Alexandra Rosier, cloaked in green velvet so luxurious it looked like it had unionized and demanded royal treatment. She strolled in like a disgraced duchess about to commit arson for sport. Her hair was braided with such tragic elegance you'd think a haunted Renaissance painter had done it by candlelight. Slung over one shoulder: a black satchel. In her eyes: the unmistakable glint of someone who either brought snacks or had just committed a misdemeanor. Possibly both.

“Sorry,” she said, breathless and somehow smug. “Had to pretend I was crying in the common room so Montague wouldn’t follow me.”

“…Were you actually crying?”

“A bit,” she shrugged. “But mostly for the drama. He smells like stale mothballs and the kind of dreams you bury before third year.”

George let out a cough-laugh hybrid that sounded like a dying kettle. I nudged him with a grin.

“Right then, Lady Rosier,” I said. “You’ve been running your mouth all term—Marauder Map, secret informants, mysterious bloodlines, classic Slytherin theatrics.”

“And cheekbones sharp enough to slice through Ministry red tape,” she added, deadpan.

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Which brings us to tonight’s mission,” George said, putting on his most serious voice, which wasn’t very serious at all. “We’re calling it—Operation Biscuit Rebellion.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed like she was assessing whether to seduce us, betray us, or both. “Sounds deliciously illegal. I’m in.”

I swept my hand down the corridor like I was unveiling a cursed treasure map. “Target: the Hogwarts kitchens. Mission: infiltrate without alerting a single professor or house-elf. Step one—”

“Hold up,” Alexandra cut in, raising a perfectly suspicious brow. “Without alerting the house-elves?”

“Yes.”

She blinked at us like we’d just suggested dueling a Hungarian Horntail using only interpretive dance. “You do realize the house-elves live there? As in, that’s their natural habitat?”

George nodded solemnly. “Exactly. That’s what makes it… the ultimate challenge.”

She stared. “So let me get this straight. You want me to sneak into a room swarming with hyper-magical pantry gremlins whose entire existence revolves around detecting snack-related disturbances?”

“Correct,” I said, with the gravitas of someone explaining a sacred rite of passage.

She tilted her head. “Is this hazing?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do I still get snacks?”

“If you survive,” George replied.

She narrowed her eyes, calculating like a cat eyeing a very tall bookshelf with a very breakable vase on top. “Fine. What am I stealing?”

“A scone,” I said.

Her expression didn’t move, but I could feel the judgment radiating off her like heat from a cursed kettle. “One. Scone.”

“The biggest one,” I clarified. “The Godzilla of scones.”

She arched a brow so high it nearly filed for a transfer to her hairline. “You want me to break into a flour-dusted war zone, seduce a rogue baked good out from under the noses of seventy-two telepathic apron goblins, and moonwalk my way out undetected?”

George and I nodded in perfect, idiotic unison.

She folded her arms, but her eyes glittered like she was already mentally mapping escape routes. “And what do I get in return for this carb-related suicide mission?”

I leaned in with a grin. “Two things, Miss Rosier: our trust… and a limited access pass to the Marauder’s Map.”

Her eyes gleamed like a Niffler spotting a diamond tiara. “So it does exist.”

“Not unless you deliver that scone.”

She tapped her chin with mock solemnity, like she was weighing the fate of nations—or at least debating whether jam goes before cream. Then she flashed a mischievous little smile that made me deeply, spiritually uneasy. The kind of smile that says “I’ve already committed the crime, I’m just waiting for you to notice.”

“Do I get a time limit?” she asked sweetly.

“Nope,” I said, already regretting everything.

“Do I get help?”

George smirked like a Kneazle who'd just knocked over an heirloom vase. “Only your high-level house-elf diplomacy.”

She gave us a curtsy so theatrical it nearly earned a standing ovation from the Gregory the Smarmy statue. “Then wish me luck, gentlemen. I’m off to seduce the pastry gods and possibly spark a minor kitchen revolution.”

And with that, she turned and vanished into the shadows like a Bond villainess in velvet—if Bond villainesses carried smuggler satchels and smelled faintly of elderflower and ambition.

We waited. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

“I’ll give her this,” George whispered. “She’s either completely mad—”

“Or terrifyingly capable.”

Then, the portrait behind us creaked open like it was reconsidering its life choices.

We both spun around, wands drawn.

There stood Alexandra Rosier.

Smiling like a cat that not only ate the canary but also negotiated a trade deal for twelve more. In her hands: a plate stacked with three scones—golden, plump, and seductively slathered in jam and cream. Her smugness levels were approaching Ministry-regulated danger zones.

“Three?” I choked out.

“I bribed them,” she said breezily, brushing nonexistent crumbs from her sleeve with the elegance of a pureblood heiress escaping a duel. “Taught them a new French pastry charm. Had a heartfelt discussion with a house-elf named Pibble about postcolonial kitchen hierarchies. In the end, they insisted I take extras. Said I had ‘respectful scone energy.’”

George blinked like he’d just witnessed someone tame a dragon using only compliments and custard. “You pulled off a classified biscuit operation using charm, politics, and patisserie magic?”

“And a touch of raspberry glaze,” she said, with the gravitas of a woman who knew exactly how dangerous she was.

I stared at her. Then let out a bark of laughter.

“She’s one of us,” I said.

George nodded slowly. “And we’re completely, utterly doomed.”

George’s POV

It was bloody freezing.

The kind of freezing where your breath turns into regret and your nose gives up on existing. The kind where your hair gets so brittle you half-expect it to snap off if you so much as look at a wand funny. Which, to be fair, is probably why all the sane people were curled up by the fire, sipping cocoa, wrapped in blankets, and doing sensible, non-insane things like not dragging a Slytherin girl into a disused broom closet decorated with fairy lights, contraband sweets, and enough questionable intent to qualify as a legal grey area.

But then again—Fred and I were not now, nor had we ever been, accused of being “normal.”

And Alexandra Rosier? Please. Normal took one look at her and decided to retire early.

She stood dead center in the closet like a skeptical professor evaluating student chaos. Arms crossed. One eyebrow arched high enough to have its own postal code. She wore green tartan pyjama bottoms and a jumper that declared “Hex the Patriarchy” in glimmering silver thread—because of course she did. Somehow, she still looked like she was either about to deliver a revolutionary speech at the French Ministry of Magic or stage a solo heist at Gringotts using nothing but a hairpin and pure spite.

“So,” she said, slow and unimpressed, “this is the secret Weasley twin ritual space?”

“Oi,” Fred said, clutching his chest like she’d insulted his firstborn. “This is the Chamber of Chaos. Only the most elite pranksters get through the door.”

“And also,” I added, “where we store the really cursed stuff. Do not open the box with the blinking toad unless you want to wake up speaking Gobbledegook and thinking you’re a table.”

She looked around, amused. Possibly concerned for our mental health.

Then she grinned. “You absolute disasters.”

“Thank you,” we said, in perfect, gleeful unison.

Fred handed her the goblet.

“Repeat after us,” I said solemnly, lifting a hand over my heart. “I, Alexandra ‘Probably a Menace’ Rosier—”

“I, Alexandra ‘Definitely a Menace’ Rosier—”

“—do solemnly swear—”

“—with maximum drama—”

“—to uphold the sacred traditions of chaos, mayhem, and snack theft—”

“—and to always hex first, ask questions later.”

Fred leaned forward. “And to keep the Marauder Map secrets... secret.”

“And to never,” I added, “ever betray the location of our emergency Skiving Snackbox stash.”

“I swear it,” Alex said, placing a hand dramatically over her heart and raising the goblet like a queen knighting herself with jelly beans. “On my future broomstick and all the poor souls I’ve mildly intimidated.”

We clapped. Loudly. Possibly too loudly for the structural integrity of the broom closet.

A burst of confetti exploded from the shelf above us—only half-intentionally. (It had been charmed for “dramatic affirmations” and apparently decided this qualified.)

“You’re in,” Fred declared, grinning like a proud cult leader handing over the ceremonial glitter bomb.

“And honestly,” I added, a touch quieter, “we’re going to miss your chaos over the holidays. A lot. Like, heartbreak-in-a-cauldron level.”

Alex’s expression flickered—briefly, horrifyingly sincere—but she recovered faster than a Niffler at a jewellery store, masking it all with a sniff and a smirk like a true emotional escape artist.

“Well,” she drawled, “try not to burn down the castle while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” we said in eerie unison, which was more of a threat than a reassurance.

“Where exactly are you going again?” Fred asked.

“France. Château Rosier. With my mother. To visit the grandparents.” She rolled her eyes like they were practicing for an Olympic event. “The whole place smells like antique enchantments and unresolved aristocratic guilt. My grandmother makes me recite the family bloodline like it’s the Hogwarts Sorting Hat rap before I’m allowed pudding.”

Fred winced. “Sounds positively cursed.”

“It is. But I’m hoping my mother gets me a broom this year. A good one. I need to train properly.”

“What, to join the Slytherin team?” I teased.

She gave a wicked grin and a shrug. “Maybe. Eventually. Once I’ve learned how to not fall off every time I try a dive that isn’t approved by Madam Hooch’s Health & Safety Guide to Staying Alive on a Broom.”

I snorted. “Fair enough.”

A little silence fell over us then. Not awkward—just comfortably chaotic. The kind that feels like the eye of a prank hurricane.

“You ever think we’ve got more chaos now than we can handle?” I murmured to Fred.

He nodded. “We passed that point when she threatened Peeves into ghost therapy.”

“And yet...” I watched Alex casually twirl a strand of hair like she wasn’t listening (she was), “she’s already more one of us than Lee.”

Fred groaned. “Don’t say that. He’ll sense it. Through the stone. With his weird sixth sense for rejection.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”

“Exactly,” we echoed in perfect twin sync.

We walked her back to the dungeons—just in case some upper-year Gryffindor decided to make a snide comment and got hexed into next term by a girl in tartan pyjamas and a wand full of vengeance.

And the whole time, one ridiculous truth settled in my chest like confetti that wouldn’t quite vanish:

Fred and I had found a partner in crime.

A Rosier.

A Slytherin.

A glitter-drenched storm of potential with plans sharp as her eyeliner and ambition brewing faster than a cauldron on full boil.

And I already missed her.

The owl arrived at dawn on Christmas morning with talons full of chaos and the attitude of a post office worker on their last nerve. It dive-bombed the Gryffindor common room like a feathery warhead, dropped a ribbon-wrapped parcel onto the coffee table with the drama of a French opera soprano, shrieked like it had just witnessed a wardrobe malfunction at a Ministry gala, and yeeted itself back into the snowy abyss.

Fred and I exchanged a look—equal parts excitement and existential dread.

The package was sealed in deep green wax, stamped with a snarling cat in a beret (naturally), and tied with enchanted ribbons that immediately tried to snog Fred with all the desperation of a mistletoe-cursed first year.

“Rosier,” I muttered reverently, grinning.

“She really gets us,” Fred said, side-stepping a particularly clingy ribbon that hissed “je t’aime” before recoiling like a rejected Valentine.

We cracked it open. Out wafted the scent of lavender ink, toasted sugar, and the faintest whiff of magical arson. Nestled inside were two gift bundles—one marked To Monsieur Chaos, the other, in meticulous script, To George. The twin who knows when I’m faking—alongside a folded letter sealed with wax shaped like a skull wearing a scarf and judging you.

Naturally, we went for the chocolates first. Priorities.

Fred shoved one into his mouth before I could read the label. He blinked. Then his whole soul left his body.

“ZUT ALORS! MA BOUCHE EST EN FEU DE PASSION!” he howled.

He clutched his throat like he’d just swallowed a Cruciatus-flavoured pepper and declared, with increasing horror:

“JE SUIS LA BAGUETTE!”

I collapsed against the armchair, wheezing.

“Les Bonbons de Bouche Incontrôlable,” I read from the golden label between gasps. “Warning: causes uncontrollable French outbursts. Best used in libraries, formal dinners, or History of Magic exams. Side effects may include spontaneous revolution and unearned arrogance.”

Fred, now fully possessed by the ghost of a dramatic Parisian theatre critic, shouted: “JE DETESTE LES CHOUX DE BRUXELLES!”

“Rosier,” I whispered, clutching the box like a sacred relic, “is a menace and a visionary.”

Fred’s parcel also included a sleek black box etched with silver snakes looking like they were about to file a lawsuit. Inside were three quills, each labeled like cursed artifacts from a very niche museum:

• Misspeller: Looked innocent, but confidently turned “cauldron” into coldren and “quidditch” into kweedtich, which honestly made it a strong candidate for Hogwarts Yearbook Editor.
• Dramatic Diary: Wrote automatically when unattended. We tested it. It immediately produced:
  Dear Diary, Fred looked at a soup spoon today. I wept for wizardkind.
• The Novelist: Couldn’t write a short sentence to save its enchanted nib.
  Fred tried: “Went to Hogsmeade.”
  It transformed it into: He ventured forth from the womb of Gryffindor into a blizzard so fierce, even the snowflakes screamed.

Fred held it like it was the crown jewel of some lost comedic monarchy.

Tucked beneath it all was a note, written in jagged silver ink:

“To the one most likely to blow something up with a croissant.
Merry Christmas, Monsieur Chaos.
—Alex”

Fred looked like someone had just knighted him with a baguette.

“I feel seen,” he whispered.

My box held a small tin of tea—stormy blue with silver dragons, moons, and judgment. The label read:

Thé du Traître
A perfect tea for interrogations, sibling betrayals, or dramatic confessions.

I flipped it over. In fine, villainous print:

Disclaimer: Turns your tongue purple for two hours if you lie while drinking. May also cause an inexplicable urge to monologue like a tragic antihero in a doomed love affair.

Fred cackled. “We’re absolutely poisoning Percy with that.”

Nestled in a cushion of black velvet was a snow globe. Inside, a golden Snitch flew through shimmering snow. So far, so standard. Until I tapped the glass.

The Snitch twirled like it was preparing for a solo in a jazz ballet and began to sing. Badly.

“All I want for Chr—istmas is... harrrrrrrgghhh...”
It choked, wheezed, then switched to a dramatic baritone:
“O come, all ye trainwrecks...”

Fred fell off the couch.

Then the Snitch paused mid-air, turned to face me, and in Alex’s voice snapped:
“Stop staring at me. I’m fragile.”

I stared at Fred.

Fred stared at me.

“I think I love her,” he said solemnly.

I unfolded her letter. It smelled of violets and lightly singed parchment. The handwriting slanted like it was in a hurry to deliver the gossip, then flee the country.

Château Rosier,
France (Too Fancy for Your British Maps),
25 December

Dear Weasleys of Pyrotechnic Tendencies,

I hope you’re enjoying the sweets. The chocolates work best in Potions class. Or around Trelawney. Bonus points if you shout “JE SUIS UNE PROPHÉTIE!”

I'm currently being chased around the dining room by my grandmother, who is trying to paint me riding a goose. She insists it’s “deeply symbolic” of the Rosier legacy. My mother, who hasn’t stopped chain-drinking tea since we arrived, mutters that she’s been “five minutes from death” for a decade.

Grand-mère talks a lot, wears five scarves at once, and believes I need to be immortalised before I “grow into my nose.”

Grand-père, who acts like he runs the French Ministry, just hid a Dungbomb in her sewing box. I am slowly understanding where I come from.

Best bit? I got a broom. Finally. Sleek, dangerous, and French. Like me.

Don’t blow up Hogwarts without me. And George—don’t lie while drinking the tea. I will know.

Tell Lee Jordan that my grandmother insists she once knew his great-aunt and thought she was “enchanting and scandalous.” He should be proud.

With love, mayhem, and a suspicious goose,
Alex

Fred and I sat back, surrounded by laughter, enchanted snow globes, cursed quills, and the deep certainty that Hogwarts wouldn’t feel the same without her for a few weeks.

Fred said it first.

“You think we’ll miss her?”

I looked at the snow globe, which chimed in Alexandra’s voice:

“Of course you will. I’m amazing.”

I grinned. “Of course we will.”

***

They say Christmas at Château Rosier is a time-honored celebration of aristocratic elegance, refined tradition, and ancestral dignity.

I say it’s a hostage situation curated by unmedicated performance artists in brocade.

Outside, snow draped the grounds like passive-aggressive fondant over a cursed wedding cake—picturesque, but absolutely hiding poison. The towers loomed above like haughty fingers wagging at the modern world, their ivy-cloaked walls whispering old family secrets and light murder accusations. Somewhere, a peacock screamed. Not in pain—just in existential dread.

Inside, however, was war.

"Hold still, ma chérie! The curls—mon dieu, they have declared independence again!"

My mother, Vespera Rosier—dreaded enchantress of the Eastern Drawing Room and founder of the Family Aesthetics Enforcement Bureau—loomed behind me like a beautifully dressed cryptid. She wore her owl-feather dressing gown like a battle standard and wielded a silver boar-bristle brush with the intensity of someone dueling for her life. In her other hand: a vial of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion, which smelled like lavender, crushed ego, and generational trauma.

"I'm just going to Quidditch practice," I hissed, as one rebellious curl attempted to flee toward the window. "Not the bloody Yule Ball!"

"Language, Alexandra!" she snapped, yanking the curl with enough force to summon ghosts from three portraits over. “You never know who’s watching. What if someone takes a photograph? Or worse—paints you?”

At this precise moment—summoned like a banshee by the scent of doomed vanity—Grandmother Victoire burst into the salon like a fever dream wrapped in tulle.

Her silk turban, a kaleidoscopic monstrosity of indigo and burnt sienna, tilted at an angle that suggested either artistic genius or inner-ear imbalance. In her gnarled, paint-stained hands, she clutched a dripping canvas and a look of divine ecstasy.

"I had a vision!" she cried. "Alexandra—on the roof—with a peacock! Gazing nobly toward her destiny!"

"No one is getting on the roof again," Grandfather Auguste said without looking up, nursing a cup of absinthe-laced tea and pretending to read Le Moniteur Magique upside-down like it was performance art. Which, given this family, it probably was.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You put Screaming Sparkpowder in her paint again, didn’t you?”

His mustache twitched—an involuntary confession if I’ve ever seen one.
“She needed more… drama.”

A moment later, the canvas in Grandmother Victoire’s arms let out a blood-curdling operatic wail loud enough to crack a vase and rattle my spleen. It sounded like a banshee doing vocal warm-ups at the Paris Opera.

I closed my eyes.

It was 8:14 in the morning.

And I hadn’t even had tea yet.

By the time Pansy arrived that afternoon—stepping daintily from the Rosiers’ peacock-drawn carriage like a perfume-scented omen in fur-trimmed boots—I had already hidden in the broom shed twice, threatened to hex a decorative elf bust named Clovis, and been force-fed three scones by the only creature in the manor with both a heart and a functioning moral compass.

Tottle.

The house-elf exploded into the kitchen like a caffeinated thundercloud the moment she saw me.

“Ma p’tite crêpe!” she shrieked, seizing my face like she was testing it for hex residue. Her batlike ears flapped in distress, knocking over a jar of rosehip jam and a wooden spoon that had no business being that smug.

“You left me for that horrible bordel of a school with its gossipy staircases and moving tapestries! And now look at you! All tall and adolescente! Like a cursed baguette who found legs!”

“Hi, Tottle,” I said, grinning despite the chaos. “Still swearing like a drunk poet?”

“Putain de Merlin, of course!” she declared with pride, thrusting a steaming mug of cinnamon-spiced chocolate into my hands like a knight offering a chalice. “Now eat something before your grand-mère decides to immortalize your scrawny trauma in oil paint. Again.”

She peered up at me over her crooked spectacles, tail flicking like a judgmental metronome. Her apron was embroidered with a very unlicensed image of Circe flipping the bird.

“You walk like a girl with secrets now,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes. “Puberty… or mischief?”

I took a sip of my drink. It tasted like rebellion, cinnamon, and a sugar high waiting to happen.

“Yes,” I replied simply, and her ears twitched in approval.

Later that night, I lay dramatically star-fished in my four-poster bed carved with smug unicorns and battle scenes featuring Rosier ancestors who all looked like they’d been styled by a suspiciously flirty warlock from a hair commercial.

The wind howled at the windows like a banshee rejected from a choir audition. Somewhere in the manor, Victoire was locked in verbal combat with a portrait that had dared call her “a bit much.” The portrait is now missing an eyebrow and possibly an entire century of memory.

Tottle appeared at my bedside like a flour-dusted guardian angel of sarcasm, holding a tray of warm beignets and a knitted scarf in Slytherin green.

“I made this for you while you were gone,” she said, her voice wobbling slightly. “It smells like the kitchens and mild rage.”

I wrapped it around my neck like armor woven by love and petty vengeance. “It’s perfect.”

“Do you ever think I’m... different?” I asked, gazing dramatically at the moon like a cursed heiress in a musical no one asked for.

Tottle blinked. “Different how?”

“Like I’ve changed.”

“You came back swearing in English, muttering about Gryffindors, and drawing kissing diagrams in your textbooks,” she said flatly. “Of course you’ve changed.”

I winced. “That was for anatomical accuracy.”

“Mmhmm.” She eyed me like a skeptical fortune teller. “Whatever helps you sleep, mon p’tit dragon. But you’re still my girl. Just with more secrets and better posture.”

She kissed my forehead, soft and warm and powdered with sugar.

“Don’t let them tame the curls too much.”

Later still, I hovered on my Éclair du Vent 300—a broom sleek enough to be illegal in four countries—gliding over the moonlit vineyards that glittered like a disco ball designed by drunk faeries. The plums below smelled fermented enough to start a duel. Owls perched on the trellises, gossiping like enchanted bloggers.

Pansy flew beside me in her fur-lined cloak, swearing under her breath every time the wind blew a curl into her mouth.

“Honestly,” she muttered, spitting out a rogue strand. “You need to train those curls. They’re like... sentient tumbleweeds.”

“I’ve tried,” I said solemnly. “They staged a rebellion. They have a flag now.”

She gave me a side-eye so sharp it could cut through denim. “You’ve been spending far too much time with the Weasley twins.”

“Why? Afraid their freckles are contagious?”

“I’m afraid they’re ruining your brand,” she said, circling a chimney like a judgmental hawk. “Slytherin girls don’t giggle with Gryffindors in secondhand robes who look like personified chaos.”

“Pansy, you’re being a chocolate frog in a pot of boiling judgment.”

“They’re poor, Alex,” she hissed, scandalized. “It’s not just blood status—it’s the socks. One of them wore socks with dancing cauldrons. I wept.”

“They gave you those socks,” I reminded her. “Because you said your toes were cold.”

“Exactly! Poor and intrusive!”

I snorted. “You like them. Admit it.”

She huffed. “They make me laugh against my will. It’s basically emotional blackmail.”

I looped upside-down midair, watching the vineyard spin. “You’re such a snob.”

“I’m a realist,” she sniffed. “Anyway, you can get away with it. You have that strange, artistic, French-Byronic-duchess-who-curses-in-iambic-pentameter vibe going. But for the rest of us, hanging out with blood traitors is social sudoku.”

I shrugged. “I’m not giving up my friends just because they’re red-haired and one potion accident away from becoming sentient glitter.”

“Ugh. Fine,” she sighed. “Just don’t go falling for Potter or Granger, or I’ll hex myself into next week.”

“No promises,” I said, voice dripping with doom and glee.

She made a noise like she’d just bitten into a lemon full of betrayal. “I hate you.”

“You’re in denial, darling,” I sang.

We glided over the top of the old glass conservatory, where Grandfather once attempted to cultivate venomous snapdragons until one bit Victoire’s ankle and she tried to sue the plant. The stars sprawled above us like spilled glitter from the handbag of a very dramatic celestial drag queen. For a brief, uncharacteristically peaceful moment, neither of us spoke.

Then—

“So,” Pansy said, voice smooth as a Slytherin-shaped trap, “what about Diggory?”

I blinked. “Cedric?”

She shrugged, all studied nonchalance. “He’s cute. And you always smile like a bewitched garden gnome when you see him. Do you have a crush on him?”

“Oh, please,” I scoffed, my breath puffing into cartoonish clouds of denial. “Cedric Diggory is like the Hogwarts version of a limited-edition perfume ad—beautiful, brooding, smells vaguely of expensive parchment and unattainable expectations. Yes, I think he’s cute, but in the same way one thinks the moon is cute: majestic, entirely out of reach, and not particularly interested in orbiting your disaster of a planet.”

Pansy raised a brow. “So that’s a yes.”

“It’s a very dramatic no with gothic overtones,” I declared. “Besides, he’s basically in the same year as the twins, which makes him practically ancient. He drinks pumpkin juice like it’s black coffee and probably knows how taxes work. I’m a chaotic eleven-year-old with glitter in her shoes. It would never work.”

Pansy snorted. “That’s honestly all you need from a boy who’s fourteen—just be cute and maintain basic respiratory function.”

I tilted into a gentle dive, my Éclair du Vent 300 cutting through the air like a hot knife through a particularly overacted brie wheel at a French soap opera cheese tasting. “That’s not your standard and you know it.”

She smirked, cheeks flushed from the cold. “Fine. I do have standards. They start with being annoyingly good at Potions and end with platinum blond hair, daddy issues, and the emotional availability of a brick.”

“Draco,” I deadpanned.

She gave me a tiny, villainous smile. “It’s not a crush. It’s an emotional strategic campaign. I prank him to maintain dominance. It’s called flirtation with dignity.”

I barked a laugh that nearly threw off my broom’s balance. “You threw beetle wings in his shampoo.”

“And he looked like a puffskein that lost a bet. It was performance art.”

“You’re absolutely mental.”

“So are you. You’re best friends with the Weasley twins. Your reputation’s already wearing secondhand robes and asking strangers if they believe in destiny.”

I twirled midair like a ballerina with commitment issues. “I’m not giving up my friends just because they’re walking ginger explosions with a vendetta against authority and buttons.”

She sighed, though there was a resigned smile tugging at her lips. “Just don’t go hugging Granger or anything and we’ll survive this.”

“No hugging,” I promised solemnly. “Unless she brings croissants. Then I’m weak.”

Pansy looped into a lazy spiral beside me, her braid flapping behind her like a war banner for overly opinionated debutantes, and for a fleeting, fizzy moment, the world below felt impossibly perfect.

The Château Rosier glittered beneath us, its pointed rooftops dusted with snow, its windows flickering with candlelight and questionable alchemical experiments. The vineyard stretched out like a drunk constellation, glittering with frost and mischief, and I could just make out Grand-père arguing with an animated wheelbarrow that had developed Marxist tendencies.

Somewhere behind us, Victoire screamed, “I SAID THE FRUITCAKE IS SENTIENT, AUGUSTE. NOT SENTIMENTAL.”

And I—somehow—felt like the luckiest girl alive.

Not because everything made sense (it didn’t), or because I had it all figured out (I didn’t), or even because my crush on Cedric Diggory was safely contained in a mental shoebox labeled Aesthetic Danger: Do Not Touch.

No.

Because here I was—scarved like a revolutionary, flying on a contraband broom named after a dessert, with my best slytherin friend shouting insults at the clouds—and it felt right. Like maybe the chaos wasn’t something I had to survive. Maybe it was the whole point.

Back when I was… well, before, everything had been too sharp or too quiet. Too much grey, too many rules, too many aching stretches of ordinary. But here? I had potion-stained hands, friends who threw fireworks at breakfast, teachers who might actually be murderers, and a boy with cheekbones sculpted by the gods of good lighting who smiled at me like I was worth noticing.

And dragons existed. Dragons. Honestly, what more could a girl ask for?

I glanced sideways at Pansy, who was now aggressively racing her own reflection in a high window. Then up at the stars—eternal and ridiculous and somehow always watching. My cheeks hurt from grinning.

And I was finally—gloriously, chaotically—me.

I tilted my broom upward into the star-stained sky, scarf fluttering behind me like a banner stitched by drunk pixies, and let out a laugh that echoed through the cold air.

Let the world be mad.

Let the scones explode.

I was Alexandra Rosier.

And I wouldn’t trade this glitter-covered, dragon-adjacent, emotionally complicated circus of a life for all the croissants in Paris.

…Unless they were warm.

And enchanted.

But even then—I’d think about it.

Just for a second.

And then I’d choose this. Every time.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Turban Trouble & Treasonous Snowballs

Fred’s POV

There are few things in life more sacred than a proper Hogwarts snowfall. One: it's great for hiding from responsibility. Two: it makes excellent ammunition. And three: it means Alexandra Rosier might finally descend from her château of silk curtains and ancestral superiority.

And there she was, stomping dramatically down the stone steps like she’d just dismounted a pegasus mid-air and demanded the world kiss her boots. Her cloak flared. Her curls bounced. Her face? Mildly murderous.

“Look what France dragged back in,” I whispered to George, already grinning like I'd swallowed Peeves.

“With couture boots and judgmental eyebrows,” George muttered.

“She looks disappointed the castle’s still standing,” Lee added, appearing beside us like he'd been born out of a gust of wind. He looked smug and cold and definitely ready for violence. “Ten Sickles says she was hoping for a Basilisk.”

“She would train one to sit,” I said. “Call it Monsieur Chompy.”

Alex stopped at the bottom step and surveyed us like we were a trio of misbehaving garden gnomes. Then she raised her arms to the sky, snow swirling dramatically around her. I could practically hear the theme music.

“I leave you for two bloody weeks,” she said, her voice full of disdain and vague theatrical French menace, “and no explosions? Hogwarts, I am disappointed.”

My heart, dear reader, soared.

“I’ve missed you,” I said.

“We’ve missed you,” George corrected.

“I missed me too,” she replied. “But more importantly—snowball war?”

I nearly kissed the ground. “Yes. Obviously. Duh.”

“But with rules,” she added, removing a glove like a general about to slap someone with it.

“Rules?” Lee asked, already ducking behind a bench because he knows how this girl operates.

“The game is Flocon Fatal,” she said solemnly. “Points awarded for flair, poetic insults, and psychological warfare. Extra if your snowball lands down someone’s trousers.”

“God, I love her,” George muttered.

“I love chaos,” I said. “It’s not the same.”

“Team Saucisson,” Alex declared. “You’re the sausages. Prepare to be grilled.”

We did not, in fact, prepare.

I threw the first snowball with the grace of a stunned flobberworm. It hit a tree. Barely.

Alex gasped in horror. “If that were a poem, it’d be titled Disgrace in E Flat Minor.”

I squinted. “Big words from someone standing on the open field of battle—”

And BAM. Snowball to the ear. My whole head rang.

Lee howled with laughter. “You’ve been flocon-fataled!”

I looked up. Alex was already climbing a statue, cackling like a crown-wearing banshee. “To defeat me,” she said dramatically, “you must first understand the texture of snow. Its soul. Its rhythm.”

“She’s flirting with weather,” George said.

“She’s French,” Lee replied. “They flirt with sandwiches.”

And we were off.

Snowballs flew like cursed confetti. My hair turned into a snowcone. Alex hit George down the scarf. Lee yelled in iambic pentameter.

“Your aim is as off,” Alex cried, ducking, “as your sense of shoe-polish!”

“Your mother’s so posh, her crumpets weep when they’re uneven!” I shouted back.

“Seven out of ten!” she called. “No rhyme!”

Lee shouted, “O snowball, thy wintry wrath strikes true—”

And nailed her in the shin. “Jordan wins poetry,” George gasped. “I’m dying like a Victorian soprano.”

Alex launched one from atop her statue and nailed Lee in the back. “Slytherin sneak attack!” she shrieked.

She leapt down, flushed and wild-eyed, like someone who’d been raised on iced espresso and bad ideas. “Flocon Fatal is now an annual holiday.”

“I’m in,” Lee said, shaking snow from his coat. “We’ll petition the Ministry.”

I stepped forward, hands over my chest like a martyr. “Alexandra Rosier,” I said solemnly, “you are armed, chaotic, and possibly clinically unstable. I wouldn’t change a flake.”

She grinned and brushed a snowflake off my nose. “Good. Now duck.”

I did.

George’s snowball flew overhead like a cannon shot. Lee screamed like a banshee. I hit the snow laughing so hard I felt my ribs shift.

Alex declared herself Queen of Winter.

Lee tried to crown her with a pinecone.

George collapsed dramatically like a Shakespearean snowman.

And me? I lay there in the snow, surrounded by lunatics, soaked and freezing and completely, utterly happy.

Even if I couldn’t feel my face until dinnertime.

Alex’s POV

If I end up destroying the entire Harry Potter timeline because I couldn’t resist a dramatic snowball, I want it on record that it was Fred’s idea. Or maybe George’s. Possibly mine. Fine. Mostly mine. But they enabled me.

We were still drunk on the victory of Flocon Fatal, the official snowball war I invented because war crimes are more fun when they rhyme. The courtyard was chaos; we’d enchanted the snowballs to make “poetic” whooshing sounds and explode into Shakespeare quotes on contact. Lee Jordan was narrating it all like a Quidditch match, and I’d never been so cold or so happy.

And then Professor Quirrell walked past.

My brain, which should never be allowed to make decisions unsupervised, whispered:
Wouldn’t it be funny if you hit the turban?
You know, the turban? The one that’s got You-Know-Who's Airbnb guest staying under it?

My wand was out before I could talk myself down. “Poetic Precision!” I whispered, launching a snowball straight for the burgundy silk abomination.

It hit. Perfect arc. Beautiful splat. Shakespeare would’ve wept.

Then the turban… twitched.

And slid.

And I saw—Merlin help me—I swear I saw eyes. Not Quirrell’s. Red ones. Slitted. Brief. Flashing like a bad dream. Like someone had briefly unzipped the universe and let the nightmare leak out.

“Did you see that?” I gasped, grabbing Fred’s arm like a Victorian widow.

He blinked, snow in his eyelashes. “See what? That you just got bonus points for toppling a professor? Iconic.”

“No—his head—there was—” I trailed off, eyes wide, heart thudding like a Hogsmeade dance drum solo.

Then I saw Snape. Looming in the archway like a medieval gargoyle who hadn’t been fed.

“Abort! Abort!” I hissed, yanking both twins behind a column.

“What’s with you?” George asked. “You look like you’ve seen a banshee on a diet.”

There was a pause.

Fred opened his mouth. Closed it. “You’ve definitely had too much snow.”

“I’m serious!” I whispered. “What if I… did something really bad just now?”

George tilted his head. “You mean like assaulting a professor in broad daylight with a Shakespearean snowball?”

“No, like—” I stopped. My whole body went stiff. I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t explain it. Not without sounding completely mad. Not without giving things away that weren’t mine to say. Or worse—breaking something I wasn’t supposed to touch.

“I just—” I took a breath. “I thought I saw something.”

Fred squinted at me. “Something like what?”

“Something… wrong. Behind his—” My voice failed. I stared at the archway. Quirrell was gone now. But that awful flicker wasn’t leaving my brain. Those eyes.

George leaned closer, suddenly serious. “Alex, you’re shaking.”

I was. My fingers were numb, my teeth chattering—but it wasn’t from the cold anymore. It was from dread. The sort of horror that blooms slowly in your stomach like a cursed rose.

“It was probably nothing,” I said quickly, too quickly. “Just a weird trick of the light. Or—maybe I’ve got snow in my eye.”

Fred didn’t look convinced. George frowned slightly, his brow furrowed in that rare way he did when he wasn’t planning something ridiculous.

“You sure you’re all right?” Fred asked, voice lower now.

I nodded far too fast. “Fine. Great. Amazing. Totally not spiraling into existential terror about something I may or may not have seen and may or may not have accidentally almost broken. Let’s never talk about it again!”

There was a beat.

Then George grinned. “Right, back to snowball war then. Let’s aim for Snape next.”

“Absolutely not,” I choked. “That’s how people die.”

Fred threw an arm around me. “Alex Rosier: war criminal, poet, and now haunted.”

“Still not over the turban?” Lee called from across the courtyard. “You lot trying to assassinate fashion one professor at a time?”

I laughed weakly. But as I bent down to scoop up more snow, I didn’t take my eyes off the shadows where Quirrell had disappeared.
Not for a second.

Because what I saw wasn’t just a shadow. And if I was right—if that glimpse of red was real—then the story I knew was already unraveling.

And I was the idiot who tugged the thread.

***

The moment I slithered back into the Slytherin common room, something in me had shifted.
No, not something—everything.
I was like a magical snow globe someone had taken a bat to—sparkly on the outside, but internally? Pure blizzard.

Those red eyes haunted me. That flash under Quirrell’s turban—like a cursed optical illusion your optometrist would prescribe holy water for. Voldemort. The Voldemort. I’d seen him. Or hallucinated him. Or maybe I was finally cracking like an overcooked cauldron in a third-year practical.

Naturally, I bottled it up. Like any good Slytherin. Like any completely stable eleven-year-old ex-lawyer-possibly-delusional-possibly-fictional girl who's definitely not spiraling down a metaphorical Pensieve of doom. Honestly, all I needed was a dramatic soundtrack and a fainting chaise.

Pansy clocked me the second I walked in. Her predator senses were finely honed, like a cat who smelled emotional breakdown through velvet drapes.

She was draped across a green armchair like a gothic socialite awaiting a scandal. One leg thrown over the armrest, her posture radiating the exact energy of someone who’d idly hex a boy for breathing too loud. She was humming something vaguely threatening under her breath—probably a lullaby for cursed dolls.

When I collapsed beside her in a heap of limbs, sighs, and tragic narrative energy, she didn’t flinch.

“You’ve got the look of someone who either saw a banshee or walked in on Snape moisturizing,” she said, flicking her gaze toward me like a well-aimed curse.

“Option C,” I mumbled into a cushion. “Existential dread and magical nausea.”

She stopped humming like I’d just cursed her pet owl.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She stared.

I stared back.

We blinked in perfect, synchronized Slytherin suspicion. She arched one eyebrow so high it entered an upper tax bracket—equal parts judging and ready to offer a cup of tea.

“You’re lying. You only say ‘existential dread’ when you’re genuinely spiraling or trying to get out of Herbology.”

“I contain multitudes,” I mumbled, halfway into the sofa like a collapsing soufflé.

“Uh-huh. Multitudes of what, exactly? Panic? Glitter? Guilt?”

“Don’t forget spite. That’s an important pillar of my personality.” I lifted a finger weakly, like a tragic Victorian debutante announcing her will to live.

She snorted and hurled a cushion at my face. “Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I shan’t.”

“Oh, for Salazar’s sodding beard.” She leaned in, narrowing her eyes like a panther about to pounce. “Did Snape throw you in his bat cave again?”

I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant but probably radiating ‘haunted haunted haunted’ like a cursed tea kettle. “He said I was talented.”

“In Potions?” she asked, doubt sharper than a Sugar Quill dipped in vinegar.

“In being a menace.”

“Alex.”

“Okay, fine,” I said, sitting up with the elegance of a disgraced duchess about to reveal a family scandal. “You want the truth?”

Pansy crossed her arms in the regal posture of someone about to win an argument by sheer eyebrow power. “Obviously.”

I looked around like the walls had ears (which in this castle, was not metaphorical), leaned in, and whispered, “I’m from the future.”

She blinked.

“A muggle. A thirty-year-old lawyer. I read these books. Loved these books. Got magically yeeted into them, and now I’m eleven, probably cursed, and trying not to detonate the plot with my very existence.”

A silence fell so heavy it could’ve been graded by Madam Pince.

Then—

“Well, obviously,” she said, as dry as a goblet of desert sand. “And I’m the Queen of the Parisian Veelas. My coronation is next Thursday. Dress code is sequins and spite.”

I blinked at her. “You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, I believe something,” she said with a smirk that could curdle milk. “You do talk like an overworked solicitor with caffeine withdrawal. And you tried to file a formal complaint against bedtime last week.”

“In my defense, it was past eleven and we have rights.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at me like I was a strange but amusing pet. “See? That. That’s not normal. That’s unhinged. And also why I adore you.”

Something in my chest unclenched—some rogue anxiety gremlin finally retreating back into its lair. Maybe a lung. Maybe my last shred of sanity.

Pansy tilted her head, her voice going quiet but fierce. “Sometimes I feel that too, you know? Like I’m playing a role I didn’t audition for. The perfect pure-blood princess. Future Mrs. Someone Important. But then you appeared like a hallucination in boots too expensive for your backstory and suddenly I’m questioning the script.”

I blinked at her. “Wait, you don’t want to be Mrs. Malfoy 2.0?”

She scoffed. “I want to sing in front of people. I want to hex boys who call me shrill. I want to flirt with scandal and kiss whoever I bloody want.”

“Same,” I said, solemnly, like I was making a blood pact with a fellow chaos gremlin. “Like, aggressively same.”

She smiled—sharp and lovely, like a stiletto heel dipped in glitter. “You’re mad, Rosier. But the world’s better for it.”

Then she began singing, softly but with absurd musical precision:

“Oh, she’s sweet but a psycho, a little bit psycho…”

I cracked up. “That’s dangerously accurate.”

“Dangerously?” she said, flopping beside me like a fainting Victorian heiress whose pearls were in distress. “Darling, you make Myrtle look emotionally stable.”

I grinned. “Next time I almost rip the timeline apart, I’ll bring snacks.”

“You better. And I want chaos-flavored crisps and a flask of liquid plot twists.”

“Deal.”

And just like that, the panic faded. Not entirely. I was still emotionally constipated and mildly cursed. But it faded enough.
Enough to breathe.
Enough to laugh.
Not normal. But okay.

Fred’s POV

It was well past curfew, the kind of hour where portraits snoozed and the ghosts took their haunting seriously. And yet, there she was. Alone. Glowing like a sad candle stub on the Marauder’s Map, curled in an alcove just off the dungeons.

I didn’t tell George. Not because I was hiding anything—though, alright, maybe I was—but because this was something I needed to do alone. He’s my twin, but sometimes, I need space from the hive mind. Sometimes, I need... Alex.

I crept out of the Gryffindor dorms with the finesse of a particularly sneaky cat burglar in stripy pyjamas and made my way to the dungeons. Hogwarts at night was equal parts eerie and enchanting—like someone had cast a glamour on a haunted house and hoped for the best. Suits of armor creaked, shadows moved where they shouldn’t, and the floor tiles liked to squeak just to spite you.

And there she was, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them like a fortress of don’t-touch-me. Her face was tucked half behind her robe collar, staring into the middle distance like she’d just seen the Grim tap dance.

"Hey," I whispered, trying not to startle her. "Fancy meeting you here."

She looked up. Her expression didn’t shift much, but her eyes softened, just a smidge. Like the edges of something brittle melting a bit in warm water.

"Let me guess," she said. "You tracked me with your ancient map like a bloodhound with a Hogwarts addiction."

"You wound me. I prefer ‘concerned and dashing stalker.’"

"That’s worse."

I sat beside her, not too close, not too far. Just enough to share the same silence. It hung between us, fizzing with all the things she wasn’t saying.

"Are we pushing too far?" I asked finally. "The snowball thing, the jokes, the chaos. I mean... you’ve gone quiet, and that’s like a weather warning in Fred Weasley’s Forecast for Impending Doom."

She gave a small, crooked smile. "Chaos is cheaper than therapy."

I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost. "You say stuff like that all the time, you know. Like a shield made of sarcasm."

She didn’t deny it. Just pulled her robe tighter.

"You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong," I said. "But I want to know. Because you matter. And I don’t... I’ve never really had this."

She glanced at me. "This?"

"A best friend who isn’t just an extension of me. George and I—we’re a matched set. But you, you’re like—like a different flavor of mischief. Spicy chaos. French-imported disaster with extra glitter. And I want to know what’s going on behind that chaos."

She looked away again, eyes shining in the half-light.

"You ever feel like you’re not real? Like you’re pretending to be a person because the world expects it, and if you stop for even a second, it all unravels?"

"Yeah," I said softly. "When George broke his arm in second year, and for three whole days, I didn’t know how to be Fred without him. That’s the only time I’ve ever felt that lost."

She gave a huff that could’ve been a laugh or a sob. "Imagine that, but every day. With no twin to back you up. Just memories you’re not supposed to have, feelings that don’t fit, and a plot you’re not supposed to tamper with."

Plot. Again with the metaphors.

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is. But it’s easier with you. And Pansy. And sometimes even Snape, though he terrifies me and smells like rage and burnt sage."

I grinned. "He’s fond of you, you know. I’ve seen it. You’re like his favorite cursed goblet."

She snorted. "Touching."

We sat there a while longer. The castle creaked around us, as if stretching its ancient bones.

"You’re not alone," I said, bumping her shoulder. "Even if you are a weird, sarcastic cryptid with a persecution complex."

She leaned her head briefly against mine. Just for a second.

"Thanks, Freddy."

"Anytime, Psycho Rosier."

"Hey!"

"What? Pansy sang it. Canon law."

Her laughter—small, real, like the first spring day after a winter of internal storms—echoed through the corridor. And I thought: maybe this is what having a best friend really is. Not someone who mirrors you, but someone who sees the broken bits and pulls up a beanbag beside them.

I didn’t say any of that. But maybe she heard it anyway.

***

George’s POV

Right. So here’s the situation.

It’s the second week of January. Everything’s frozen solid—my fingers, the pitch, my twin’s sense of humility. Hogwarts is in her annual "Ha ha, what if frostbite was a vibe?" phase. And naturally, this is the moment when Alexandra Rosier—the House of Slytherin’s most unhinged import since the Bloody Baron—decides to break in her new broom.

Not just any broom, no.

An Éclair du Vent 300.

It’s green, it purrs when you touch it, and I’m 97% sure it would rather fly home to France than tolerate Alex’s piloting.

Which brings us to the pitch.

Fred and I are already circling lazily over the snow-crusted hoops, performing the classic Weasley midair stretches (which look suspiciously like synchronized interpretive dance). Lee’s on the sideline with a scarf wrapped around his entire head like a sentient cinnamon roll, shouting commentary through a megaphone he conjured from somewhere.

And here she comes.

Alex, wobbling into the sky like a squirrel that stole a firework. Her scarf’s twice her size. Her broom is clearly offended. Her legs are swinging wildly like she’s trying to kick gravity in the face.

I love this girl.

Not like that. Don’t get weird.

I mean I love her the way you love a cursed puppet show. You can’t look away, even as it hurtles toward destruction and/or emotional damage.

“Rosier is airborne!” Lee bellows like he’s announcing a dragon launch. “Trajectory: violent spaghetti noodle!”

“Controlled chaos!” Alex shouts, banking way too hard to the left and nearly smacking into Fred’s broom tail.

“Less controlled, more kitchen fire!” I shout back.

To her credit, she doesn’t fall. She rights herself mid-spin, adjusts her gloves like a diva settling into a dramatic monologue, and catches the Quaffle I toss her. Not in the face this time.

Progress.

“Oi, that was a pass!” I cheer.

“That was a snipe!” she corrects. “I had form!”

Fred’s cackling. “Yeah, the form of a drunk pixie.”

“And yet still prettier than you, Frederick.”

“Fair.”

We keep tossing the Quaffle back and forth, Alex getting a little better with every manic sweep across the sky. She’s using volleyball reflexes now—those quick, sharp arm movements like she’s blocking invisible bludgers. Honestly, it’s impressive. Somehow graceful and also vaguely terrifying.

“I propose a new game,” she announces mid-loop, just before she hurls the Quaffle at my ear. “Quidditch, but also dodgeball. And maybe a tiny bit of warfare.”

Fred yells “YES!” before the idea even finishes forming.

And so begins the greatest invention since the Skiving Snackbox: Quidgedodge.

We’re halfway through spell-charming snowballs to act as high-velocity missiles (mine’s named Barbara, Fred’s is Jeff, and Alex’s is “Vengeance”) when we get company.

Three figures approach from the Hufflepuff end of the grounds, all with the careful enthusiasm of boys who know there’s a 70% chance we’re about to explode something.

Owen Whitaker, the human Labrador. Anthony Rickett, sarcastic with the soul of a poet. And Cedric Diggory, golden boy incarnate, a third-year with hair that glows and a smile that could convert a basilisk.

He’s also, apparently, completely unable to act normal when Alexandra’s around.

He waves at her the moment they’re within sight—like full arm, eager puppy wave. Alex blinks, then waves back with all the cool indifference of a French empress being greeted by a bakery clerk.

I side-eye Lee. He side-eyes me back.

“That’s the third time this week,” he mutters.

“I’m counting,” I reply.

Fred leans over. “He likes her.”

“Oh, he likes likes her,” Lee adds.

“Wouldn’t blame him,” I say, casually watching Cedric try to make his face less obvious. It’s not working. He’s got the same expression he had when he first saw a fire crab lay eggs—delighted, confused, a bit scared.

They haven’t talked since the incident before Christmas—the one where Gryffindor girls tried to hex Alex into a lawn ornament and Cedric very nobly got her to the infirmary without saying a single word.

Which is, frankly, weirdly romantic.

Anyway. The Hufflepuffs have arrived.

“Are we interrupting a cult?” Anthony asks.

“Depends,” Fred says. “Do you worship chaos and honor through bruises?”

“Quidgedodge,” Alex explains, doing a lazy spiral in midair. “Catch the Quaffle, dodge the snowballs, insult Filch for extra points. Win, and you get bragging rights. Lose, and you have to wear a hat made of socks.”

Cedric grins. “I’m in.”

Of course he is.

“Oh, Diggory,” Alex says sweetly, “don’t expect seeker privileges. You’re fair game.”

“Bring it, Rosier.”

Lee gasps. “Flirting!” he hisses like a scandalized Victorian aunt.

“I will hex your mittens off,” Alex snaps at him, blushing.

And with that, the game begins.

Snowballs fly. Quaffles are hurled like they insulted someone’s mother. I may or may not perform a midair pirouette to avoid Barbara rebounding into my face.

Cedric actually dives in front of a snowball meant for Alex. She calls him a show-off. He blushes. Fred scores two goals while everyone’s distracted.

It’s madness.

It’s perfect.

And somewhere beneath the shouting and snow and mild concussion risk, I realize we’ve accidentally built something real—a game that’s ours, a memory that’ll burn bright long after the frost melts.

Quidgedodge.

Long may it reign.

Even if we all end up in detention for it.

Cedric’s POV

I was only planning to walk past.

Honestly. Just a casual stroll across the snowy pitch, maybe offer to help if the Weasleys had caught on fire again. A sensible afternoon plan.

What I did not plan on was being sucked into what I can only describe as Quidditch’s chaotic cousin who dropped out of school, joined a traveling circus, and now juggles flaming bludgers for tips and trauma.

They called it Quidgedodge.
I called it: “A great way to lose both dignity and teeth.”

“Catch the Quaffle, dodge the snowballs, insult Filch—simple,” Alexandra Rosier said like that combination of words made any rational sense. She was hovering mid-air with a smile that could only be described as ‘triumphantly feral.’

I joined. Of course I joined. What was I supposed to do—walk away while she was laughing like that?

No, thank you.

Five minutes in, I’d been hit by three snowballs, missed the Quaffle twice, and was dangerously close to believing Lee Jordan when he called me “Hufflepuff’s golden snowflake.”
This was going well.

“Oi, Diggory!” Fred shouted, flying backward while balancing the Quaffle on his foot like some deranged ballet dancer. “Ten points if you call Filch a crusty jar of pickled socks!”

“Pass,” I muttered.

“Coward!”

He got nailed by a snowball the size of a melon and spun into a hoop. Honestly? Worth it.

Alex, meanwhile, was soaring in chaotic zigzags. Her flying style reminded me of a drunk bumblebee—but somehow, she was always where the Quaffle was, ready to launch it across the pitch like she was trying to assassinate the goalposts.

“Where did you learn to aim like that?” I asked after ducking a throw that whizzed past my ear.

She beamed. “I played volleyball in my last life.”

“Your—what?”

Before she could answer, she was spinning out of control mid-laugh, broomstick wobbling like a string bean in a windstorm. She barely righted herself, cheeks red, scarf trailing behind her like a flag of war.

And she was laughing. Absolutely cackling.

Something tightened in my chest that I immediately decided to ignore.

Owen flung a snowball straight up and caught it with his face. Anthony ran into a goalpost trying to dodge Lee’s underhand throw, which we all agreed was suspiciously accurate for a “neutral” narrator. George was giving live commentary about himself in third person, and Fred—well. Fred was doing loop-de-loops while shouting:

“FILCH IS A GOBLIN-SOCKED CABBAGE-MAN!”

The snowball that hit him knocked him into a dive. He yelled “I REGRET NOTHING!” on the way down.

I was laughing so hard my ribs ached.

Rosier zipped by and gently tapped me with the Quaffle.

“Tag. You’re goalie now.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I said so and your face looks too smug.”

My face did not look smug. It looked appropriately neutral for a young wizard who was very calmly not thinking about how her hair glinted in the cold sunlight or how her laugh was slightly contagious.

Still. Goalie it was.

She lobbed the Quaffle at me with terrifying force. I blocked it—barely—and may have done an unnecessary twirl to recover. There were snowballs flying from every direction, and the air was now thick with shrieking insults and badly-aimed missiles.

“You’ve got to taunt Filch!” George yelled from the sky, ducking a double shot from Anthony and Owen.

“I’m not insulting the caretaker!”

“It’s the rules!”

Fred, now with snow in his ear and vengeance in his soul, shouted, “FILCH SMELLS LIKE BOGWART DROOL AND FEEDS CABBAGE TO GHOSTS!”

A pause. Lee blew into the megaphone.

“Ten points. And a bonus for creativity.”

Rosier clapped mid-air, laughing so hard she lost balance and nearly slid off her broom. I dove forward instinctively, as if I could somehow catch her in mid-air. She caught herself before I got near, righted the broom, and wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.

“Relax, Diggory,” she called. “I’m chaos-proof.”

“Not the word I’d use,” I muttered.

“Admit it,” she said, hovering near me with a devious grin. “You’re having fun.”

No.

Well. Yes.

I didn’t say anything, which I’m pretty sure counted as admitting it. She grinned wider.

Owen scored by yelling “I’d rather date a banshee than clean Filch’s office!” and tossing the Quaffle under Anthony’s legs. It was a mess. A beautiful, wonderful, freezing mess.

The game devolved further. I caught a snowball with my face. Alex hit Fred in the shin with the Quaffle and shouted, “That’s for saying I fly like a squashed owl!” George performed an aerial interpretive dance of betrayal when he was tagged out and declared himself “the people’s champion.”

And through it all, Rosier was glowing with laughter and effort, wiping her nose on her sleeve like a child and grinning like she’d invented joy itself. She missed turns, swerved too wide, and hit herself in the shoulder with her own snowball at one point—but her throws were sharp and clever, and she didn’t stop moving.

Didn’t stop laughing.

Somewhere around the third unofficial goal (Lee declared himself “Supreme Ruler of Quidgedodge Law” and refused to keep score), we all collapsed into the snowbank near the pitch, wheezing, soaked, and utterly destroyed.

Alex flopped down beside me, arms out, grinning at the sky.

“Best. Game. Ever.”

I glanced sideways at her—hair tangled, cheeks pink, snow in her eyelashes—and felt something dangerous warm flicker in my chest.

I told it to shut up.

“Yeah,” I said. “Not bad.”

She kicked snow at me.

I didn’t even pretend to mind.

Alex’s POV

I was ninety-eight percent sure my toes had turned into actual icicles. Not metaphorical ones. Actual, literal, frostbitten shards of betrayal attached to my feet.

“This is how I die,” I announced, flopping dramatically into the snowbank like a Regency heroine with zero dignity. “Frozen solid. A cautionary tale for future generations: don’t trust Weasleys or gravity.”

George leaned over me, grinning like a smug weather goblin. “What’s the matter, Rosier? Can’t handle a little light hypothermia?”

“I’ve lost the ability to feel feelings,” I muttered. “My bones are shivering. My shivers are shivering. I think my spleen has frostbite.”

Fred added helpfully, “She’s gone full dramatic Slytherin. Quick, someone wrap her in a monologue.”

“Wrap me in a blanket,” I snapped. “Preferably one on fire.”

Truth be told, I hadn’t had this much fun in—well, since being reincarnated into the chaos-riddled body of an eleven-year-old witch. Which says something. Probably nothing flattering.

But I was freezing, my broom was full of snow, and my scarf had tied itself into a knot that would probably require divine intervention to undo. Time to flee.

“Okay, I’m done. I’m ice. I’m glacier-core. I’m going to the library before my eyebrows fall off,” I said, pushing myself up. “Some of us have essays. And self-preservation instincts.”

Fred clutched his heart. “The library? How very un-Weasley of you.”

George gasped. “She’s doing homework. Voluntarily.”

“Transfiguration,” I said with a sigh. “McGonagall’s essay on wand movement analysis. Due Monday. I don’t trust myself to finish it if I can’t feel my hands.”

“Bet she’s already halfway through,” George said. “You know she’s secretly academic.”

“I’m not—!” I paused. Okay, I was. A little. But don’t tell anyone. “Look, someone in Slytherin has to know how to conjugate a sentence. Otherwise, we’re just a basement full of cheekbones and ambition.”

Fred wagged his eyebrows. “And Potions. We’ve heard things.”

“Yeah,” George said, narrowing his eyes playfully. “Rumour has it you actually like brewing.”

“...So?”

“So no one is good at Potions,” Fred said, scandalized. “That’s a lie teachers invented. Is it some kind of... exclusive Slytherin mutation? Do you all get a free vial of talent at birth?”

“We get a lot of things,” I said with a wink. “Most of them are curses.”

“Unfair,” George muttered. “I nearly blew my eyebrows off last lesson.”

“That’s because you tried to substitute unicorn hair with spaghetti.”

“In my defense,” Fred said, “it looked magical.”

Lee finally pulled himself out of the snow and slung an arm around my shoulders as we started trudging toward the castle. He was warm. Disgusting.

“Come on, genius. I’ll escort you to the library before you turn into a dramatic ice cube.”

“Too late. I’m already a tragic cautionary icicle,” I sighed.

Behind us, I could hear Cedric, Owen, Anthony, Fred, and George still throwing snow at each other and arguing over the next game like it was a diplomatic summit. Every time Cedric laughed, something stupid fluttered in my chest like a moth with performance anxiety.

“Oi, Cedric!” George shouted. “Next time, we’re adding Exploding Snap to the rules!”

“Only if Alex has to play blindfolded,” Fred added.

“I heard that,” I called back over my shoulder.

Cedric jogged up a bit, cheeks pink from the cold. “Looking forward to the rematch, Rosier.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You mean the one where I destroy your hopes and dreams with a single throw?”

He blinked. “Er—yeah. That one.”

He was smiling again. That weird, soft, boy-next-door smile that made you feel like you’d just passed some sort of unspoken test.

I did not trip. But only because I was already walking with the grace of a newborn goat.

Lee was definitely smirking.

“You know he keeps waving at you every time he sees you, right?” he whispered.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said too quickly.

Lee hummed the melody of “Liar, liar, robes on fire.”

We trudged on, snow squeaking under our boots, castle glowing gold against the blue afternoon light.

The others were behind us now, still bickering about snowball strategies and broom maneuvers and whether Filch’s middle name was actually “Mildew.”

I pretended not to look back.
I definitely didn’t notice Cedric doing the same.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: The Sun-Kissed Hufflestud and the Birthday She Forgot

Alex’s POV

March had arrived at Hogwarts like an over-caffeinated faerie godmother—hurling crocuses into the mud, flinging sunshine at the turrets, and coaxing the Forbidden Forest into its annual explosion of violently green drama. The Scottish Highlands, never ones for subtlety, had smeared the sky in streaks of gold and grey, as if the weather itself were battling between spring and a very stylish breakdown.

I stood under a willow near the courtyard fountain, curls full of petals and barely-contained wrath. The petals were innocent—probably. The wrath, however, was reserved entirely for a rogue ensemble of chocolate frogs who refused—flat-out refused—to harmonize.

“You’re flat again, Baritone Barry!” I snapped, jabbing my wand at the most offensively off-key of the lot. He croaked in what I could only describe as defiant mediocrity and leapt onto my boot with a squelch. “And Alto Agatha, for the love of Morgana, that is not a C sharp!”

They were meant to sing in four-part harmony. That was the idea. My genius idea. My legacy-in-the-making chaos project. Transfigured, enchanted, calibrated candy frogs performing like a tiny amphibian barbershop quartet. The reality was… well. One had exploded in rehearsal. Another kept hiccupping the second verse of “Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love” like a washed-up lounge singer with commitment issues.

And that’s when Cedric Diggory wandered in.

Because of course he did.

Rolled-up Herbology essay in one hand, half-eaten treacle tart in the other, with the air of someone who’d accidentally walked into a musical catastrophe and was too polite to back out without trying to help. His expression hovered somewhere between mild concern and cautious amusement—like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene or alert a professional.

“Um… Alex?” he said, stepping gingerly over a frog that had resorted to jazz scat. “Are you—uh—are they supposed to do that?”

I spun around. Petals flew. A daffodil attached itself to my left eyebrow like it had a vendetta.

“They’re a work in progress,” I said crisply, as though I were conducting the Vienna Philharmonic and not refereeing a candy-based rebellion.

Cedric smiled—slow and warm, like butter on toast on a Sunday morning. I noticed. Of course I noticed. His entire face did that thing—like it had been designed by a lovesick bard who dabbled in bone structure and gentle irony.

“I think they’re… impressive,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if he meant it or if he was just being very Hufflepuff about the whole thing.

“That’s generous of you,” I muttered, glancing down at Agatha, who was now warbling a wrong note with aggressive pride. “Considering Alto Agatha sounds like she’s been gargling Doxy droppings.”

Agatha hiccupped in what I’m choosing to interpret as indignation.

Cedric laughed. “Better than my singing, honestly.”

Wait—was he… was he flirting? Or just being devastatingly decent in that wholesome way that made my brain leak out of my ears?

“Thanks,” I said, attempting the impossible feat of sounding casual while removing a rogue petal from my chin. “I’m launching a one-girl campaign to bring harmony to the edible arts. Next up: baritone biscuits and sopranos made of sugar quills.”

And then—because the universe enjoys throwing me into emotional quicksand—he looked like he was genuinely considering it.

He squinted up at the sky, then back at me. “Are you still commentating the match this afternoon?”

Right. The game. Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. The very serious Quidditch match where I would have to sit on a magically amplified pedestal and pretend I wasn’t mortally biased, emotionally compromised, or mentally distracted by the current presence of Cedric's stupidly symmetrical face.

“Obviously,” I said, brushing a frog off my boot with dignity. “I’ve already written a few lines about Gryffindor’s tragic overconfidence. I’m thinking ‘Shakespearean downfall meets broomstick-based humiliation.’ Should go over well.”

His grin widened. “I’ll keep an ear out. Just… you know, try not to make me sound like I sleep with my broomstick.”

“No promises, Diggory. Hufflepuff hearts might break if they knew how much time you spend with that Comet Two-Sixty.”

He tucked the tart into his bag and rubbed the back of his neck, and I swear the breeze joined in the conspiracy—tugging at his scarf like it knew we were in a coming-of-age novel.

“So… I’ll see you around, yeah?” he said, then added, “Unless you’re busy training them for the Easter concert?”

I sighed—long, theatrical, and absolutely undeserved. “Their manager says Coachella first, but I might squeeze in Hogwarts if the diva frogs behave.”

He laughed properly this time and gave me a little wave before strolling off toward Herbology, scarf fluttering like he had no idea how completely infuriatingly charming he was being.

I watched him go. Blinked once. Twice.

What in Merlin’s knobbly knees was that?

I turned back to my frogs, thoroughly disoriented. Barry had climbed onto a rock and was now crooning a shaky solo in G minor, like a frog who’d been dumped by a mermaid. Agatha was eating petals again. Somewhere in the background, someone had transfigured a daisy chain into bagpipes and released it into the wild.

“Don’t start,” I told Barry, as he arpeggiated with the smugness of a frog who knew too much. “It wasn’t flirting. It was just a nice boy being nice. Probably. Mostly. And anyway, I’m still eleven.”

I paused. Frowned.

…Right?

Cedric’s POV

I meant to go straight to the locker rooms.

Really. That was the plan. Drop off the Herbology scroll, maybe sneak in a few stretches, make sure my broom hadn’t decided to get temperamental. Get into the zone.

But instead, I was walking through the corridor like someone had jinxed my shoelaces together and fogged up my brain.

Because of her.

Because of Rosier.

She was supposed to be chaos incarnate. The Slytherin with too many opinions and a suspiciously talented hand at transfiguring innocent objects into public nuisances. The kind of girl you watched from a safe distance while hoping she didn’t notice you existed… or worse, did.

And now I couldn’t stop thinking about the daffodil in her eyebrow.

Not metaphorically.

There was a literal daffodil. In her actual eyebrow. Just… sitting there like it paid rent. Like it belonged. And she hadn’t even noticed. Or maybe she had and just decided to let it stay. It wouldn't surprise me.

Most people would look ridiculous. She looked like—Merlin, I don’t know—a slightly unhinged forest fairy with strong opinions about frog music theory.

And I’d grinned. Like a fool. I’d said her frogs were “impressive,” which was a lie and also true in a weird, confusing way that I didn’t know how to unpack.

And she’d made that face. The one where she raises her eyebrow like she’s either judging you or planning your funeral with confetti.

And then she said she was starting a campaign to bring harmony to the edible arts.

I swear I’m not an idiot. I know she was joking. But my brain? My brain was too busy sketching her face out in detail and wondering how one person could wear sarcasm like perfume and still manage to look like spring sunlight happened to trip and fall into human form.

I passed a group of Ravenclaws on the stairs. One of them said something about the match—Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor, a big one, probably the deciding game before the Cup—and I nodded like I was listening.

I wasn’t.

Because she was commentating today.

Which meant she’d be up in that tower with a megaphone and no adult supervision, narrating every single thing I did.

Including, probably, how I fly like a swan with stage fright. Or how my hair flops like it’s trying to leave my head mid-dive.

She was going to talk about me. Out loud. To the entire school.

And for some reason, instead of that making me want to hide in the broom cupboard and fake the flu, it made me want to fly better than I’ve ever flown in my life.

Just in case she was watching.

I rounded the corner toward the pitch. The grass looked greener somehow. Or maybe I just hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe I’d been too caught up in practice and strategy and whatever version of focus the captain kept demanding.

But right now? All I could think about was the daffodil.

Still in her eyebrow.

Still stuck in my brain.

Alex’s POV

The skies above Hogwarts were deceivingly blue, like a postcard promising peace but secretly plotting a storm. Below, two Quidditch teams prepared to audition for the aerial disaster Olympics, all in the name of House pride. Naturally, I had the prime seat in the house—perched like a questionable raven on a suspiciously wobbly folding chair with a view that could kill.

A chilly breeze whipped through the stands as students filtered in, faces painted like tribal warriors, scarves flapping like flags in a coup, and whispered bets exchanged with the urgency of a black-market potion deal. Meanwhile, I settled into my throne of questionable stability and undeniable sass.

“Alright, let’s break down today’s cast of characters,” I purred, pointing my enchanted microphone at Lee Jordan while adjusting my commentary pin (a gift from Lee, etched with ‘Professional Menace’). “Chasers who could probably hex a Bludger mid-flight, Beaters out for blood and personal vendettas, and of course, one Seeker who’s been called everything from ‘Prince Charming of the Pitch’ to ‘walking distraction.’”

Lee arched a skeptical brow. “You mean Diggory?”

“Who else?” I replied with a theatrical sigh, placing a delicate hand on my chest like I’d just heard a tragic sonnet. “The Prince Charming of the Pitch — all wind-swept hair and a posture that screams ‘I read too many romance novels.’ If his broomstick had a crown, he’d probably try to knight it.”

Just then, Cedric Diggory shot a glance toward our booth—and promptly managed to trip over his own broom.

“Oh dear,” I murmured, trying not to laugh. “The Prince has stumbled. Is it a foreshadowing of doom or just the weight of too much charm? I’ll leave that to the philosophers.”

Lee nearly choked on his pumpkin pasty. “You’re asking for a hex, you know.”

“Bring it on,” I said with a grin. “Something subtle. Like glitter whenever I sneeze.”

Lee whipped around to face the crowd with the flair of a bard about to unleash epic tales of chaos. “WELCOME, HOGWARTS! The sun is shining, the pitch is pristine, and I’m already predicting a detention—or three!”

“And I’m here too,” I added sweetly into the mic. “Alexandra Rosier, your Slytherin source for commentary chaos. Buckle up for a symphony of Bludgers, bad calls, and broomsticks that won’t quit crashing.”

Lee roared, “AND THEY’RE OFF!”

Fred and George Weasley burst out of the gate like someone had strapped a firecracker to each of their boots—and forgot to warn the groundskeeper. Honestly, if I’d seen fireworks streaking like that in a potion lab, I’d have called it a catastrophe; here, it was just Tuesday morning for these two. Their flight was pure, unfiltered chaos wrapped in matching grins that screamed, “Rulebooks? We ate those for breakfast.”

“Fred Weasley launched a Bludger with the fury of a Niffler robbed of its shiny treasure—and possibly insulted his Mum’s cooking while he was at it,” I narrated as the missile zipped past Jerome Appleby’s ear close enough to ruffle his hair.

Lee jumped in, “George on the flank—YES! That curve is so sharp it could slice through enchanted parchment and still write a love letter on the way down.”

“That Bludger didn’t just fly; it composed its own tragic opera mid-air, complete with high notes and dramatic pauses that made even the portraits gasp.”

Below, the Chasers whirled through the sky like a tornado of confetti at a goblin wedding—chaotic, colorful, and probably illegal. Alicia Spinnet flipped over Owen Whitaker with the grace of a Veela pirouetting through a broom ballet, leaving everyone wondering if she moonlighted as an acrobat.

“Spinnet passes—Katie Bell’s ready—AND SHE SHOOTS!”

“Miles Cresswell blocks it!” I crowed with glee. “Like a startled Puffskein shoved off a bookshelf—graceful as a troll in a tutu, but hey, it did the job.”

Then, like a cursed goblin jewel locked in a vault labeled “Definitely Do Not Touch Unless You Have A Death Wish,” the Snitch emerged—glittering, smug, and practically humming with chaos. One golden flutter by the Ravenclaw stands, and the entire pitch inhaled so sharply I was surprised no one passed out from shared oxygen loss.

“OH, HERE WE GO!” Lee bellowed, practically vibrating like a Mandrake with a megaphone.

“THE BABY SAVIOR VERSUS THE SUN-KISSED HUFFLESTUD,” I declared, hands on hips and sass fully engaged. “A rivalry as ancient as lunch queue politics. Two Seekers enter. One leaves with a trophy, the other with emotional damage and a bruised ego.”

Cedric dove first—smooth, radiant, and disgustingly majestic, “he is like a centaur modeling for a shampoo ad during a thunderstorm.” His robes billowed like he had wind spells woven into the hem. His jaw set with noble determination. Somewhere in the stands, I swear someone sighed, swooned, and tragically yeeted their butterbeer over the edge.

Harry followed—twelve years of limbs flailing with righteous pre-teen vengeance, clutching his broom like it was a misbehaving hippogriff. He zigg-zagged, wobbled, and I wasn’t sure if he was chasing the Snitch or fleeing from puberty.

The crowd shrieked like they were witnessing a duel and a boyband reunion

Professor Flitwick had climbed onto his chair like a caffeinated garden gnome and was shaking his tiny fists with the rage of someone whose fantasy Quidditch bracket was on the line.

“DIGGORY’S GOT A FINGER ON IT—”

“WAIT—FRED WEASLEY HAS LAUNCHED A TACTICAL BLUDGER—NOT AT ANYONE—NO—AT THE SNITCH.”

The Snitch, clearly offended and with the dramatics of a theatre major mid-audition, did a reverse somersault and bolted—right toward Harry like, “Fine, you chaotic gremlin, take me.”

“HARRY’S ON IT—”

“CEDRIC’S STILL CHASING—SOMEONE’S ABOUT TO LEAVE A TOOTH IN THE GRASS!”

They dove.

Merlin’s saggy left sock, they dove.

It looked like two comets had realized they were late for a blood feud and chose Earth as the venue. Broomsticks vertical, hair whipping like they’d stuck their heads out a hippogriff window, faces set to “Avada Determination.”

Harry reached—he was close—

Cedric reached too—so close he could’ve tapped Harry on the shoulder and asked, “Mind if I have a go, mate?”

AND—

“HARRY POTTER HAS THE SNITCH!” Lee screeched, his voice cracking like a cursed choir boy during a high note in Celestina Warbeck: Unplugged.

I collapsed into my chair like a fainting maiden in a cursed romance serial. “Ladies, gentlemen, and every semi-sentient portrait tuning in, that was a symphonic disaster in four acts and I adored every melodramatic, spine-endangering second.”

The Final score was :  Gryffindor 200 – Hufflepuff 80.

Fred and George zoom past the booth doing loop-the-loops and smugness.

Lee claps me on the back. “That was incredible.”

“I think I sprained a metaphor,” I say, setting down my pumpkin juice. “And if any Weasley dares quote me calling Cedric a ‘Sun-Kissed Hufflestud,’ I will invent a hex that makes their toenails yodel.”

He laughs. “You should commentate every game.”

“Only if it includes glorious Seeker dives, dramatic curses, and Alicia Spinnet backflipping like a ballerina with a grudge.”

Because chaos is an art form—and today, I was its critic in the best seat of the house.

Cedric’s POV

I sat in the changing room, still half in my robes, staring at the floor like it had personally offended me.

Eighty points. We scored eighty. Which would've been impressive if Gryffindor hadn't decided to win like they were auditioning for the dramatic climax of a Quidditch-themed opera.

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “He got the Snitch.”

“Yeah,” said Owen, flopping onto the bench beside me, still grinning like a Kneazle that found the cream. “But did you hear what Rosier called you?”

Anthony cackled from the lockers. “Sun-Kissed Hufflestud, mate. I’m never calling you anything else again. It's canon now. Get it embroidered.”

“Don’t,” I muttered, dragging my hands down my face. “I tripped over my broom before the game even started. How do you recover from that kind of character assassination?”

“You don’t,” Owen said cheerfully. “You become a meme in magical history books. You get a Chocolate Frog card with glitter commentary on the back.”

Anthony did a dramatic swoon. “‘Prince Charming of the Pitch—if his broom had a crown, he’d probably knight it.’ I almost died. My lungs left the building. Rosier’s going to get recruited by the Daily Prophet just to roast players full-time.”

I tried not to laugh. Failed miserably. “She had a mic charm. Someone gave her a mic. Why would anyone give her a mic?”

Owen pointed at me like it was obvious. “Because Hogwarts is chaos incarnate, and Rosier is its spirit animal in platform shoes.”

“You did look majestic, though,” Anthony added helpfully. “Like a centaur in a shampoo ad during a thunderstorm. That was a direct quote.”

“Oh, Merlin,” I groaned again, this time into my jersey. “Please let me vanish. Someone Petrify me and throw me into a broom cupboard until next term.”

“No can do,” said Owen. “You have a new legacy now. Not just ‘Hufflepuff Quidditch Seeker’—but The Hufflestud. Maybe she’ll write poetry next.”

I stood, glaring half-heartedly. “I hate both of you.”

“You love us,” Anthony said, slapping my back. “Come on, let’s go drown our loss in Honeydukes and shared trauma. First round of Cauldron Cakes is on you, oh Golden One.”

“I’m never living this down, am I?”

“Mate,” Owen said with an evil grin, “Flitwick was seen laughing so hard he fell off his chair. And Fred Weasley is planning to put ‘Sun-Kissed Hufflestud’ on a T-shirt.”

I opened the door, ready to face the smirking world. “Fine. But if anyone brings up that glitter metaphor again, I’m moving to Durmstrang.”

Anthony patted my shoulder. “Only if you take your shampoo deal with you, sunshine.”

We walked off, battered but not broken—at least, not until I heard someone in the corridor whisper, “Oi! There goes the Hufflestud.”

I kept walking. Dignity is a fragile thing.

But hey—at least I looked majestic doing it.

***

Alex’s POV

A few chaotic days later that same week, breakfast at Hogwarts was usually a safe affair—unless you had the misfortune of sitting next to Pansy Parkinson, who maintained that marmalade was a Ministry psy-op and toast required the blessing of a certified French elf.

“I had a dream last night that all the jam turned into snakes,” she announced, eyeing the breakfast table like it owed her money. “One of them called me ‘madam.’”

“That sounds deeply respectable,” I replied, buttering my crumpet. “Did the marmalade offer you a job?”

“Don’t mock me, Rosier. I feel something's coming.”

She meant the jam, but something was coming.

Owls.

Like, a small army of them.

They swooped into the Great Hall, wings flapping dramatically as if the morning post were an operatic finale. Most students got one. Maybe two. I got four.

One had glittery wax. Another had a ribbon that looked like it belonged on a Parisian hat. The third was from my grand-père’s snowy owl, who only delivers things shaped like judgment. And the last—well, the last dropped a box that landed with an ominous thud into my eggs.

Theodore Nott glanced up from his cereal with vague curiosity. “Are you secretly royalty?”

“No,” I muttered, already reaching for the glittery one. “Unless my mother forgot to mention something. Again.”

Draco Malfoy, three seats down, smirked. “Maybe it’s condolences from the drama club. You've been here six months, and someone out there probably still misses your flair for theatrical disaster.”

I ignored him and opened the glittery letter. Rose-scented magic puffed out and nearly knocked over my teacup.

Joyeux Anniversaire, ma petite tempête, it read in swirly, aggressive cursive. Thirteen looks good on you. Stay curious, stay dangerous. Love, Maman.

Pause.

Thirteen.

I blinked.

Opened the second letter, from grandmother Victoire:
HAPPY 13TH ALEX YOU LEGEND!! I made you a birthday hex but it exploded. Love you!!
(There was glitter stuck to the ink. It hissed when I touched it.)

The third was from Grand-Père Auguste, in his usual cold, intimidating script:
Alexandrine. You are now officially a teenager. Please refrain from setting the garden on fire again.

And that’s when I dropped everything.

I turned to Pansy, who was busy dissecting a croissant with the suspicion of a Ministry investigator.

“Pansy,” I said slowly, “how old am I?”

She gave me a look. “Are you having a crisis before 8am?”

“No, seriously. I thought I was eleven when I got here. I was eleven. My brain said so. My everything said so.”

She shrugged. “You’re a first-year. You seemed eleven. Emotionally, you still are.”

“But these—these people—” I gestured at the letters like they’d insulted me in Latin. “They’re all saying it’s my thirteenth birthday. Today. I’ve skipped a year. Or two. I’ve time-travelled. This is magical identity theft.”

Draco snorted. “Well, that explains why you act like you’ve already had a midlife crisis.”

Theodore blinked slowly. “Do you remember being twelve?”

“No!”

“Then maybe you weren’t. Maybe you just hatched late.”

I buried my face in my hands. “I’m a fraud. A twelve-year-old fraud inside a thirteen-year-old body, pretending to be eleven. My entire life is a math error.”

Barry the Frog—yes, I keep him in my robes, no, I don’t care what you think—croaked with perfect comedic timing.

Pansy sighed, clearly trying to keep a straight face. “Well, happy birthday, Time Goblin.

Pansy arched an eyebrow. “Look, it’s not that unusual, alright? Some kids start at eleven, some start at twelve. Your mother probably just sent you a year later. It happens. Don’t go thinking you’re some freak of time travel or something. It’s just a delayed entrance, not a spell gone wrong.”

I blinked. “So, you’re telling me I’m not a magical time anomaly?”

Pansy waved her hand dismissively. “No, you’re just a late bloomer. Nothing more, nothing less.”

And somewhere, beneath the chaos and crumbs, a birthday began. Not quite how I expected—but exactly on time.

George’s POV

It was a perfectly ordinary breakfast at the Gryffindor table—meaning Fred and I were plotting something that would either make us legends or get us banned from the Great Hall entirely—when Alex ruined everything by announcing it was her birthday.

Sort of.

“I didn’t know,” she said, poking at her toast like it had personally betrayed her. “I thought we were still in early March. Spring showed up so fast. I’ve barely caught up with February. Time is a suggestion.”

Fred dropped his fork with an audible clang. “You what?”

“You forgot your own birthday?” I squawked. “Who does that?!”

“I wasn’t expecting to forget,” she said, shrugging like she hadn’t just shattered our entire schedule of birthday pranks and chaos. “I mean, I only just figured out what day it was because my toast came with an owl and confetti.”

“You got owls and still didn’t notice?!” Lee looked personally betrayed, mid-chew. “What are you, a cursed changeling?”

“Unconfirmed,” Alex muttered, sipping her pumpkin juice.

Fred clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. “You do realize we didn’t have time to prepare anything. No birthday pranks. No glitter bombs. No mysteriously vanishing biscuits.”

Alex blinked. “Oh no,” she said flatly. “How will I go on?”

Pansy, sitting nearby and pretending not to be invested, rolled her eyes so hard they nearly fell into her eggs. “She’s an Aries. This chaos is textbook.”

That made Alex sit up straighter. “I’m a what?”

“Aries,” Pansy said, stabbing a sausage. “March 21st makes you the very first sign in the zodiac. All fire, no patience, dramatic entrances, and—you guessed it—chronological confusion.”

Fred and I exchanged looks. “Oi, we’re Aries too.”

“Well that explains everything,” Alex said, gesturing wildly. “A triple Aries catastrophe. The Ministry should be warned.”

Pansy gave a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, I’m surrounded.”

“It’s not our fault we’re the best sign,” Fred said smugly.

“The most combustible,” Pansy muttered.

“I take offense to that,” I said, grinning. “We’re spirited.”

“You tried to set the curtains on fire last week because they looked at you funny.”

Fred shrugged. “Spirited.”

Alex leaned back, arms crossed, eyes glittering with mischief. “Look, I didn’t mean to skip my birthday. I just didn’t realize time was real.”

“Well, it is,” I said. “And now we owe you one epic belated birthday surprise.”

“No pressure,” Alex said sweetly. “But I expect mild chaos by lunch.”

Fred was already scribbling something devious on a napkin. “Lunch? Please. You’ll regret that by Transfiguration.”

Lee raised a toast. “To Alex. The Aries menace none of us were ready for.”

And just like that, breakfast was no longer ordinary. It was hers.

George’s POV

Throwing a surprise party with three hours of prep, no adult supervision, and absolutely no permission from anyone is exactly what Mum would call “a catastrophic waste of potential.”

Which, obviously, meant we had to do it.

“She forgot her own birthday,” I told Fred solemnly. “We can’t let that stand.”

“She’s Aries,” Fred said, nodding gravely, “and therefore demands fire, flair, and at least one exploding object.”

“Possibly edible.”

“And possibly illegal.”

Lee, leaning against the common room fireplace like the ghost of chaos future, added, “Also: you two turn fourteen on April first, right?”

“We do.”

“So you’re technically the same age as Alex for ten whole days?”

Fred and I turned slowly to each other, eyes wide with horror and possibility.

“This is dangerous knowledge,” I said.

“She’ll never survive.”

“She’s going to love it,” Lee smirked. “Or hex you. Possibly both.”

So we raided Zonko’s and the kitchens like two very determined pixies with a mission. Fred charmed the jellybeans to change flavour mid-chew and explode in small, nonlethal sparkles if you lied while eating them. I borrowed (liberated) a cauldron cake big enough to smother a Hufflepuff. Lee somehow convinced the house-elves to part with an entire tray of treacle tart, six bottles of butterbeer, and what I swear was a suspiciously intelligent sausage roll named Kevin.

“Kevin has demands,” Lee told us. “Mostly butter.”

By the time we dragged Alex to the old Quidditch shed behind the pitch—blindfolded, mildly suspicious, and muttering about how Aries don’t like surprises unless they’re the ones planning them—we were ready.

“Ta-da!” Fred shouted as the door opened and confetti (accidentally charmed to be mildly sticky) rained down.

Alex blinked. “Is it snowing... jam?”

“Shut up, it’s festive,” I said.

There were streamers made of licorice whips, enchanted balloons that sang different Hogwarts songs (simultaneously, off-key), and a large banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU TEMPORARY THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD NIGHTMARE in glittering slime ink.

“You remembered!” Alex gasped.

“You forgot,” Fred corrected.

“Same difference,” she said, grinning like we’d just handed her a flaming sword.

We shoved a handful of chaotic jellybeans into her hand and watched as she popped one into her mouth.

“Favourite professor?” I demanded.

“Flitwick.”

BOOM. Small shower of pink glitter. Her hair now smelled like treacle.

“She’s lying!” Fred crowed. “It’s definitely Snape!”

“It’s definitely not Snape,” Alex spluttered, half laughing, half glowing.

“You’ll get used to the sparkling,” Lee said wisely. “It’s part of Aries puberty.”

The real disaster began when Fred challenged her to a birthday prank duel.

“Rules are simple,” he announced, hopping onto the table. “Each contestant gets two spells, no actual maiming, winner gets the last cauldron cake slice and bragging rights until next Tuesday.”

Alex narrowed her eyes. “Can I use the frog powder?”

Fred hesitated. “You brought the frog powder?”

“I never don’t have frog powder.”

“Bloody hell,” I muttered. “She’s going to destroy us.”

Fred bowed like a doomed gentleman. “Bring it on, birthday menace.”

I don’t remember exactly what happened after she cast Ribbito Maximus and turned Fred’s robes into a choir of amphibians mid-song, but I do remember Lee shrieking, “Oh Merlin, it’s the Toad Opera of ’88 all over again!”

Then Alex slipped on a rogue licorice streamer, accidentally fired a spark at the butterbeer fountain, and the entire room filled with a sweet, fizzy fog of celebratory chaos.

We all coughed, cheered, and took turns declaring each other “officially unfit for responsibility.”

“By the way,” Fred said, grinning through the syrup mist, “you know we turn fourteen in ten days?”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“That means we’re the same age right now.”

“For ten days,” I said, helpfully. “A rare cosmic alignment. Like Mars retrograde. Or four gnomes forming a pyramid.”

“You’re the weirdest twins alive,” Alex said fondly.

“Don’t get used to it,” Fred said. “On April first, we go back to being older, wiser, and tragically more handsome.”

“You were never more handsome,” she said, licking butterbeer from her fingers. “Just louder.”

“Acceptable,” I nodded.

Lee raised his drink like a toastmaster at a drunken wedding. “To Alex: birthday surprise destroyer, frog powder queen, and temporary twin. May her Aries rage never run out of sparkles.”

We all drank, even Kevin the sausage roll (he rolled smugly into the butter pile).

And in that messy, syrupy, glittery room, something settled. Friendship. Laughter. A bit of chaos—just the right amount.

It was a disaster of a party.

Which, obviously, meant it was perfect.

Alex’s POV

Somewhere between the butterbeer fog and the jellybean carnage, I found myself sitting cross-legged on a conjured tartan blanket, limbs sticky with sugar and dignity in shambles. The licorice banner still dangled from the ceiling like a drunk bat, flickering HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NIGHTMARE! in ominous glitter-slime. A cupcake was stuck to my left shoe.

I think we were in the old Quidditch shed behind the pitch.

Or I was hallucinating from butterbeer fumes and emotional whiplash.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t dare.

Fred and George were whispering like secret agents behind a tower of half-eaten tarts, casting side-eye glances at me that could only mean two things: (1) trouble, and (2) probably more trouble.

Lee was lying dramatically across a poofy armchair like a lounge singer recovering from heartbreak, narrating the evening like some omniscient celestial gossip.

“And so, dear listeners,” he said to no one and everyone, “we arrive at the sentimental portion of our program. If any of you still have hearts, now’s the time to clutch them.”

“Pipe down, Lovegood,” Fred called.

“Wrong Lee,” Lee said mildly, sipping butterbeer.

George elbowed Fred and cleared his throat with all the seriousness of a wizard about to confess a crime or perform a violin solo. Instead, he handed me a folded piece of parchment, edges soft from being opened and refolded.

“I thought,” he said, suddenly bashful, “you might want to see what you look like when you’re not drawing everyone else.”

I opened it.

And promptly forgot how lungs worked.

It was a sketch of me—charcoal and charm, wild hair and suspicious eyes, frog powder smudged on one cheek, a quill behind my ear. And on the page, I was laughing. Not smirking or plotting or hiding something, but actually laughing. Someone had caught me mid-chaos, and turned it into something permanent.

Something… real.

“Oh,” I whispered.

George shoved a hand through his hair and mumbled, “It’s not perfect, obviously—Fred moved your elbow and Lee kept talking about dramatic shadows, which wasn’t helpful—”

“It’s perfect,” I said, voice wobbling like a treacle tart on a broomstick. “It’s stupidly perfect. I hate you.”

He grinned.

Fred dropped a box in my lap. “And I made you this.”

“Oh no,” I said, because that tone always precedes combustion.

But it wasn’t a prank.

Well, not exactly.

Inside the box was a folded bit of parchment and a tiny, enchanted brass disc etched with constellations. The stars shimmered, moving slowly in their places. When I tapped it, they rearranged into a tiny glowing map of the sky above Hogwarts. A swirling pinprick of light hovered just off the map’s edge.

“That one’s you,” Fred said. “Always a bit sideways.”

I snorted.

He pointed to the note. “It’s got a sticking charm. You can hang it by your bed. It shows where the stars are each night. So you don’t forget where you are.”

He hesitated.

“Even if you forget when you were born.”

And just like that, everything blurred.

My throat went tight. My nose betrayed me first, followed swiftly by my eyes. I refused to sob in front of the chaos trio. Absolutely not. But my face was doing that thing. That terrible emotional crumple that sneaks up behind you like a hug with claws.

I looked down at the map, watched my little light shimmer awkwardly in the corner.

A year.

I’d really lost a whole year.

I was thirteen. Not twelve. Not eleven. Not thirty. Just… thirteen. Just a girl. A moody, paint-splattered, frog-hoarding, weirdly tearful girl with a sketchbook and star map and the most inconvenient hormone surge known to wizardkind.

I didn’t feel like an adult anymore. Not even a little. I hadn’t in a while. But this—this sealed it.

I was soft and shaken and inexplicably sticky.

“Oi,” Lee said, sitting upright with sudden concern. “Is she crying or just leaking glitter again?”

“I never leak glitter,” I snapped, nose sniffling. “That was once. One time.”

“Emotional leakage is common in Aries,” George added, mock-solemn. “Classic fire sign drama.”

“Excuse you,” I said, pointing the star map at him like a weapon. “You’re Aries too.”

“Exactly,” Fred said. “We know the symptoms. We’ve been thirteen before.”

“Ten glorious days of cosmic equality,” George declared. “All of us raging hormone disasters together.”

I laughed—an undignified, snot-adjacent laugh—and flopped backward onto the blanket.

“Thanks,” I said to the ceiling, to the boys, to the possibly sentient room. “For the chaos. And the... everything.”

Fred lay down beside me, arms behind his head. “Anytime, Star Goblin.”

George stretched out on my other side. “Next year we’re getting you fireworks.”

“Big ones,” Lee added, hopping onto the armrest again. “Possibly dragon-shaped.”

“And illegal,” Fred said, nodding.

“Obviously,” George echoed.

And under the lazy swirl of enchanted stars, tangled in cake crumbs and quiet magic, I felt the last bit of my past life slip loose.

I wasn’t lost anymore.

Just orbiting something new.

And maybe—just maybe—I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Spotify for Slytherins & the Maybe-Just-a-Peek Forest (Where I’m Absolutely Not Going)

Alex’s POV

If you’ve never tried to explain Spotify to a wizard born before plumbing was standardized, let me tell you—it ranks somewhere between explaining memes to a Dementor and teaching a Hippogriff to moonwalk. But desperate times call for desperate charmers.

It was mid-May at Hogwarts, that strange, hormonal time of year when the castle smells faintly of blooming honeysuckle, overcooked homework, and teen angst. Since my birthday in March, time had started sprinting like it owed someone galleons—between pranks with the Weasley twins, weekly detentions with Lee Jordan (we're building character, clearly), and Pansy’s dungeon drama sessions, I barely had time to breathe, let alone reflect.

And yet here I was, lurking like a stylish gargoyle in the doorway of Professor Flitwick’s office.

His office looked exactly how you’d imagine a Charms Master’s space to look if it were also doubling as a magical hoarder’s paradise. Shelves sagged under the weight of enchanted baubles, a jar of sentient quills argued with a music box, and somewhere in the corner, a pile of scrolls snored gently. There was a chandelier made entirely of floating lanterns, swaying as if to a tune only it could hear. The whole place gave “eccentric grandfather’s attic meets arcane boutique.”

Flitwick himself was humming merrily as he stacked midterm parchments into something that resembled the Leaning Tower of Academic Despair. The parchment gave a low groan, like it knew it was doomed. He patted it fondly. I waited, wand twirling in my fingers like I had a dramatic monologue to deliver.

“Er—Professor Flitwick?”

He looked up, blinking like I’d just apparated in from another realm. “Miss Rosier! What brings you here at this hour? Plotting another spectacularly inadvisable prank, I presume?”

I gasped. “Professor! I’m wounded. That you would even suggest such a thing. I come today as a humble academic.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Well, now you have my curiosity.”

I stepped between the desks, ducking under a low-hanging lantern that tried to bump into my bun like it wanted to start a duel. I leaned on the edge of his desk, all innocent menace and negotiation flair.

“So. Hypothetically—very hypothetically—if someone wanted to, say, trap a memory of a song inside a magical object... how illegal are we talking?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Trap a memory? Oh, my dear girl, not illegal at all—provided it’s done properly.” His mustache gave a delighted shimmy. “You’re talking about Auditory Memory Preservation! Exceptionally obscure. Wildly unstable. Absolutely riveting!”

Bingo.

I smiled like a Niffler eyeing a vault door slightly ajar. “Perfect. So what would you recommend? Pensieves are a bit... cauldron-chic. Doesn’t really go with my whole aesthetic.”

Flitwick let out a gleeful laugh and hopped off his pile of books to rummage through a cabinet labeled "Objects That Definitely Shouldn’t Explode." He pulled out what looked like a glass marble tangled in silver runes.

“A Whisperglass. Or, if you're feeling flashy, a Singing Mirror—though be warned, those have been known to sass back.”

I held the Whisperglass. It vibrated like it had gossip it was dying to spill. Possibly a baroque breakup ballad from the 1500s.

“Now,” he continued, “you’ll need two charms: Memoracantus to extract the song from memory, and Sonoravivo to embed it. But beware—any emotional static, and you might end up storing a memory of someone yelling about missing laundry instead of your favourite tune.”

“So emotional karaoke with a side of magical chaos,” I mused, scribbling it all down like a musical mad scientist.

“Exactly! And if you engrave your name into it with Ars-Nomina, it’ll only play for you. Quite handy. Also borderline creepy. But I imagine you’re not new to that.”

I gave him the most suspiciously innocent face I could muster. “Moi? I am the very picture of restraint.”

He gave me the look. You know the one—the teacher look that says, “You remind me of someone I both adored and considered magically gluing to a chair.”

“Practice on something non-magical first. And do not—and I cannot emphasize this enough—do not embed music into a dungbomb.”

“Absolutely. Of course.” (Note to self: no “Dancing Queen” dungbombs. Yet.)

“And if I wanted a playlist?”

“Link several objects with sequencing runes, or enchant a mirror for display. Requires one memory thread per song and a stable emotional focus.”

I practically glowed. I was one heartbreak away from becoming the Hogwarts bard.

“You’re a genius, Professor. A true visionary.”

He waved a hand like a celebrity waving off paparazzi. “Oh, go on.”

“No, really. I owe you a chocolate frog per rune.”

“Make it five and I won’t ask what Lee Jordan did to the suits of armor.”

“Done.”

I curtsied like a French noble with a secret vendetta and was halfway out the door when he called, “And Miss Rosier—”

I turned, already preparing a defense.

“No musical pranks involving bathrooms, yes?”

I beamed. “No promises.”

Behind me, I swear I heard him mutter, “Just like young Sirius Black before Azkaban…”

And honestly? That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

***

Draco’s POV

There is a particular kind of humiliation that only occurs when your shoes start singing “God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs” in three-part harmony while tap-dancing across the Slytherin common room. It's worse when Crabbe starts clapping along like it’s a bloody concert and Goyle tries to hum the tune with the enthusiasm of a concussed Bludger.

Which is how I found myself today: soggy, betrayed, and extremely aware that one of my socks was now harmonizing in falsetto.

Across the common room—lounging like they owned the place, which to be fair, Rosier technically did by bloodline—sat the culprits. Alexandra Rosier and Pansy Parkinson. The Dynamic Dunderheads. Or, as I’d started calling them in the privacy of my diary (yes, I keep one, and no, you may not look): The Menace and the Giggle.

Alexandra had her legs tucked beneath her, wand in one hand, a tiny silver mirror in the other. She was squinting at it with the kind of feral determination usually reserved for Aurors and small children trying to lie about breaking expensive vases. The mirror was glowing faintly and occasionally gave off the unmistakable sound of a saxophone being murdered.

“This,” she muttered, “will be my masterpiece.”

Pansy snorted beside her and leaned back with the languid satisfaction of a queen who just ordered a public beheading. “You’re lucky Draco doesn’t hex people with better aim. He can’t even hit a kneazle in a barrel.”

I opened my mouth, somewhere between outrage and dramatic declaration, but Alexandra didn’t even glance up.

“Be nice, Pansy. He’s having a musical awakening.”

I could not believe this. “Rosier, if my sock starts tap-dancing again, I will write to my father. He’ll have you banned from mirrors for life.”

“Oh no,” she said, deadpan. “Not Lucius and his terrifying cheekbones.”

Pansy laughed so hard she wheezed, and I glared at both of them with all the ancestral disdain twelve years of breeding could summon. Honestly. You’d think being friends with the daughter of a dead Death Eater would carry more gravitas. But no. Alexandra Rosier made chaos look like a lifestyle brand. She was weird, in that slightly charming, highly deranged way—friends with Weasleys of all people. Blood traitors. Walking coupons for poverty.

And yet.

I could sort of see why the older students tolerated her. She had pedigree, sure, but she also had this peculiar brilliance—half show-off, half savant. And she was better than Granger in at least four classes, which frankly made her a national treasure. That bushy-haired mudblood was insufferable, correcting everyone as if she'd been personally hired by Salazar Slytherin to patrol grammar.

“I’m just saying,” Pansy said now, tilting her head in a way that made her curls bounce in that particularly cute fashion that I refused to comment on aloud, “next time we prank him, we should enchant his prefect badge to say ‘Whiny Prince’.”

“I’m not a prefect,” I muttered.

“Yet,” said Alexandra sweetly. “But we believe in you. Sort of. Not emotionally, but in the tragic sense.”

Zabini, the human smirk in velvet, slid into the frame like he thought he was in a French romance. He perched beside Alexandra, arm draped oh-so-casually behind her on the sofa.

“That’s very ambitious of you, Alex,” he purred. “Inventing a spell to trap music in a mirror. I could compose something for it—maybe a love sonnet?”

“Only if it ends with a scream and a police report,” Alexandra replied, not even blinking.

Pansy giggled again, and Zabini looked mildly offended, like someone had suggested he eat toast without truffle oil.

Crabbe let out a confused noise that may have meant “Where’s the food?” and Goyle tried to lick one of the musical shoes I’d thrown off in disgust.

Theodore Nott, lurking in a corner with a book titled “Curses That Sound Like Compliments,” raised one eyebrow and said nothing. Typical. Observant little gargoyle.

I crossed my arms and sat as far from them as dignity would allow, which admittedly wasn’t far. “You know, if this is how you treat your future House leader, I shudder to think what you’d do to actual enemies.”

“Darling,” said Pansy, “if you ever do become House leader, we’ll prank you with respect.”

“That’s not how respect works.”

“Clearly,” Alexandra added, “you’ve never been respected before.”

I hated them. I hated them with the fire of a thousand howlers.

I also, vaguely, might have liked them. A little. Possibly. If one were feeling charitable and had been hit on the head recently.

But mostly, I wanted my shoes back. And maybe some earplugs.

The mirror on Alexandra’s lap gave a burp of static and played a haunting rendition of “I Will Survive” in goblin jazz. She grinned, eyes gleaming with triumph.

Pansy leaned into her, laughing as Alexandra whispered something mischievous. The two of them looked like chaos in matching ribbons.

And as the mirror belted another verse, I sighed.

Hogwarts had gone completely mad.

And I was definitely telling my father.

***

Luna’s POV

The chair was humming again.
Not singing—humming. Off-key. In German. Possibly Bavarian? The vowels were skiing downhill and colliding with consonants like flustered goats at an alpine yodeling championship. I think it was Hot N Cold, but as interpreted by a teapot having an identity crisis. A very steamy one. Existentially so.

I watched from the doorway, clutching my wand and a small bouquet of moon snail shells I’d rescued from behind the greenhouse. They might summon prophetic dreams or induce mild hallucinations of wise toads. Or maybe they were just nice to hold. Some things don’t need a purpose. Like elbows. Or jazz.

Inside the room, Alexandra Rosier was arguing with her mirror again. She called it the Whisperglass, but I was almost certain its true name was something more tragic. Like Gertrude the Unwilling Reflection Trap.

It gleamed with the haunted glare of someone who’s just been told their aura clashes with their shoes. A glint I knew well—it looked like Professor McGonagall’s expression whenever I tried to explain the metaphysical rights of flobberworms.

Alex muttered something. “Okay. Again. Memoracantus.”

Flash. Pop. Poof.
The air filled with smoke and… coconut? And maybe scorched ego.

The mirror burped. Loudly. The frog plushie on the desk looked personally betrayed. The chair began vibrating like it had just remembered its criminal past.

“It sounds,” I offered helpfully, “like a gnome gargling lemonade while performing a minor tax fraud.”

Alex let out a screech—like a banshee who’d just stepped on LEGO. She whirled around, wand up, hair frizzed, eyes wide.

“LUNA!” she panted. “You can’t just waft in like a cryptid at a séance!”

I tilted my head. “I wafted gently. Like an emotionally complex feather.”

“You wafted with intent!”

“Maybe just a hint of mystical foreboding,” I admitted. “Like when the pumpkin juice fizzes and no one knows why.”

She looked completely scrambled. Ink-smudged sleeves, rainbow-taped charms book barely held together by willpower and caffeine, and her hair doing the thing—that swoopy, tragic thing—that meant she’d told three lies and eaten someone’s last treacle tart.

I liked her like this. Chaotic. Glorious. Like a comet going through a breakup.

“I was looking for my kneazle tooth,” I explained. “It escapes when I’m distracted. Also, I heard you were trying to teach a mirror to play Muggle music, and I thought: what a splendid idea. Have you tried bribing it with compliments?”

She blinked. “You’re not even a little weirded out that I’m using unstable memory charms and cereal box runes to build a magical Spotify?”

I smiled. “My aunt once trapped a lullaby in a sugar cube. It only sang if you stirred it into turnip soup counterclockwise while humming ‘Greensleeves’ in Morse code.”

Alex blinked again. Like I’d just handed her a sentence wearing a tutu and reciting Hamlet.

“Well,” she said at last, gesturing to the mess, “welcome to Hogwarts Spotify: held together by desperation, glitter glue, and abject denial.”

We got to work. Or at least a distant cousin of work who’d failed several exams.

Mostly, I flirted with the mirror. Whispered sweet nothings like, “Gertrude, darling, show me your frequencies.” Meanwhile, Alex grumbled in French, swore in musical notation, and tried not to set the room on fire.

At one point, I added a pinch of moonstone dust and the concept of rhythm. She said that wasn’t how rhythm worked. I said rhythm was a mood, and then I hissed at the mirror like I was its tax auditor.

Eventually, something happened. The mirror twitched. Sighed. And burped out a synth riff like a ghost trying to remember the 80s.

I clapped. “Haunted nightclub energy! Très chic!”

Alex groaned into a cushion. “At this rate, I’m going to summon the ghost of disco past.”

“If you use cinnamon, you might,” I said. “Ghosts are mad for cinnamon.”

She wisely let that slide.

Eventually, she flopped to the floor like a dramatic octopus finishing a performance piece.

“I used to think I was a reincarnated genius,” she mumbled into the carpet, “trapped in the body of a tragic eleven-year-old. But now I laugh at fart charms and cry at magical girl comics. I think I’m becoming... thirteen.”

I nodded. “You don’t feel like a grown-up trapped in a child. You feel like a song that forgot how to dance but is remembering the chorus.”

Her soul blinked. Her actual soul. I saw it. Right behind her eyes, doing jazz hands.

“That’s… weird. But beautiful,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said. “You’re just tuning.”

We sat in silence. Not boring silence. It was the kind of silence that tiptoes and hums and possibly plots how to become fog.

Then she turned to me. “Why don’t you always come with us? Me, Fred, George, Lee… the Agents of Nonsense. You’d be perfect. Probably Agent Moonbeam.”

“Oh, I like you all,” I said, “especially you. You have the energy of a feral pixie in couture.”

“That feels accurate.”

“But I like quiet too. Not the sad kind. The delicious kind. I like to sit in the soup, you know?”

She blinked. “...You mean like, emotionally?”

“No. Literally. But also spiritually. It’s easier to stir the cauldron when you’re not the one boiling.”

She stared. “That’s either genius or completely bonkers.”

“Why not both?” I said, and wiggled my eyebrows like a mischievous squirrel.

We laughed until the chair joined in with a bassline that sounded like a walrus doing spoken word in Berlin.

Then, solemnly, I pulled a tiny flask of Butterbeer from my sock. (Socks are nature’s pockets.) I let a single drop fall on the runes. The mirror shivered. Warbled.

And sang.

Britney. Glorious, celestial Britney.

Alex screamed like someone had just told her her hair was made of fireworks and she could fly. “OH MY GODRIC’S SUSPENDERS. LUNA. IT. WORKED.”

I nodded like a wise goose. “Butterbeer is good for heartbreak. And pop music.”

We danced.

Like pixies at a roller derby. Like meteors with glitter. Like two weird girls whose hearts beat sideways to the same impossible beat.

Later, we collapsed on the floor. She had ancient rune dust in her eyelashes and stardust in her hair. I had a frog plushie on my head and absolutely no regrets.

She stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed her. “Do you… miss your mum sometimes?”

Her voice was very small. Like a secret folding itself into a paper crane.

“I mean,” she said, “I feel like I miss my dad. But mostly the idea of him. He’s a blank I keep coloring in with guesses.”

I thought about it. Let the quiet float between us like a sleepy balloon.

“It’s like that for me too,” I said. “They say I look like my mum. But how can you look like a stranger? I don’t remember her. Just… warm noises. A certain kind of laugh. Sometimes I dream of bubbles that hum when they pop, and I think maybe that was her magic.”

Alex turned to me. Her eyes weren’t fire this time. They were the soft kind of starlight. The kind that watches from far away but still glows just for you.

“You’re allowed to miss him,” I said. “Even if you never met him. Even if he wasn’t perfect. He left behind you. And you’re a magnificent sort of disaster. In the best way.”

She made a face like she might cry or hiccup or combust. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“I know,” I said proudly.

We lay there, barely touching fingers, while the Whisperglass crooned a slightly haunted remix of Toxic. It was… perfectly off-key.

Some friendships sing.
Others hum.
Mine with Alex?
It swoons.

And sometimes it sparkles when no one’s looking.

***

George’s POV

There are few sounds more glorious than a prank detonating perfectly across a packed corridor. It’s a symphony, really—a crescendo of screams, enchanted explosions, and the delicate thwack of a Slytherin prefect getting slapped in the face by a flying custard tart.

But the crown jewel? The pièce de résistance?
Fred and I cackling like deranged warlocks as we sprinted away from the carnage like two highly attractive, prematurely greying criminals who moonlighted as folk heroes.

“Oi!” Lee gasped, flinging himself behind a tapestry like it owed him money. “I think I saw Filch’s left eyebrow catch fire—was that part of the plan?!”

“No,” I wheezed between snorts of laughter, “but it’s a delightful bonus. Someone write that down.”

We tumbled into the nearest alcove, clutching our sides. My lungs had given up entirely, filing an official complaint with the rest of my organs. My eyes were watering, probably from the smoke, or maybe from sheer artistic pride. Who’s to say?

And then she arrived.

Like the final act in an opera nobody rehearsed but still brought the house down, she swirled into the alcove in a blur of ink-stained sleeves, combat boots, and that ridiculous little top hat she’d bewitched to tip itself every time someone said “bloody hell.” It saluted Lee immediately.

Alexandra Rosier. Thirteen years old, armed with charm, lunacy, and lace gloves laced with actual hexes. Possibly a war crime in three countries. Almost definitely the reason the magical Department of Public Safety was wildly over budget.

Her smile could only be described as pure evil and glitter.

“You’re welcome,” she announced, like a chaos deity accepting applause from mortals.

“Still not convinced you’re not a time-traveling pop star with a vendetta against public order,” Fred muttered, breathless and possibly in love.

She plopped down beside me with the kind of casual disregard for rules that could get you a statue in Diagon Alley. “You’re lucky I’m helping you rebrand,” she said, swiping soot off her boots. “Otherwise, you’d still be known as ‘Those Loud Ginger Menaces With No Melody.’”

“Oi, we’re plenty melodic,” I said, valiantly ignoring the fact that her shoulder had just bumped mine and now my entire left side was vibrating like a Bludger in heat. “We harmonised that Dungbomb jingle beautifully.”

“You rhymed ‘underpants’ with ‘explodes,’” she deadpanned.

“And it brought tears to a first-year’s eyes,” I countered proudly.

“Yeah,” she said, “from gas exposure.”

Honestly. The girl was relentless. A walking hurricane of sarcasm, musical sorcery, and very expensive stationery. The kind of stationery that looks at your quill like it’s a peasant. She’d probably hexed her parchment to insult us in French.

We’d spent the last three days refining her latest invention: a charmed Muggle music mirror, synched to the twins’ master prank schedule. It was a collaborative effort—a sickeningly effective alliance that would absolutely get us expelled if anyone ever figured out how many hallway security charms we’d bypassed. (Answer: all of them. We gave Peeves a fruit basket to cause a distraction.)

Each track was strategically selected to amplify the chaos. High drama. Maximum irony. And this time?

Britney.

“Oops!... I Did It Again” began at the exact moment Filch opened his confiscated items drawer and triggered the Reverse-Shrieking Taffy. It shrieked. In soprano. In French.

You haven’t truly lived until you’ve witnessed Argus Filch slow-dancing with Mrs Norris while glitter cannons explode and Britney Spears belts through a magical mirror that projects sparkles in time with the beat. At one point he tried to scream, but all that came out was a high C and some smoke.

“I’m still haunted by how sensual that choreography got,” Lee said, leaning back against the wall with the expression of a man who’s seen too much and not enough all at once.

“Mrs Norris did twirls,” Fred whispered, horrified.

“She had a ribbon,” I added.

“She had a plan,” Alexandra said darkly. “That cat knows things. She and Salazar Slytherin’s ghost would’ve shared a flat and a fondness for plotting.”

Fred suddenly grabbed Alex’s mirror and flipped it closed, like it was a cursed object. “I need this out of my sight. I’m developing performance anxiety just being near it.”

“Good,” Alex replied. “That means the magic’s working.”

There was a long pause where none of us quite knew what to say. Probably because the distant echoes of Britney were still vibrating through the walls like Hogwarts itself was humming the chorus.

And then Fred said it.

“New rule,” he croaked. “Every prank from now on must feature a soundtrack.”

Lee nodded solemnly. “Preferably one that mentally scars at least three professors.”

“I want to see Snape experience Céline Dion,” I said.

Alex’s eyes lit up with a terrifying kind of joy. “The Power of Love during Double Potions.”

“I will literally sell my soul to make that happen,” Fred said.

“You already did,” Lee pointed out. “To that charmed toilet seat in second year.”

“Details,” Fred said, waving him off.

I just glanced sideways at Alex, who was fiddling with her wand and humming under her breath like this was all part of a divine and highly illegal symphony. My hair still smelled like taffy. My brain was still recovering from the trauma of Filch attempting a jazz hand. And yet, somehow, my eyes kept drifting back to her.

It wasn’t weird.

She just had that look again—mischievous, a little unhinged, like she was about to convince the ceiling to declare war on gravity. That grin of hers was the kind of thing that made professors suspicious and Lee whisper “uh-oh” under his breath.

Totally normal to be impressed by your new best mate’s ability to charm a bookshelf into beatboxing.

Not feelings.

Definitely not that.

Just... high-quality admiration. Respect. Curiosity, maybe.

I scratched my ear. Possibly heatstroke.

Yep. That must be it. Moving on.

“Right,” Lee gasped. “We wait five more minutes, then leg it to the Great Hall. Blend in with the lunch rush. Act natural.”

Fred was peering around the edge of the tapestry like a spy with commitment issues. “Filch is sniffing the air like he can smell sin.”

“I brushed my teeth this morning,” I muttered. “So if he catches us, it’s not on me. Blame Fred. He uses that minty toothpaste that screams ‘guilty conscience.’”

Alex was lounging like she had all the time in the world and none of the warrants. She had pulled out the mirror again—not to check her reflection, mind you, but to verify that her enchanted playlist hadn’t gone rogue and summoned an impromptu rave in the Herbology greenhouses. With a single elegant flick, she adjusted a rune like she was conducting a scandal instead of a symphony.

Honestly, if she weren’t thirteen, terrifying, and probably on at least three secret watchlists, I’d have married her on the spot.

Without looking up, she said, “By the way, McGonagall is headed this way.”

Cue internal screaming.
Also external screaming. I made a noise like a very stressed kettle.

“Abort plan! Evasive maneuvers!” I whisper-yelled, trying to flatten myself against the wall like a guilty portrait pretending to be a landscape.

But it was already too late.

She turned the corner like a cat in tartan robes, eyes gleaming with generational disappointment and the unmistakable aura of someone who had absolutely had it. Her expression could have curdled milk and emotionally bankrupted a Slytherin.

“Weasley twins. Jordan. Rosier.”
Oh no. She was using the official tone. The one that came with ancient Scottish legal consequences and possibly bagpipes of doom.

“Care to explain the musical debacle currently causing an actual stampede in the third-floor corridor?”

Alex rose like a villainess from a gothic novel who’d just won custody of a haunted castle. She straightened her sleeves, smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from her gloves, and delivered a smile that could sell illegal unicorn glitter in seven countries.

“Professor,” she said, voice sugared and lethal, “I’d be delighted to clarify.”

Oh god. Not the Barrister Ballet.

“First,” she began, sounding like she’d swallowed a whole courtroom and two civil liberties, “none of us were within physical proximity of the explosion. In fact, I was conducting a vocal memory rune trial. Purely theoretical. Entirely educational. And, crucially, well within the parameters of non-destructive experimental charmwork as defined by the Hogwarts Conduct Charter, subsection thirteen, clause—”

McGonagall’s eyebrow arched with enough power to bend time. I swear it judged me.

“And the music?” she asked, voice colder than a Dementor’s armpit.

“A coincidence,” Alex said, with such faux-gravity I almost clapped. “An unfortunate overlap triggered by harmonic resonance within the dungeon’s echo frequency. You know, the way certain basilisk skeletons used to hum during thunder season?”

What.

Fred blinked. She’s making that up, he mouthed.

And it’s WORKING, I mouthed back, already mentally drafting her campaign for Minister for Magic.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed into tiny tartan daggers. “You just cited a banned Transfiguration thesis.”

Alex placed a hand over her heart like she was about to break into a power ballad. “Only for context, Professor. As an example of comparative magical acoustics. Cross-disciplinary scholarship, really.”

The silence that followed was so tense you could’ve bottled it and used it to silence Peeves for a week.

Finally—

“Fine,” McGonagall snapped, with the weary finality of a woman who knew she was outnumbered by idiots. “But if I so much as hear another charmed rendition of—whatever that was—I’ll transfigure your shoes into toads and personally conduct your detention in interpretive clog dancing until graduation.”

She swept away like a vengeance storm in sensible heels.

We stared after her, stunned and slightly afraid.

Lee let out a long, reverent breath. “That girl’s going to be Minister for Magic. Or the reason the Ministry burns down. Possibly both.”

Fred turned to me, eyes still wide. “You alright, mate?”

I nodded mutely, like a man who’d just watched a teacup do the can-can and explain quantum theory. Alex was tucking her mirror back into her bag with the casual grace of someone who’d definitely orchestrated at least three coups in past lives.

There was just... something about her.

Not in a mushy way. No fluttering. No slow-motion hair flips. Just this weird, electric awareness that she existed, and kept doing things that made my brain go wait, what?

Like casually turning a rogue frog orchestra into a borderline religious experience. Or knowing the exact difference between Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and the lesser-known Colombian Surprise Gloom. Or somehow always remembering I liked the corner seat in the library, without ever mentioning it.

She looked over and smirked. “George. Your shoe’s smoking.”

I blinked down. Yep. One of the frogs had combusted. My sock was now enthusiastically smouldering.

Fred wheezed, doubled over. “You’re gonna lose a toe!”

Alex shrugged one dainty shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

We stumbled toward the Great Hall in various states of disbelief, pride, and mild fire damage.

Lee muttered something about “aural sabotage and emotional scarring.”

Fred kept side-eyeing Alex like she might burst into interpretive dance and reveal Hogwarts’ darkest secrets.

And me?

I was limping slightly, brain full of static, and very much not wondering how on earth we’d gone this long without her.

She was our honorary twin now. Our chaos co-captain.

That was it. No deeper meaning.

Just admiration. And maybe a bit of awe. And possibly the irrational suspicion that Hogwarts had tilted slightly on its axis when she walked in.

But that’s normal.

Perfectly normal.

Probably.

Maybe.

...Anyway, the frog fire was definitely the priority here.

***

Alex’s POV

Let it be known: I am a prophet. A seer. A misunderstood oracle swaddled in sarcasm and silk. Cassandra reincarnated, if Cassandra had better hair and a keen sense for other people’s idiocy.

Because when I heard Draco Malfoy whisper “I think it was a dragon” last night, I didn’t just suspect disaster—I foresaw it with the clarity of a crystal ball and the bitter experience of someone who’s read Hogwarts: A History and annotated the margins with “HA!” and “why are we like this.”

Did anyone listen? No.

And now, here we are: the morning after.

The sun was out. Birds were chirping. Pumpkin juice was offensively tepid. And Draco Malfoy’s dignity had collapsed like a flan in a cupboard.

Pansy and I were draped across the Slytherin bench like two very stylish crows picking at the emotional remains of a friend who’d made life choices so poor, they deserved their own cautionary tale.

“I still can’t believe you actually followed Potter out after curfew,” Pansy purred, sipping tea like it contained secrets. “For a dragon, Draco? You cry when your hair gets frizzy.”

I nearly snorted juice out of my nose. “Not just followed him—joined him. With Granger and Longbottom. It's giving budget fairy tale. ‘The Four Dolts of the Apocalypse.’”

Draco groaned like a soul trapped in a cursed wardrobe. “I thought we’d catch them breaking rules and get them expelled.”

“Oh yes,” I said solemnly, laying a hand on my heart. “A noble crusade. Like the Spanish Inquisition, but with worse posture and more whining.”

Theo Nott, currently doing an excellent impersonation of someone too aloof to care, let out a snort into his porridge. I raised a mental eyebrow. Excellent. He was cracking.

“So let me recap,” I continued, spoon twirling dramatically like I was about to cast Judgementicus Maxima. “You sneak out after curfew—a bold act for someone who once called a bludger ‘barbaric’—you stagger into Hagrid’s Hut, which eternally smells like wet dog and heartbreak, and you find… a dragon?”

Draco lifted his pale, haunted face. “It was a baby dragon.”

“Even worse!” I gasped. “Small, adorable, and capable of roasting your eyebrows like marshmallows.”

Pansy leaned in, eyes gleaming. “So how long did you last before you screamed and ran like a society lady seeing a moth?”

“I didn’t run—”

“He ran,” I interjected, spoon pointed accusingly. “Like a Regency debutante fleeing an unsolicited marriage proposal.”

“I got caught,” Draco snapped. “McGonagall gave us detention. Tonight.”

A collective gasp. I clutched my chest like a widow in a gothic novel. “Not… detention. With Potter?”

“AND Longbottom,” Pansy added, delighted. She was practically glowing with Schadenfreude. If she’d had a fan to flutter, she would’ve fainted with joy.

“And thus ends the Malfoy bloodline,” I declared, arms out like I was conducting a requiem. “First detention, next you’re gardening. In public. Then it’s Weasley jumpers and humility. The descent is swift.”

Theo frowned. “Wait, do you even know what the detention is?”

I leaned back, gazing at the ceiling like it had personally offended me. “Oh, I’m sure it’s something mild. Just a casual evening frolic through the Forbidden Forest. You know, home of giant spiders, homicidal flora, and centaurs with passive-aggressive horoscopes.”

Draco went chalk white.

Pansy choked on her toast. “The Forbidden Forest?!”

“Don’t worry,” I crooned, patting Draco’s hand like I was comforting a fainting goat. “If you’re lucky, you’ll only lose one limb. Maybe your pride, but honestly, that one’s already hanging on by a thread.”

He glared at me with the full fury of a boy who’d just realized nature doesn’t accept Gringotts credit.

“Are you enjoying this?”

“I am feasting.”

And I was. Because frankly, I was thrilled not to be involved in whatever cursed extracurricular the Golden Trio had signed up for this week. I liked my bones unbroken, my bedtime unviolated, and my forests firmly forbidden, thank you very much. There’s a reason the word “forbidden” is in the name. It’s not For-Suggestions Forest. It’s not Maybe-Just-a-Peek Forest. It’s a big, ominous warning wrapped in trees and spider legs.

Besides, if I ever go down for something, it’s going to be funny and possibly musical—not some earnest, mud-covered Gryffindor rite of passage that ends in an endangered creature, light maiming, and a painfully sincere group hug.

And then there was Neville. Sweet, bumbling, doesn’t-deserve-this Neville. If that walking ray of anxious sunshine so much as comes back with a scratch, I will hex Draco Malfoy into a tap-dancing ferret. Again.

Because I know how this goes. I’ve read the signs. The foreshadowing. The drama. The bloody books.

They’re going into the Forbidden Forest. It’s night. There’s a unicorn bleeding somewhere. And Voldemort—yes, Voldemort, currently in his “gaslight, gatekeep, unicorn blood” era—is slurping it up like it’s a cursed smoothie.

So unless Draco’s suddenly learned to duel dark lords with hair gel and passive-aggression, it’s going to be a horrible night.

The moral of the story?

Don’t follow Potter anywhere unless you’ve updated your will, packed a fireproof cloak, and made peace with your gods. Plural.

And definitely don’t do it with Malfoy.

Even I have standards.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: Of Broomstick Marriages and Summer Sadness

Fred’s POV

Detention had never been what you'd call spiritually enriching—unless, of course, you were us. And by “us,” I mean the Unholy Quartet: yours truly, my wombmate and chaos twin George, Lee Jordan (commentary king, mischief tactician, and legal grey area enthusiast), and Alexandra Rosier—a pint-sized Slytherin with the energy of a cursed pixie, the sass of a French aristocrat exiled for being too dramatic, and the mouth of a firewhisky-soaked barrister in full objection mode. She’d recently taken up co-commentating Quidditch matches, where she roasts players so savagely we’ve had to start checking on their self-esteem post-game.

We were in the Trophy Room, sentenced to scrub centuries of Hogwarts history with nothing but elbow grease, shattered dignity, and a bucket of water that hummed when no one was looking. It smelled like mildew and regret. Possibly Peeves had bathed in it. Our crime? A “minor” musical mirror incident featuring Filch’s voice, the school anthem, and forty enchanted mirrors belting in perfectly timed harmony every time someone said “cat.”

Was it worth it? Oh, absolutely. If brilliance had a price, we were happy to pay in detentions, howlers, and future career limitations.

Filch had slunk off somewhere, probably to run the minutes of our crimes by Mrs. Norris or prepare the cauldron for a light Weasley stew—bone-in, extra ginger. That’s when Alexandra Rosier—Slytherin first-year, feral courtroom prodigy, and part-time harbinger of fashionable chaos—plonked herself down cross-legged in the dust like a gremlin queen surveying her soot-covered domain, tossed a bottle of polish in the air like she was toasting the apocalypse, and declared, “I’ve got a game.”

Now, that sentence coming from a Slytherin is usually a red flag. The kind that ends in magical blood pacts, cursed eyebrows, or waking up married to a goblin. But Alex just… paused. Soft, out of nowhere. “Used to play it with my best friend Laura,” she said, like the name alone was something she’d hidden in her sock drawer.

It was the first time she'd mentioned anyone from her mysterious pre-Hogwarts past—the one wrapped in riddles and sarcasm and probably at least one international scandal. Her voice went all distant and sad and French, like a baguette being slowly abandoned in the rain.

Then—snap. That trademark Alex grin was back on like war paint. “It’s called Convince Me!”

“Is it dangerous, absurd, or French?” asked Lee, immediately interested.

“Yes,” Alex replied sweetly. “The rules are simple: one person makes a completely idiotic legal statement. The rest must debate it like they’re standing in front of the Wizengamot with a very large powdered wig and a passion for chaos. Bonus points for fake laws, dramatic gestures, and making me laugh.”

George’s eyes lit up like a cursed chandelier. “So… like ‘Should goblins be allowed to run for Minister for Magic if they’re wearing socks?’”

“Now you’re thinking,” she purred.

“I was born ready,” I said, flinging my cleaning rag over one shoulder like a cape. “Hit us.”

Alex tapped an invisible gavel on the stone floor—Filch had taken our wands, the tyrant—and declared: “First case. Wizards should be legally allowed to marry their broomsticks. Convince me.”

Lee immediately choked on air. George's cloth went flying like a sad ghost.

“OBJECTION!” I shouted, springing to my feet like a scandalized Victorian aunt. “That’s unnatural! That’s unholy! That’s unswept bristles in the marital bed!”

“Oh, don’t be boring,” Alex said, lounging like a barrister on a chaise longue she’d summoned from sheer audacity. “Some of us have deeper emotional connections to our brooms than to, say, Jeremy from Ravenclaw, who said I was ‘too intense.’”

Lee raised a hand solemnly. “If a man can love a mermaid with legs, why not a broom with ambition?”

George added, “And look, most brooms are already named. That’s halfway to marriage vows right there. ‘I, Thunderbolt, take thee, Roger, in sickness and in tailwind…’”

“Absolutely not,” I barked. “What’s next? Filing for custody over a broken Snitch? ‘She gets the cat, I get the Firebolt, and we split the quaffles 50/50.’ Madness!”

Alex, bless her glittering little goblin heart, leaned in with faux solemnity. “According to Subclause 7B of the Magical Absurdity Act of 1742—”

“That’s not a real thing,” George whispered.

“—a witch may enter holy matrimony with any magical item that has been properly enchanted, registered, and introduced to her parents.”

“Introduced to her parents?” Lee wheezed. “What, like over tea? ‘Mum, Dad, this is Nigel. He’s a Nimbus 2001. Yes, he’s mahogany, but he listens.’”

“I am begging you,” Lee gasped, clutching his sides, “think of the vows! ‘Do you promise to polish, charm, and fly your beloved only on weekends and rainy Thursdays?’”

“Oh, and don’t forget the prenup,” George added. “‘No borrowing my broom without written consent, and if you crash it, I get your vault key.’”

Alex stood suddenly, hand on heart, and declared with great tragic flair: “Love is love—even if it’s with 67 inches of ash wood and performance-enhancing charms!”

“And what about wedding gifts?” I asked, horrified. “A bottle of broom oil and a pair of matching flight goggles?”

“Reception’s in a Quidditch stadium,” George added. “Everyone throws confetti and Chudley Cannons lose anyway.”

“Oh,” said Alex, eyes glinting, “and if the marriage fails, you have to appear in front of the Broomstick Arbitration Board, chaired by three sentient Quaffles and an old hag named Petunia who only speaks in riddles.”

“Divorce court is just a massive wind tunnel,” Lee nodded gravely. “You have to plead your case while dodging bludgers.”

That’s when Filch came back in, took one look at us howling on the floor surrounded by half-polished trophies, and said, voice cracking with despair, “You lot need exorcising.”

We got double lines, lost the bucket, and I’m fairly sure he cursed my mop.

Still. Totally worth it.

***

Cedric’s POV

It was a suspiciously perfect Sunday afternoon—the kind that made you think something was surely about to explode, or at the very least, someone was going to fall into the lake.

Owen and I had just finished a pretty intense game of two-a-side Gobstones (which, as it turns out, is only fun until you lose and smell like foot for the rest of the afternoon), and were ambling back toward the castle when we heard it:

“Convince Me!” Lee Jordan’s voice rang out over the grass like a slightly unhinged town crier. “New round! Alexandra’s up and she looks dangerous!”

There they were, all five of them—Fred, George, Lee, Luna Lovegood (who was wearing a daisy chain crown like she ruled some obscure pollen-based monarchy), and Alexandra Rosier, barefoot in the grass and sitting cross-legged like a tiny courtroom sorceress about to condemn someone for crimes against fashion.

Alex looked... I don’t know. Different. Brighter. She had a sunbeam in her hair, literally—some reckless ray had gotten caught in her curls and was refusing to let go. Her eyes lit up when she saw us, and my knees betrayed me just a little. Traitors.

Lee waved us over like we were long-lost co-defendants. “Oi, Diggory! Whitaker! We require additional nonsense! Fancy joining the most important legislative debate of the century?”

Owen raised a brow. “Is it about the mandatory de-gnoming of Parliament again?”

“Worse,” George said solemnly. “Biscuit taxation.”

Fred groaned. “No, that was last week. Today we’re tackling Alex’s proposal.”

“Which is?” I asked, instantly regretting it.

Alex stood up dramatically, lifting an invisible scroll. “I posit the following: All wizarding students should be required to take at least one semester of Muggle karaoke to graduate.”

I blinked.

“I—what?”

“You heard me,” she said, hands on hips, somehow both smug and adorable. “Sing or fail. Wizarding education needs soul.”

Owen leaned toward me and whispered, “Should we run now or later?”

But I was already sinking to the grass beside her, drawn in by whatever gravitational chaos she was spinning out of thin air. Alex smiled like she’d just won a bet she hadn’t told me about.

Lee cleared his throat. “Opening arguments! Fred?”

Fred leapt to his feet like he was preparing for battle. “Objection! Karaoke is a Muggle invention—inflicting it upon innocent wizards violates several clauses of the Magical Geneva Suggestions.”

“Suggestions?” Luna asked dreamily.

“They’re like laws, but politely ignored,” Alex said with a wink.

George chimed in. “I, however, support this. Public humiliation builds character. If I had a Knut for every Gryffindor with a superiority complex who could be knocked down a peg by a poorly sung Boyzone ballad—”

“Mandatory duets!” Alex added, clapping. “Bonus points if your partner is someone you’ve hexed in the past month.”

Lee nodded sagely. “Closure through chorus.”

I raised my hand. “Counterpoint: Have any of you actually heard Owen sing?”

Owen scowled. “Hey!”

“They’d make it illegal,” I said solemnly. “Even the mermaids would complain.”

Alex covered her mouth to hide a laugh. Her eyes met mine. For a moment—just a moment—it was like the rest of them blurred out.

She said, “Cedric, what song would you sing?”

My throat went dry. I had no answer that wouldn’t make me look like an idiot or worse—like a teenage boy hopelessly smitten with a girl who debated broomstick marriages for fun.

“…‘Wonderwall’?” I croaked.

Everyone groaned.

“You’re off the Wizengamot,” Alex said, grinning.

“But it’s iconic!”

“Iconically basic,” Fred coughed.

We all dissolved into another fit of ridiculous arguments and fake gavel-pounding, the sort of laughter that left your ribs aching. It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was... possibly the happiest I'd felt in weeks.

And as the sun dipped lower and the shadows stretched long across the grass, I found myself wishing we could bottle this afternoon. The noise, the nonsense, her laughter.

Maybe that’s what magic really was.

Not wands. Not spells. Just this—her voice, warm and clever, tangled in sunlight and laughter, rewriting the laws of the universe one absurd argument at a time.

And me, hopelessly lost in it.

***

Alex’s POV

I was halfway through stabbing a treacle tart like it owed me Galleons when the banners above us fizzled violently from Slytherin green to Gryffindor scarlet, like some kind of ridiculous seasonal hex.

Across the hall, the Gryffindor table erupted with cheers. Fred Weasley actually climbed onto the bench to fist-pump the air like he’d just single-handedly vanquished a basilisk.

“Oh, for Merlin’s flaming eyebrows,” I muttered, slumping back against the bench.

Beside me, Pansy Parkinson dropped her spoon into her pumpkin custard. “He did it again. He actually did it again.”

“Of course he did,” I sighed. “Neville Longbottom looks vaguely brave for two seconds, and Dumbledore practically throws the cup at him.”

The Headmaster had barely finished speaking. His eyes were still twinkling dangerously as he stood at the high table, arms open like some eccentric opera conductor.

“Ten points to Neville Longbottom, for pure nerve and outstanding moral courage,” he’d said.

And just like that, our lead had vanished, the banners had hissed traitorously into crimson, and the House Cup — our House Cup — had fluttered into Gryffindor’s lap like an overfed owl in heat.

I glared at the ceiling, which twinkled with celebratory golden confetti. “Next year,” I declared, “I’m enchanting the Snitch to scream in pitch-correct French. If we can’t win by points, we’ll win through auditory warfare.”

Pansy cackled and elbowed me in solidarity. Across the Great Hall, Fred Weasley pointed straight at me, grinned like a hyena, and mouthed something that looked suspiciously like “cry more, Slytherin.”

I made a face at him.

He made a worse one.

I blew him a kiss.

George, next to him, unrolled a napkin that lit up with magically-scrawled red sparkles.

PSYCHO.

I raised my goblet to him. “At least I’m iconic,” I said sweetly.

Draco Malfoy, a few seats down, was going positively feral. “This is a disgrace! We had the numbers! We earned that cup!”

“No one earns anything at Hogwarts,” I muttered into my tart. “This school runs on narrative symmetry and vibes.”

Professor Snape looked like he’d swallowed an entire lemon tree. His arms were folded so tightly, he might’ve been casting a permanent Shield Charm over his bitterness.

Across the hall, Harry Potter sat surrounded by Ron, Hermione, and a loud, joyful pile of Gryffindor Housemates. He wasn’t cheering though. He was looking — no, smiling.

At me.

Just a small smile. Tired. Soft.

I blinked.

My father had died in a duel with a famous Auror, wand still clenched in his fist, defiant to the last. Took part of the Auror’s nose with him, or so the story goes — like that made it better. Like that made it heroic.

People looked at me like I might hex them in their sleep. But Harry Potter… smiled.

I smiled back. Just a little.

He knows.
Everyone knows. That he fought Quirrell. That Quirrell wasn’t just Quirrell. That Voldemort was in the school.
And still — he smiled.

Maybe that meant something.

Or maybe I just wanted it to.

“Oi,” Pansy whispered, snapping me out of it, “You gonna eat that?”

I blinked. “Eat what?”

She pointed at my second tart, untouched and gleaming.

“Oh. No. But wait—”
I snatched it up before she could. “Actually, I’m emotionally unstable, so I get two.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, but let me keep it.

At the Gryffindor table, Fred was doing a victory dance with a floating pepper grinder. Lee Jordan had conjured mini fireworks that exploded into golden lions wearing sunglasses. George pulled out what looked like a banjo and strummed a few notes of something suspiciously like “Sweet but Psycho.”

“Not the anthem again,” I moaned.

They all looked over at me and shouted in near-unison, “It’s about YOU!”

I shrugged. “I am sweet. And slightly unhinged. A Slytherin duality.”

From the Ravenclaw table, Luna waved at me with a spoon covered in blueberries. She had a paper crown on her head that read “Snidget Empress.” I saluted her.

That was the thing about this place.
One moment you were a freak with a cursed mirror. The next, you were building your own mixtape magic and getting threatening love notes in the form of magically enchanted chocolate frogs from Fred Weasley.

Which—okay, technically that last part wasn’t confirmed.
But the frog had sung ABBA and exploded into glitter, and no one else could pull that off with a straight face.

“Do you think we’ll actually survive second year?” Pansy asked, licking custard off her spoon.

“No,” I said cheerfully. “But we’ll look spectacular doing it.”

Draco made a choking noise.

The feast dwindled slowly into a haze of full bellies, late-night whispers, and quietly re-emerging trauma about school-wide death plots.

I leaned back in my chair, watching the confetti fall like enchanted snow.

The mirror was in my bag. My playlist was still safe. Luna had learned how to charm songs into water goblets.
And I had people now. Not many. Not safe. But real.

***

The following morning, there was parchment everywhere. My trunk looked like a magical bird had exploded inside it — feathers made of quills, ink bottles weeping onto school robes, and at least three pairs of socks that belonged to someone else. (George. Possibly Lee. Hopefully not Snape.) The air smelled like parchment and sugar quills and the faintest whiff of something that might’ve once been a dungbomb. Summer was coming, and we were packing like we were going to war.

Pansy was already sitting cross-legged on her bed, tossing garments into her suitcase with the grace of a particularly opinionated peacock. “Do you think I could become a Seeker?” she said out of nowhere, holding up her silver hand mirror like it might fly away if she glared hard enough.

Across the room, Daphne Greengrass raised one elegant eyebrow. “Planning to catch the Snitch or just stare it into submission?”

“Both,” Pansy said sweetly, fluffing her hair like it was auditioning for its own Harper’s Bizarre feature.

From the floor, I cackled as I tried to fold my sketchbooks into protective sleeves. “You’d definitely psych it out with sheer dramatic energy. The Snitch would surrender just to avoid a fashion critique.”

“Thank you,” she beamed, because of course she did — sarcasm slid right off Pansy like bad hexes off a basilisk.

The mirror — now casually mounted in the corner of the room with a lazily blinking rune that I might have borrowed with flair from the Transfiguration classroom doorframe — let out a spark and started belting:

I don't give a damn 'bout my bad reputation...

“TURN IT UP!” Pansy shrieked, launching a sock at the mirror like she was headlining the Weird Sisters’ farewell tour and wanted an encore now.

Daphne winced. “Please, no volume enhancements. My ears are still recovering from your last Spice Girls phase. And not in a nostalgic way.”

But of course we turned it up. Joan Jett echoed off the stone walls, filling the Slytherin dormitory with glorious, defiant noise as we crammed a year’s worth of emotional damage, questionable fashion choices, and accidental contraband into trunks clearly designed by someone who’d never met a teenage witch.

I caught sight of one of my sketchbooks — the purple one with a suspicious bite mark in the corner. (Lee said he thought it was chocolate. It was not.) It flipped open as I picked it up, pages fluttering like memories that wanted one last curtain call.

There was a doodle of me and Luna, dancing with moon jellies, done in sparkly ink. Luna had drawn it. The moon jellies were smiling and one had a top hat. It was disturbing and adorable in equal measure.

Another page had Fred and George — one giving me a crown made of licorice wands, the other sneakily tying my shoelaces together mid-laugh. They’d drawn that one themselves, Fred writing “Queen of Chaos (and Reasonably Good Ideas)” in the corner. George had added, “More dangerous than a rogue Hippogriff with homework.” Rude. Accurate.

Lee’s contribution was a full-page cartoon of me zapping the Gryffindor Quidditch team with lightning bolts while riding a thundercloud. I was wearing sunglasses and shouting, “Pity me not, for I am petty!” in a speech bubble. A masterpiece, really.

Pansy had doodled a page full of hearts and skulls, all with dramatic eyeliner and little captions like “Friendship is hexing your enemies together” and “Bad girls have better music.” It was aggressively charming. Like her. Like being slapped with glitter and then complimented for flinching stylishly.

I closed the sketchbook slowly and smiled. “I’m glad I have these. I’ll need something to laugh at this summer while pretending to be a proper pureblood with opinions about goblet polish.”

Pansy looked up from where she was rolling her knee-high boots with the intensity of someone taming a dragon that had insulted her outfit. “Where are you going again? Rosier Manor?”

I nodded. “Probably. Mum says Somerset for part of it — the weather is so grey it makes French grandmothers weep — and then Château Rosier in Provence. Sunbathing. Trying not to be hexed by my great-aunt Marguerite for not wearing enough lace.”

Daphne snorted. “You should enchant a bikini to look like a Victorian corset. Confuse everyone.”

“Already halfway there,” I said, flinging a feather-light summer cloak into my trunk. “And I’ll be working on my Quidditch game. I want to try out next year. Maybe Chaser.”

Pansy’s eyes lit up like she'd just been offered front-row seats at a cursed opera. “We could both make the team. You as Chaser, me as Seeker. I’ll catch the Snitch, you score the goals, and Daphne can judge everyone from the stands with binoculars and quiet disdain.”

“I would hex your broom mid-match,” Daphne said, flipping a page in Witch Weekly with regal calm.

We all laughed, mostly because we knew she absolutely would.

We packed a little longer in companionable chaos — Joan Jett fading into a haunting rendition of Toxic, now remixed with moonstone reverb courtesy of Luna’s last experiment. My hands moved automatically, but my mind wandered. Firework and the mirror’s glittering letters. Fred’s dumb jokes. Luna’s quiet magic. Pansy’s unhinged charm. Quidditch. Pranks. Spells. That odd fluttery thing in my chest that I was starting to suspect was hope and not indigestion.

“I feel younger than I did in September,” I said suddenly, folding a scarf that smelled like lemon balm and ink and slightly like dungbomb residue.

Pansy looked at me over her shoulder. “You are younger. Just… back in the right time.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

I had pages of messy, lovely memories.

I had music and glitter and eyeliner that could cut glass.

I had friends who offered me Quidditch dreams, packing chaos, and badly harmonized choruses to songs they didn’t even fully understand.

And for once, I didn’t feel like a cursed doll or a Rosier or a leftover spell from the wrong century.

I felt like Alex.

Maybe that was enough.

And I don’t really care if you think I’m strange — I ain’t gonna change.
Joan Jett shouted again from the mirror.

We sang along. Loudly. Horribly. Gleefully.

Packing could wait. The song mattered more.

***

Fred’s POV

The Hogwarts Express was already chugging its way past the first line of hills by the time we’d wedged ourselves into a compartment. Trunks, owls, sweets, and chaos—standard Weasley protocol. George and I had claimed the seats by the window, Lee sprawled diagonally across the opposite bench like a cursed prince mid-nap, and Luna had perched herself delicately next to him, her knees pulled up like she was waiting to float away with the breeze.

Alex came in last, dragging her enchanted trunk with an air of casual rebellion, a peppermint lolly in her mouth and ink on the tip of her nose. Her jumper was oversized—mine, I realized belatedly, the one I’d lost after a snowball fight in February—and she wore it like armor.

“Successful distraction deployed,” she said, flopping between George and me with the smugness of someone who’d just escaped a detention.

“Distraction?” I asked, instantly intrigued.

George leaned closer, eyebrow arched. “Please tell me you didn’t jinx the trolley witch again.”

“Not me,” Alex said sweetly. “Just helped Lee release three enchanted pygmy puffs in the Prefects' compartment. They now sing Celestina Warbeck in six-part harmony and grow glitter beards when annoyed.”

Lee cracked one eye open. “Worth every detour into Filch’s office.”

Luna smiled dreamily. “The glitter looked quite fashionable on Percy. He should keep it.”

I laughed, nearly snorting Pumpkin Pasty crumbs. “What did Ron say?”

Alex shrugged, twirling her lolly. “He popped by for a minute. Said, and I quote, ‘Uh, hi?’ and then tripped over his own foot trying to leave.”

“Smooth,” George said.

“Very Gryffindor,” I added.

She smiled but didn’t follow it with one of her usual sharp little comments. There was something soft about the way she looked out the window, chin tilted like a thought was balancing there.

I glanced across the compartment. Slytherin territory was four doors down. You could practically hear Pansy laughing at something cruel, and Daphne sighing like she was allergic to joy. Alex had waved to them briefly, but she hadn’t sat with them. She hadn’t even hesitated before walking into our compartment.

That meant something. To me, at least.

I tossed her a Fizzing Whizzbee. She caught it one-handed without even turning. Show-off.

“You’ll write, won’t you?” Lee asked suddenly, eyes now properly open.

Alex nodded. “To all of you. Constantly. Obnoxiously. You’ll have no peace.”

“Promise?” George said.

“Swear it on a Niffler’s hoard.”

We all cheered.

The train rumbled on, and outside the countryside began to blur. Summer green flicked past in fast brushstrokes, and every now and then you could glimpse a distant cottage, or a field with grazing hippogriffs, or a sky that looked like spilled cream.

Luna was humming something under her breath—sounded vaguely like a lullaby in reverse. Alex had cracked open one of her sketchbooks, a different one than the one we’d all vandalized in ink. This one had a constellation drawn in silver on the cover and a lock shaped like a teardrop.

She was drawing.

The whole compartment had gone a bit golden with the late afternoon sun. It leaked through the glass like honey, and for a moment, everything felt far away and safe.

I snuck a look at her page.

She was sketching us.

Me, George, Lee, Luna—exaggerated noses and broomsticks and a floating Fizzing Whizzbee above George’s head. It was all so alive. She was adding a little heart-shaped frame around us, and for once, it wasn’t sarcastic. Not quite.

“How do you do that?” I asked quietly.

She glanced up. “What?”

“Draw people like that. Like we’re real.”

She tilted her head at me. “Because you are.”

I swallowed. That did something strange in my chest.

It was a long ride, the kind where time stretches and sags like treacle. Eventually, Lee drifted off again, mumbling something about pranking Flitwick with a soap-singing spell. Luna followed, curled up with her hair covering half her face, looking like she’d sleep through a dragon parade.

I don’t know when exactly it happened—maybe somewhere after the third treacle tart and before I realized my leg was tangled with Alex’s—but we all started to drift.

The train kept moving. The world kept going.

And we… slowed down.

Alex was between me and George, her sketchbook still open on her lap, her head tilted gently to one side, eyes closed, breathing soft. She smelled like ink and peppermint and something flowery I couldn’t place—jasmine and… maybe starlight?

George had slumped sideways, his head resting against hers. She didn’t move.

I blinked slowly.

Then leaned just slightly until my shoulder brushed hers.

She didn’t pull away.

It was warm, and a bit awkward, and strangely perfect. Like a chord that wasn’t quite right but still made you want to listen.

I closed my eyes.

This was new.

This was home.

Not the Burrow, not even Hogwarts—but this. These people. This girl who doodled chaos and wore my jumper like it was hers, who charmed mirrors and made Luna giggle, who had secrets and a name too heavy for her age, but still sat here like it was the only place in the world she truly wanted to be.

I’d miss her.

I knew I would.

She’d be locked up in some pureblood manor, probably sipping lemonade under cursed ivy with ghostly relatives judging her posture. No pranks. No sketchbook doodles or mirror mixtapes. No laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

George stirred next to her and muttered something about enchanted carrots. I snorted quietly into my sleeve.

Alex shifted in her sleep, just barely, and her hand brushed mine.

Not on purpose.

Not an accident, either.

I didn’t move.

I knew she’d write. She’d said so. She’d promised with that serious, glittering look she got sometimes when she was about to hex someone or say something soft.

I didn’t know if George or I would write back. Not because we didn’t want to. Just… because that wasn’t how we were wired. Letters weren’t jokes. They didn’t explode or turn colors. But I’d try. I would. Because she deserved a reply.

I cracked one eye open as the train whistled past another field of sun-dappled magic. The sky had turned the color of firewhisky and dreams.

She was still there.

Right in the middle of it all.

And I was glad. So damn glad.

Because somehow, in between pranks and glitter and duels and chaos, we’d found her. Or she’d found us. Either way, it didn’t matter.

Alex Rosier was ours now.

Ours in the way that mattered.

Friend. Artist. Chaos captain. Third twin.

I drifted again, heart oddly full.

And in the last flicker of waking thought, as the train sped onward and the sun dropped lower and the world faded into the hush of shared sleep, I thought:

I’m not ready to say goodbye.

But I would.

Because there was always next year.

And with Alex around?

It would never, ever be boring.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: Black Ink and Water Pistols (Year 2)

Rosier Château, Provence
Dear Partners in Prankdom,

Salut from the land of lavender fields, over-salted butter, and aristocratic doom!

Firstly, I am alive. I survived my first post-Hogwarts pureblood inspection. Barely. My grandmother greeted me with a wand pointed at my spine and the words: “Your posture is an insult to our ancestors.” Apparently I unlearned five centuries of etiquette in one school year. Quite proud, honestly.

So now I’m being forced—yes, forced—to take ballet again. For posture. And grace. (Insert dramatic eye-roll here.) I do not feel graceful. I feel like a disgruntled flamingo in a corset. My toes are rebelling. My soul has left my body and is currently hiding under the chaise longue with the house-elf wine.

BUT! I’m also training for Quidditch, which balances the horror. Pansy said she might try out next year—wants to be a Seeker, of course. I told her she’s got the laser-focus of a Niffler in a vault. Can’t wait to dramatically dive-bomb near her during practice—purely out of love, obviously.

I spend most of my afternoons swimming in the garden pool or being painted in dramatically unfortunate poses by my grandmother. The other day I had to hold a melon and stare “wistfully at the horizon like a widow in exile.” I looked constipated. You’ll be glad to know I added a doodle of that in the margins. You're welcome.

Exhibit A:

(A charmed sketch blooms here in smudged black ink—a miniature Alex in a frilly gown, clutching a melon to her chest like a romantic relic, with a pigeon dive-bombing her hair in the background. The melon is labeled “tragedy.”)

The Trace doesn’t work here—bless the loopholes of ancient French magic—so I’ve been experimenting. Some of my shoes now tap dance on their own. The sugar bowl sings. I charmed a snail to read poetry and it’s somehow still less pretentious than Lucius Malfoy.

Also: I’ve already planned fifteen new pranks for September. Including—but not limited to—(1) enchanted goblets that scream compliments in Gobbledegook, (2) a portable swamp in a teacup, and (3) a glamoured ink that turns Snape’s robes chartreuse whenever he says “ten points from Gryffindor.”

Let me know if you’re going to Diagon Alley before school starts! I might be there on the 28th—if you’re shopping that day, I demand to be found. I’ll be the one being trailed by an offended portrait and accidentally setting off canary fireworks in Flourish & Blotts.

I miss you all. Stupidly much. I even miss Lee’s awful sock jokes. I miss the smell of the train corridor (weirdly cabbagey), the sound of exploding cauldrons from the dungeon, and mostly—yes, mostly—I miss sitting between you Weasleys while the world whirled madly around us.

You probably won’t write back (I have zero illusions), but I’m going to keep writing anyway. Someone has to record our ridiculous legacy. And it turns out I quite like being your best friend. Don’t make me regret it.

Stay chaotic. Stay sunburnt. Hug the Nargles for me.

Forever plotting,
Alex
Official Slytherin menace / Scone thief / Probably cursed heirloom

George’s POV

The sun was setting, casting golden shadows over the Burrow as George leaned back against the doorframe of the kitchen, letter in hand. Fred was flipping through a pile of Post-Its and diagrams for their summer pranks (as usual), while Lee was in the corner, eating an entire bowl of cornflakes and muttering to himself about “sock gnomes.” They had spent the afternoon planning their next grand adventure (well, more planning, anyway), but George’s eyes kept drifting back to the letter that Alex had sent.

It wasn’t anything particularly unusual—just a few scribbled lines, some doodles, and Alex’s unmistakable sarcastic flair. But there was something about this letter that made George smile, despite himself. He had missed her wit, the way she could make even tragedy sound like an inside joke.

He couldn’t help but chuckle at the line about ballet. “Like a disgruntled flamingo in a corset.” He could absolutely picture that, and it was hilarious. He didn’t know what was worse: her suffering through ballet or the fact that, in her mind, she had to do it. Of course, she didn’t have to; she could have chosen anything else. But she was Alex, and she’d get through it and then probably send a ridiculously detailed letter about the posturing of ballet dancers.

He read on, eyebrows raising at the part about her grandma’s painting sessions. A melon, really? George quickly scribbled a quick doodle in the margins of her letter: a stick-figure Alex holding a melon, tragically, with an offended-looking pigeon in the background. He grinned at his addition and folded it up again, then reached for his bag of tricks.

"Fred," he called, still holding the letter, "I think we need to up our game this year. Sixteen pranks now."

Fred looked up with a smirk, his hands frozen mid-motion, one Post-It stuck to his nose. “Let me guess—another cursed fruit?”

“Actually, no,” George replied, shaking his head as he stifled a laugh. “Apparently, Alex’s grandma thinks she’s a tragic widow in exile.”

Fred blinked. “What?”

George tossed the letter over to Fred, who snatched it out of the air with a swift movement. “See for yourself,” George added, now leaning casually against the wall. "The melon’s involved. There’s a doodle."

Fred’s eyebrows twitched upward as he scanned the letter. He started snickering to himself, muttering under his breath as he read about the artist's tragic widow pose. “This is what she gets up to in France?” Fred asked, already grinning. “No wonder she doesn't write to us every day."

Lee, who had been half-listening, glanced over from his corner. “It’s definitely about you two, Fred,” he said with a wink, pointing at the doodle George had added.

Fred’s face broke into a grin as he finished reading. “I see it now,” he said, eyes twinkling mischievously. “She’s probably locked in a duel with a Nargle over a quill. Why else would she be this specific?”

“Somehow,” George added, “I don’t think she’s wrong about the ballet. She’s clearly fighting some magical curse that involves both posture and not laughing at people who wear ridiculously huge hats.” He paused, glancing over at Fred. “You think she’s really going to Diagon Alley before school?”

Fred shrugged. “Could be fun. Could be dangerous. Could be both. Sounds like Alex."

George nodded, already imagining the chaos they could cause. “I miss her. It’s too quiet without her in the mix, y’know? Plus, she might actually have fun with our next prank. Not like Lee’s constant sock obsession.”

Lee narrowed his eyes, tossing a crumpled cereal box at George. “Don’t make fun of the sock gnomes,” he grumbled. “They know things you don’t.”

Fred laughed and folded the letter back up. “Well, she promised to write, didn’t she?”

“Yeah.” George grinned, leaning back against the wall. “And I’m holding her to it. We’re going to make sure next year’s chaos is legendary. And if we can’t get to France for a prank, maybe she’ll bring the entire castle of trouble back with her.”

Fred shot him a mischievous look. “You’re already planning it, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah,” George grinned. “You’re the one who decided we should keep the double-burst stinkbombs in our lockers until the first day of the next term.”

Fred winced. “Right. That did happen. Still, Alex promised she’d write. I think she’ll miss us more than she lets on.”

"Definitely," George agreed, throwing a glance at Lee, who had already moved on to sketching what appeared to be the outline of a giant sock creature with a monocle.

“Well,” Fred said, standing up and grabbing his bag. “Maybe we’ll even see her in Diagon Alley. She’s definitely not gonna be boring, that’s for sure.”

George gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Nope. No way. Alex is never boring.”

***

Theodore’s POV

The black wool of my robes itched like hell.

Not just on my skin, but inside me. Like grief had claws. Everything felt too tight — the collar, the air, my own bones. I stood because I didn’t know what else to do. That’s what Father said, after all: Stand up straight.

So I did.

The entire pureblood world was there. Wiltshire’s most morbid gathering of the decade, probably. All the ancient families, polished shoes and quiet malice, dressed in their mourning finest. Not one hair out of place, not one emotion showing.

Except mine. Mine sat in my throat like lead.

They all looked at Father. Everyone always looks at Father. He used to be one of them — a Death Eater turned diplomatic ghost. Now he was standing like he’d been carved out of obsidian. Everyone talked to him, shook his hand, patted his shoulder. They whispered like I wasn’t even there.

She was my mother.

She wasn’t warm, not in the way some boys talk about their mums. But she sang in French when she brushed my hair as a child. She always made sure the sugar was stirred just so in my tea. She never flinched when I came in with bloodied knees from flying. She was… there. In her own cold, strange way.

And now she wasn’t.

I didn’t expect anyone to comfort me. I knew better. Comfort is weakness in pureblood society. We talk in euphemisms. We say my condolences and how brave you are. No one had hugged me since I was eight.

Until her.

Alex. Out of nowhere. She just threw her arms around me like I was on fire and she was trying to keep the pieces from burning away. I froze at first — I think my soul tried to run off without me — and then I just let it happen. Her hair smelled like those almond biscuits she always nicked from the Slytherin table. Her hands were warm on my back.

No one said anything. Not even Father.

It was the first real thing that had happened all day.

When she pulled back, her eyes were shiny, but she didn’t pity me. She just looked at me like she knew. Like she understood. Like she didn’t care if it was improper.

Later, when her mother offered to take me to the Château Rosier for a fortnight, Father accepted without looking at me. I didn’t argue.

I didn’t realise how much I needed the chaos she brings until the world turned to stone.

***

Château Rosier, Somewhere Between Grief and Chaos
Dear House of Weasley & Lee (the honorable honorary)

I wanted to write something funny. I did. I even had a whole rant prepared about how I accidentally turned my grandmother's prized flamingo portrait into a punk rocker with a septum piercing and a wand tattoo that says HEX ME, BABY, ONE MORE TIME. (Don’t worry—it only screams on Wednesdays.)

But something a bit sad happened first.

Lady Nott died.

Theodore’s mother. Long wizarding illness, something hush-hush and whispered about, which I never knew. It was… fast. Or slow in the way that grief makes everything slow, like time is swimming through ink.

We went to the funeral—my mother and I. All of the good society was there, which as you know means an entire flock of pointy-nosed, brocade-wrapped purebloods flapping their condolences with tea cups and side-eyes. It was held in Wiltshire, under black parasols and clouds spelled not to weep. I wanted it to rain. I don’t think magic should interrupt grief. But that’s what purebloods do: clean sorrow into ceremony.

Theo didn’t cry. He just stood there, small and still and pale in an old dark coat too big for his shoulders. Everyone was gathered around his father, clinging to Lord Nott’s hands, his robes, his grief, because he used to be someone important (read: terrifying), and Theodore was left standing alone like a shadow that didn’t belong to anything anymore.

So I hugged him.

Right there in front of everybody. Tight. Ridiculous. Slytherin scandal. My mother blinked and whispered, “Alexandra,” like I’d dropped a toad in the punch, but I didn’t care. I think he needed it. I know he did.

We’ve never been close—Theo was never one of Malfoy’s minions, but he wasn’t not part of the smug little serpent cabal either. He’s the sort of person who reads books backwards to see if they end badly. He’s quiet and clever and always looks like he’s studying the world just in case he needs to run from it. But I felt sad. For him. For his mother. For how grief isolates people like a bad hex.

After the funeral, my mother (actual surprise here) offered his father to have Theo come stay with us for two weeks. “Distraction,” she called it. “Sunshine and Southern air.” And miraculously, Lord Nott agreed. Which is how I am now spending part of my summer holidays with The Most Quiet Slytherin on Earth in our haunted house full of magical easels and cursed silver.

It’s... strange. Not bad. Just quiet in a different way.

Theo doesn’t talk much. But I talk enough for three, so that’s fine. I’ve invented stupid games to make him smile—Château Olympics (event one: dodge the enchanted tomato), Imitate the Elves Dramatically, and Portrait Pictionary, where we prank my grandmother’s magic paintings by changing our outfits every five minutes so she paints them all wrong. (Currently, I’ve been painted in full Goblin court fashion and Theo as a Muggle traffic officer with a flaming ferret.)

He hasn't laughed out loud yet, but I swear I caught the hint of a smile yesterday when I set the goblet on fire trying to charm it into a juice dispenser.

Best part of the week? We escaped. Properly.

We sneaked out—robes and all—and made our way to the nearest Muggle village, about a mile downhill from the château. I told Theo we were going on a mission, and that it involved sabotage and sugar, and he followed me without asking a single question.

We found a toy shop.

And bought water pistols.

Bright blue plastic. Completely ridiculous. Possibly the best Muggle invention since tea bags and terrible pop music. Of course, we enchanted them so they never run out and shoot actual streams of mountain water with glitter. (Theo was against the glitter at first. But I’m persuasive. Or exhausting.)

We had a war in the garden. Garden gnomes fled. My grandmother screamed. My mother poured wine and asked if this counted as character development.

Maybe it does.

He’s still not fully smiling. But he’s here. And I think that counts for something.

He’s written one line in my sketchbook. Just one. In the corner of the page where I drew us as dueling garden fairies with water pistols and pointy boots. It says:

"You’re very loud. Don’t stop."
– T.N.

I won’t.

Anyway—let me know if any of you are free before the term starts. If I can sneak out again, I’ll try to be in Diagon Alley on the 28th. I need to restock pranking materials and possibly enchant another pair of gloves that slap people when they lie. (Experimental gift. For... educational purposes. Definitely not for personal use. Probably.)

I miss you lot. Even you, George. Even your idea of breakfast, Lee.

Wish you were here.

Or better: wish we were all somewhere else entirely, building chaos in a treehouse with enchanted marshmallows and no dress robes in sight.

With entirely too much affection (don’t let it go to your head),
Alex
– Slytherin’s finest disaster, still sunburnt and glitter-drenched.

***

Fred’s POV

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, which already felt suspicious.

Tuesday is the beige of weekdays—neither tragic like Monday nor smug like Friday. So when Errol dive-bombed into the kitchen looking like he'd flown through a thunderstorm and a hungover banshee, I knew something was up.

George was halfway through his fourth piece of toast. I was busy making tea by holding the kettle near the stove and hoping it would get hot out of pity. Ron was aggressively pretending everything was normal. And then—bam. Letter. Table. Chaos.

The handwriting was unmistakable: curly, elegant, and aggressively dramatic. Like someone had taught a swan to write in cursive during a lightning storm.

Alexandra Rosier.

I snatched it before Ron could smudge it with marmalade and tore it open with the reverence of a man opening a birthday present shaped exactly like a broomstick.

Château Rosier, Somewhere Between Grief and Chaos.

Of course she’d start it like a gothic romance novel and a prank gone wrong. I read it out loud. Then silently. Then again, while George read over my shoulder, breathing like a nosy ghost. By the end of it, we were both silent.

The kind of silence that hums.

I must’ve read it five times. Probably more. Every word had her in it. Not just her voice, but her rhythm—the weird little gallop her thoughts always did when they were balancing between grief and hilarity like a drunk acrobat in glitter boots.

First came the flamingo with the septum piercing. Classic. Then grief. And suddenly, the room got a bit colder, a bit quieter. Because Lady Nott had died.

Theo’s mum. I hadn’t even known she’d been ill. Most of us didn’t. One of those long, quiet deaths that people whisper about and avoid, like bad family portraits or singing chocolate frogs.

But what hit me wasn’t the death. Not exactly.

It was Alex being there.

Marching into a funeral stuffed full of pureblood theatrics—black parasols, polite weeping, peacocks probably—and hugging Theo Nott. Of all people. The most un-huggable being in the wizarding world. The boy who once looked personally offended when someone called him “adorable” for tying his tie too tight. That kid.

And she hugged him. Big, loud, no-apologies sort of hug, right in front of all the brocade-cloaked aristocrats and their centuries of emotional constipation. I could see it—her dress slightly wrinkled, hair full of wind, completely out of step with the mourning parade—and still walking straight through it to wrap Theo up like she’d declared emotional warfare on the entire British upper crust.

Merlin, I love that girl.

Not in the gooey, heart-shaped way, mind you. But in the “she’s going to get us all expelled and it will be glorious” sort of way. She was a one-woman riot. She could hex a chandelier down with charm and wit and still ask if you wanted tea after.

And now she was dragging Theodore Nott—Lord Sullen of Slytherin—into sunlit garden warfare armed with enchanted water pistols and an army of gnomes.

Apparently, Theo writes one-line critiques in her sketchbook now. My personal favorite?

“You’re very loud. Don’t stop.”

I laughed so hard I choked on my own tea.

That’s the thing about Alex. She doesn’t wait for invitations. She storms in, glitter-drenched and full of bad ideas, and suddenly you're pranking talking portraits and debating the ethics of enchanted toast.

She’s chaos.

Good chaos.

Necessary chaos.

George was quiet for a beat after the letter, the kind of quiet that feels like he’s thinking far too much and trying to pretend he isn’t. I nudged him with my elbow.

“Alright there, mate?”

He shrugged, but I saw the corners of his mouth twitch. He missed her too.

We all did.

It's strange, missing someone you haven’t known long. But Alex didn’t enter our lives. She detonated into them. The kind of friend who shows up out of nowhere, steals your notes, re-categorizes your spellwork into “Spicy,” “Deadly,” and “Mum Would Scream,” and then asks if you want to set off fireworks in the common room just to see how Snape reacts to the color pink.

She’s art and anarchy and accidental brilliance. The sort of person who makes you realize you were bored before you met them.

I imagined her summer. Dragging Theo around the château like some sort of sun-drenched hurricane. Playing Château Olympics, reenacting elf dramas, and turning quiet grief into something bright and loud and impossible to ignore.

And I wasn’t just proud of her. I was jealous.

I wanted to be there. To duel her in water-pistol combat, to enchant those stupid Muggle toys so they shot glitter that never washed out. I wanted to prank her grandmother’s portraits, to see Theo try not to laugh and fail spectacularly.

I wanted our chaos back.

She said she might come to Diagon Alley on the 28th.

That gave me exactly twelve days to plan something stupid enough to make her proud.

Possibly a glitter bomb disguised as a sugar quill. Possibly a box of biscuits that bite back. Possibly both.

And maybe a sign that says WELCOME HOME, YOU SLYTHERIN NUTTER, spelled in firecrackers and written in three languages—including Gobbledegook.

Because she wasn’t just a Slytherin.

She was our Slytherin. Our chaos. Our friend.

And we’d save her a spot in the treehouse. No dress robes. Just marshmallows and mayhem.

Where she belongs.

***

Theodore’s POV

The room smelled like sun-warmed limestone, lavender, and the slow death of whatever culinary crime Alex had committed to the sugar bowl. Possibly crème brûlée. Possibly napalm. I didn’t ask.

She was attempting—heroically, stupidly—to enchant a teacup to whistle Mozart. Instead, the thing had belched a string of soap bubbles, warbled half a chorus of Celestina Warbeck’s “You Charmed Me Once,” and then self-immolated with a dramatic pop and a whiff of regret.

Alex beamed at the smouldering debris like a war general surveying a mildly disappointing siege. “A resounding and possibly cursed success,” she announced, flapping her sleeve to extinguish the scorched hem.

I sipped lemonade from a crystal tumbler and remained precisely where I belonged: on the windowsill, in the shade, away from all things prone to musical combustion.

Outside, the gardens glistened in that smug, aristocratic way French gardens always do. The roses pruned themselves. The gnomes cowered behind porcelain toadstools shaped like oversized teacups. The château itself loomed behind us with the air of an old widow judging someone’s table manners.

Half the portraits still hadn’t forgiven us for the marshmallow incident. In our defence, enchanted artillery was a perfectly acceptable use of leftover feast desserts.

Alex had informed me—quite cheerfully, and without any regard for the Geneva Conventions—that underage magic wasn’t traceable here. I’d been sceptical. Then again, I’d also been sceptical when she said we were going to build a treehouse.

Well. She built it. I supervised. Like a gentleman.

I also caught her when she nearly fell off the levitating ladder, one foot in midair, the other tangled in vines, clutching a watering can full of what turned out to be lemonade with extra bubbles and absolutely no purpose. She’d declared it “roofing juice.” I’d declared it a war crime.

She’d drawn us, later, in her sketchbook. We were duelling pixies. Wings. Helmets. What looked suspiciously like explosive marshmallows. I resembled a disgruntled ferret that had been dropped in a cauldron of glitter.

She’d laughed so hard she snorted. I’d stared at the drawing in horror. And then—traitorously—smiled. Just a little.

Not that she noticed. Or maybe she did. She noticed things. Everyone else filled rooms with silence or pity. She filled them with chaos and noise and the world as it might be, if someone lit it on fire and served it with cake.

The funeral had been quiet. But not this kind of quiet.

That quiet had weight. A silence that sat in your ribs and didn’t let go. People had looked at me like a painting in a ruined gallery. “So sad, so young, so tragic,” they whispered. “Such good cheekbones.” Probably.

No one had seen me. Not properly.

And then there was Alex. Hugging me in front of half the Sacred Twenty-Eight, like we were friends. Or circus performers. Arms flung around me like she’d been waiting all year. No warning. No awkward pat. Just warmth and absolute lunacy.

I hadn’t known what to do. I still didn’t.

But I was here, wasn’t I? In this mad, sun-drenched château where the wallpaper blinked, the tea had opinions, and Alexandra Rosier wore hair clips shaped like dragonflies and challenged ghosts to insult contests just to amuse herself.

We built a treehouse.

Well—she built it. I contributed… critique. I also made sure the floor didn’t collapse. She enchanted the cushions to repel wasps, which was wise considering the pillows kept singing sea shanties until she hexed them into submission.

The whole thing floated about ten feet off the hedge maze, tethered only by gravity’s good manners and whatever lunacy she’d used to spell the beams.

She named it the Anti-Adult Fort of Mild Rebellion.

She painted a sign. She glued glitter to it. I considered filing an official protest with the Wizengamot. But she’d looked so smug about it, I let it pass.

When she finally passed out—exhausted, barefoot, with ink on her nose—I wrote something in her sketchbook. Just one line.

You’re very loud. Don’t stop.

It felt ridiculous. Sentimental. Gross.

And also… true.

Later, I hit her square in the face with a glitter-blasting water pistol during our enchanted battle. She shrieked like a banshee, tackled me into the hedge, and shouted something deeply unladylike about my parentage.

That also counted. Probably more.

I was still me. Still grieving. Still the heir to a name that came with too many expectations and not nearly enough laughter.

But maybe here—in this ridiculous floating fortress, under a parasol that kept changing colour—maybe I didn’t have to say anything. Maybe it was enough to just be. Quietly. Next to someone who never, ever shut up.

Especially if that someone was Alexandra Rosier.

Who might be the most unhinged person I’d ever met.

And possibly my first friend.

Merlin help me.

***

George’s POV

We were going to die.

Properly. Horribly. Without burial rights. Just two freckled gravestones in the backyard, marked “Here Lie Fred and George: Idiots.” Mum was going to turn us into cauldrons. Usable cauldrons. I could already hear her voice—wailing, echoing, dramatic enough to rattle the ghoul upstairs.

I stretched my legs across the groaning kitchen bench, nudging aside what I dearly hoped was a crust of toast and not a fossilized sausage. The Burrow kitchen was always a bit of a mess—chaotic, lived-in, and smelling faintly of toadstools—but this morning it reeked of doom. And marmalade.

The sky outside was just beginning to bleed into color: soft pink, orange, and the distinct hue of what the hell were we thinking. That shade of regret usually reserved for hungover leprechauns or Ron after trying Mum’s cooking experiments.

Speaking of, my darling youngest brother had left what could only be described as a jam crime in the center of the table. It had dried into a sad little splatter—like strawberry entrails. The sticky ghost of last night’s snack raid.

Fred, for his part, was a corpse. Sprawled across the table like a tragic romantic poet, cheek stuck to the wood, one arm dangling like he’d fainted dramatically mid-monologue. He was snoring softly, the picture of innocence. Or guilt. Or possibly both.

And somewhere upstairs—Godric save us—Harry Potter was in Ginny’s bed.

Not like that, obviously. But if Mum found out where he was sleeping before we could explain, she was going to set the curtains on fire. With her eyeballs.

We’d done it, though. Actually done it. Broken into Number Four, Privet Drive like absolute lunatics. Operation: Kidnap Harry was a success.

We were fourteen, unsupervised, armed with a flying car and zero common sense. It was the perfect recipe for a headline. Probably one involving the phrase “Ministry Seeks Answers” and “twins seen cackling.”

The whole thing started because Ron hadn’t heard from Harry in weeks, Hermione was practically sending howlers by owl, and Fred had That Look—you know the one, where his grin goes feral and next thing you know, someone’s trousers are on fire. We were doomed from the start.

But it was glorious.

Hovering over Muggle roads, headlights streaking like fireflies, Fred shouting “I think I see him!” while also somehow steering us straight into an oak tree. Nearly crashed into a lamppost. Definitely clipped a weathervane. At one point, we lost Harry’s trunk out the back and I had to lean halfway out the car like some kind of deranged postal owl to catch it.

Honestly? It was very Alexandra.

I chuckled to myself, rubbing sleep out of my eyes. She would’ve loved it. Hair whipping in the wind, shouting Latin insults at passing pigeons. I could picture her now: perched on the backseat, legs crossed like a queen on a throne of chaos, shrieking with laughter every time we nearly died.

Alex always did like a little near-death experience with her breakfast.

She wasn’t particularly close to Harry—not really. Cordial, sure. Snarky, always. But not in the inner circle. Not part of the Hero Trio. She danced around the edges, charming the suits off professors and insulting Ron’s chess game with elaborate metaphors about French opera.

She once compared his pawn strategy to “a blind goat attempting ballet in a minefield.” He still hasn’t recovered.

But that was the thing about Alex—she chose her moments. Like she was performing her own story and just occasionally guest-starring in everyone else’s. There was something sharp and private about her, even in her wildest pranks. Like she had a thousand secrets and you were lucky if she handed you one with a wink.

The kitchen floor creaked behind me.

I turned, hoping it wasn’t Mum (and already rehearsing a lie involving garden gnome abductions), only to see Scabbers—the rat from hell—dragging a teabag across the floor like it owed him rent money.

Disgusting little drama rodent.

I sighed and flopped backward on the bench, letting my head thunk against the wall. The quiet stretched. That dangerous kind of quiet. The one that exists before the storm. Before Mum finds out we hijacked her husband's most precious magical car and used it to commit an international teenage rescue mission.

I could almost hear her scream echoing through time.

Still—Harry was safe. We did a good thing. A stupid thing. A thing we might never be allowed to do again. But it was worth it.

Ron was upstairs, probably exaggerating the whole thing into a tragic hero epic. Fred was snoring into a puddle of his own drool. And me? I was here.

Exhausted. Starving. And…

Missing her.

Alexandra Rosier. Artist of chaos. Snob in disguise. Prankster queen in ballet flats. She once bewitched all our cereal boxes to sing our names every morning in harmony. Another time, she replaced all our shampoo with sparkly conditioner that smelled like grapefruit and sabotage.

Her last owl came with a drawing of a garden gnome proposing to a teacup. I think it was a political cartoon.

She promised she’d write again soon. Maybe there’d be another letter today. One that smelled like sunscreen, saltwater, and barely-contained mischief. One that reminded me the world was bigger than our village and wilder than Hogwarts. One that made me laugh until my stomach ached.

The summer was wild.

But it wasn’t the same without her.

Not really.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Lipstick, Lies, and Lockhart’s Ego

Alex’s POV

“Alexandra. Must you be wearing trainers?”

“They’re not trainers,” I said, lifting a foot. “They’re enchanted stompers of destiny. Very fashionable in Denmark.”

Vespera Rosier gave me a look that could curdle pumpkin juice. One eyebrow arched high enough to send a message to the International Confederation of Mothers With High Standards. She didn’t need to speak. Her hair—a sleek blond waterfall not so much styled as spell-forged into submission—shimmered with silent judgment.

Meanwhile, my curls were staging a coup.

Second visit to Diagon Alley and I was already high on the scent of chocolate, toasted parchment, and mild financial recklessness. There’s something about the place that feels like a live wire of chaos running just under the cobblestones. Last time I came, I spent an unreasonable amount of time in Creepy Scrawlers Stationers debating ink personalities and buying sketch quills I definitely didn’t need, then got mildly kicked out of Janus Galloglass – Mirrors of Memory, Mischief & Mystery for asking if their pocket mirrors could be used to blackmail myself. Good times.

Today, the street sparkled like a Niffler's fever dream. It was crowded, yes, but in that cheerful, don’t-mind-me-just-hexing-my-shopping-list sort of way. Owls hooted from upper windows, fireworks popped in someone's pocket, and a small child zoomed past me riding what might have been a broom or possibly just a very determined goose.

And yet, here I was, being fashion-policed by the queen of brocade and silent disapproval.

“Alexandra,” Vespera said, in that tone that suggested a lifetime of attending funerals and occasionally planning them, “you promised to behave.”

“I did. And look at me, fully un-exploded. Not a single dungbomb, no levitating badgers, zero frog choirs set loose on the populace.”

“For now.”

She turned on her perfectly-polished heel, the sort of pivot that could only be achieved through decades of posture spells and terrifying poise, and I followed her through the crowd like a vaguely rebellious duckling.

“Where are we going again?” I asked, subtly peering over heads for signs of red hair or excessive twin energy.

“Flourish and Blotts,” Vespera said, as though the words didn’t taste like ash in her mouth. “Gilderoy Lockhart is signing his new autobiography. I hear he’s devastatingly charming.”

I suppressed a shudder. I hadn’t actually read any of his books—unless we’re counting the time I skimmed the blurbs while using one as a shield against exploding inkpots. But I knew the type. Back when I was a proper adult with taxes and takeout menus—before I got reincarnated into this aristocratic adolescent with an attitude—I remembered Lockhart as the wizarding world's answer to a reality show star: all teeth, hair, and enough self-love to power a Patronus. Honestly, his books had the literary density of a self-writing quill left on ‘brag.’

“You go ahead,” I tried. “I’ll just pop off for a quick—er—wand polish.”

Vespera gave me the Look. The full Mother Rosier patented blend of frostbite, fire insurance warning, and lingering disappointment.

“Absolutely not. We’re meeting Lucius and Draco on the way. I will not have you showing up covered in soot and looking like you just wrestled a blast-ended skrewt.”

“First of all, that soot was cursed. And second, I’m extremely charming when I look like a mischievous garden sprite.”

But she was already striding forward, her robes trailing behind her like an editorial in Witch Vogue: Subtlety Is For Squibs.

I sighed and scanned the crowd again. Still no twins. Just a lot of excited witches, more Lockhart posters than strictly necessary, and a wizard attempting to charm his beard into the shape of a swan. Diagon Alley, you relentless masterpiece.

We met Lucius and Draco near Madam Malkin’s. Lucius looked like a grumpy glacier who’d just had a very aggressive hair gel intervention and still hadn’t forgiven anyone. Draco looked like he’d been dared to suck on a lemon while practicing his “too cool for Hogwarts” smolder—and failed spectacularly.

“Vespera,” Lucius drawled, as if vowels were beneath him. “How pleasant to see you in these... bustling quarters.”

“Lucius,” Vespera replied, with all the warmth of a lightly frosted basilisk.

Draco gave me a stiff nod. I returned it with the perfect cocktail of polite disdain and “don’t-mess-with-me” vibes—Slytherin standard issue. We’d met the year before, just long enough for him to spill pumpkin juice all over my sketchbook at some fancy charity event and blame it on the weather like a blundering buffoon. He’d always thought I was clever and infuriating—mostly because I was mates with the Weasley twins and stuck in Slytherin. Pansy and I made a hobby of pranking him relentlessly; he acted like he hated it, but I’m fairly sure the attention tickled his ego more than he’d admit. Though, to be fair, the pranks probably weren’t his favorite form of courtship.

Lucius turned to his son. “Try not to embarrass yourself this time, Draco. And for Merlin’s sake, stand up straight. You look like a house-elf with scoliosis.”

I blinked. Wow. And I was the dramatic one.

Draco said nothing. Just stood there, cheeks pink with humiliation, spine instantly snapping straight like someone had cast Vertebrata Maxima. I almost pitied him. Almost.

The adults slipped into conversation about book signings, bloodlines, and how terribly vulgar the new generation of wizards were becoming (Lucius actually used the word “rabble”), and I took that moment to edge closer to my mother.

“Maman,” I said sweetly. “Just twenty minutes? I’ll be careful. I’ll stick to the main street. I’ll only hex someone if they truly deserve it.”

She sighed, one perfectly manicured hand rising to her temple as if my existence was the migraine of her soul.

“Very well. twenty minutes. And you will meet me back at Flourish and Blotts,” she said sternly. “On the dot. Or I will send a Howler so loud it registers on seismic crystals in Romania.”

“Understood. If I’m late, I deserve to be attacked by my own wardrobe.”

“Again,” she said pointedly.

And with that, I was free.

I turned on my heel, grinning like Peeves in a fireworks factory, and made a beeline toward the nearest shop bursting with chaos: dungbombs, prank supplies, magical accessories, glittering lipsticks that whispered secrets, and hopefully, if the stars aligned, two red-headed chaos gremlins named Fred and George.

Let the nonsense begin.

I was two steps past Madam Primpernelle’s when a voice stopped me.

"You’re late," it said, quiet and dry like the dust in a forgotten library.

I turned, already grinning. “You again. Merlin’s beard, I thought you were a hallucination conjured by too many glitter bombs and not enough supervision.”

Theodore Nott stood there like he’d been grown from the shadows—tallish now, pale as ever, wearing dark robes that managed to look entirely nonchalant and simultaneously like they’d been chosen by a sentient wardrobe with a tragic backstory. Same sharp eyes, same wary posture, like he was forever expecting someone to cast a hex and blame him for it. His hair was windswept in a ‘brooding poet, possibly cursed’ kind of way.

My heart did a little swerve before I slapped it into behaving. This was Theo. My co-conspirator. The reigning champion of the Château Olympics and co-inventor of magically weaponised water pistols.

“Hello, Alex,” he said, as if it hadn’t been weeks since the funeral, since the goblin portraits, since the juice-goblet inferno.

I smirked. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. Figured your father would have locked you in a pureblood panic room after our last garden skirmish.”

Theo gave me the ghost of a smile. The real kind, not the polite society kind. “I escaped. Again.”

“Good. Because I have plans. Dangerous, idiotic, glitter-prone plans. You in?”

He nodded. “Always.”

And just like that, everything clicked back into place.

We started walking side by side through the bubbling chaos of Diagon Alley. The air buzzed with owls, shouting children, and the occasional bagpipe-playing toad. Theo didn't say much. He rarely did. But he didn’t have to—I filled the silence with my usual verbal avalanche, narrating my mother’s fashion terrorism, Lucius Malfoy’s tragic overuse of hair potions, and the disturbing amount of sparkle on Lockhart’s latest book cover.

Theo glanced sidelong at me. “You still haven’t read any of them?”

“I’d rather French-kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”

He almost chuckled. Progress.

We turned a corner and ducked behind a stack of collapsing cauldrons to avoid a group of fourth years who looked dangerously like prefects.

“So,” I said, brushing soot off my shirt like a lady of chaos and mischief, “how do you feel about swapping out Lockhart’s nameplates with some… alternative titles?”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Alternative?”

I pulled a small scroll from my pocket, unfurling it like the map to buried stupidity. “‘Gilderoy Lockhart: How to Obliviate Your Way to the Top.’ ‘Teeth So Bright They Blind Dementors.’ ‘Volume Seven of the Hair Diaries.’”

Theo took the list. His lips twitched. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m an innovator.”

We were almost at Broomstix when I spotted a flash of red hair and an unmistakable explosion of freckles. Fred and George were waving at me from across the street, standing in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies and animatedly reenacting a flying car rescue for a star-struck Lee Jordan.

***

George’s POV

I’d just finished regaling Lee with the now-legendary tale of the Flying Ford Anglia Extravaganza—complete with my impeccable hand motions and Fred’s Oscar-worthy sound effects—when a familiar figure rounded the corner of Broomstix.

And there she was.
Alexandra Rosier.

Her hair was longer than last year, those blonde curls still trying to behave but with enough rebellious spirals to remind you chaos was never far behind. Taller, slimmer—definitely older, but not in a boring grown-up way. She was thirteen now, I remembered with a jolt. In a year or two—Merlin help us all—boys were going to start noticing.
And I hated how much I noticed that they might.

She spotted us and lit up like a spell had gone off perfectly. The air around her practically fizzed, like the moment right before a firework pops.

“Oi!” she called, marching over with Theo Nott trailing behind her like a reluctant shadow dragged out of a haunted library.

Fred’s face lit up. “If it isn’t our favourite agent of mayhem!”

“You missed me,” Alex said, tossing her hair with the kind of flair reserved for people born to command stages, courtrooms, or chaos cults.

“Absolutely not,” I said, pulling her into a one-armed hug anyway. “We were enjoying the peace and quiet, actually.”

“Lies,” she shot back cheerfully. “I can smell the nostalgia from here. Is that new broom polish or just the scent of regret?”

Lee chuckled. “She’s back and armed with insults.”

And then—before we could react—she kissed Lee on both cheeks.
“La bise,” she announced with zero warning. “I missed you, you magnificent chaos curator.”
Lee froze, eyes wide, ears turning a shade of magenta not yet classified on any color chart.

Then she turned to Fred, cupped his face like a dramatic aunt from Marseille, and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks too.
“You look taller. Or have your ears just gotten more majestic?”

Fred let out a noise that may have once been a word and then nodded mutely, eyes blinking a little too fast.

And then it was my turn.
Oh no.

“George!” she cried, grabbing my shoulders. “Mon préféré for sabotage and sarcasm!”
Two quick kisses—left, right, mwah, mwah—and my brain promptly shut down like a cursed Sneakoscope.

She moved on without a second thought, chatting away about Theo and Quidditch like cheek-kissing wasn’t the magical equivalent of spontaneous combustion.

Fred coughed beside me. “She’s doing it again.”

“She’s French,” Lee whispered, still blinking. “It’s cultural.”

“Yes, but do her cheeks have to be that soft?” Fred muttered.

We all shared a look. Bewildered. Slightly pink. Secretly thrilled.
Merlin help us.

Fred nudged her. “So, rumor has it you and the brooding bat over here”—he gestured at Theo, who blinked like someone unfamiliar with actual sunlight—“are trying out for the Slytherin team this year?”

“As Chasers,” she said, chin lifted proudly. “Why not? We’ve got the broom skills, the nerve, and a complete lack of fear of bodily harm. Well, I’m not quite good yet, but I plan to be. Theo and I are starting training this week.”

I tilted my head. “Need a couple of unofficial coaches? Fred and I know a thing or two about Chaser chaos.”

“Do you now?” she grinned. “Careful, I might actually take you up on that.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You thinking about making the team? Malfoy’s probably going to pull something—his dad’s sniffing around the pitch with a wallet the size of a Hippogriff.”

“Let them,” Alex said. “We’ll fly circles around them. We’ve been training. Theo even speaks midair now.”

Theo nodded. “Only when necessary.”

“And usually to tell me to stop dive-bombing gnomes,” Alex added.

I snorted. Merlin, I missed this.

“Speaking of legends,” Alex said, eyes sparkling, “I heard something about a flying car and one Harry Potter dangling out the window like a magical piñata?”

“Guilty as charged,” Fred grinned. “Ron was with us too. Poor bloke practically vibrated with worry when Harry didn’t answer any of our letters all summer. Thought the Muggles had locked him in a cupboard again.”

I added, “So we did the only logical thing. Broke him out. With Dad’s enchanted car.”

Fred puffed up like a pygmy puff on a sugar rush. “Oh, it was magnificent. Midnight. Mum still asleep. We sneak into the garage—well, sneak-ish—and there it was. Shining. Glorious. Slightly illegal.”

“I drove,” I said, preening just a little.

“Harry nearly fell out twice,” Lee added.

“We made it to Surrey and back in one piece,” Fred finished.

Alex clutched her heart. “You two are ridiculous and heroic. Like Gryffindor action figures with poor impulse control.”

I grinned. “We live to impress.”

“Well, colour me impressed and slightly concerned.” She checked the street clock. “I’ve got to grab some necessary school supplies—you know, the kind that smells like smoke and poor decisions.”

Fred’s eyes gleamed. “Gambol and Japes?”

“You know me so well.”

We all headed down the cobbled path together. Diagon Alley was a carnival of sights, sounds, and smells—from the scent of fresh ink at Flourish and Blotts to the loud squawk of an over-caffeinated parrot outside Eeylops Owl Emporium.

Gambol and Japes looked like it had been curated by a madman with a love of glitter and mild explosives. Shelves stacked to the ceiling with every prank, potion, and pandemonium-making item imaginable. The air smelled like smoke, sugar, and plotting.

Alex darted straight to the Dungbomb display with the precision of a Niffler in a jewellery store.

“School essentials,” she said solemnly.

I watched her fondly as she stacked her arms full of Nosebleed Nougats, Stink Pellets, and a packet of singing spiders. “Planning to start the year with a bang?”

“Or several,” she replied. “Depending on fuse length.”

Fred snatched a sample sweet off the display with a grin, popped it into his mouth—and instantly sprouted fuzzy rabbit ears and a twitching pink nose. Lee nearly collapsed with laughter as Fred wiggled his new ears and struck a majestic pose, like an extremely confident Easter Bunny on a sugar high.

Alex turned to me, eyes dancing. “God, I missed this.”

I smiled back, something warm and fierce curling in my chest. “So did we.”

And just as we were heading out, arms full of mayhem and good intentions, Alex pointed across the street to Flourish and Blotts.

“Next stop,” she said. “Time to witness Lockhart in his natural habitat: surrounded by mirrors and his own signature.”

Fred and I exchanged a look of pure glee.

“Oh, this’ll be good,” Fred said.

Together, we crossed the street, ready for whatever chaos came next—specifically, a sparkle-drenched, ego-fluffed celebrity author in dire need of being knocked down a few pegs. Because honestly? The real fun was just about to begin.

Alex’s POV

“I swear on Merlin’s left sock, if he flips his hair one more time, I’m going to hex it into a squirrel,” I muttered, peering around a stack of Voyages with Vampires at Gilderoy Lockhart.

He sparkled. I’m not being poetic—he had literal glitter on his robes. There was enough gold thread in that man’s wardrobe to fund a Gringotts heist. His teeth gleamed like polished unicorn horn, and his smile was the kind that made you want to report a magical nuisance to the Ministry.

Theo raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You dragged me here, remember?"

"I didn’t drag you. I strongly encouraged you to accompany me while I studied the enemy. I need… material."

"For what?"

"For art," I said sweetly, and pulled out a small sketchpad where Lockhart was already mid-pout with the words THE MOST MODEST MAN IN MAGIC written in enormous, sparkly bubble letters.

The shop was packed. Poor Harry Potter looked like he was trying to fade into the wallpaper while Lockhart clamped a glittering arm around his shoulder. Ron looked ready to commit a felony. Hermione was starry-eyed in a way that made me deeply uncomfortable.

I was plotting.

Lockhart was surrounded by books, his own face beaming from every cover like he was running for Minister of Narcissism. Fans in sequined robes crowded around, waving copies of Gadding with Ghouls and Magical Me like holy relics.

"Now," I whispered, turning to Fred, George, and Lee, who had just joined us like three chaos spirits summoned by the scent of glitter and poor decisions. "Here's the plan. He signs every book with a dramatic swish and says 'To my biggest fan,' right?"

George nodded slowly. "Go on..."

"We switch out the nameplates."

Fred's eyes gleamed. "Oh, you chaotic, beautiful thing."

I held up a fan of parchment cards:

• To My Other Self, Narcissus
• To My Hairdresser, Thanks for the Shine
• To The Mirror, My Truest Love
• To Merlin, Sorry I Surpassed You

"This is art," Lee whispered.

We moved like a well-oiled prank squad. Theo distracted a Lockhart fanatic with a long and unnecessarily detailed debate about vampire legislation in Eastern Europe. Fred bumped into a stack of books and knocked over a display of enchanted bookmarks, which flew up and started slapping people in the face. George and I swooped in to switch out the nameplates.

I had never felt more alive. This was what being young and magically inclined was for.

"That’s the last one," George whispered as I slipped the final card beneath a pile of Break with a Banshee. Lockhart was still busy writing love notes to himself and blowing kisses at cameras.

Just as we were about to make our clean getaway, I heard a small voice.

"Hi."

I turned to find Ginny Weasley standing by a spinning display of quills, clutching a battered copy of Voyages with Vampires like it was a teddy bear in a thunderstorm.

"Oh, hey there," I said, softening. She was tiny, red-cheeked, and had clearly just survived a brush with Lockhart.

"I like your hair," she whispered.

"Thanks. It’s currently plotting world domination."

She giggled.

"You all right?"

She nodded furiously, then scurried off with a blush that could light up Knockturn Alley.

"Adorable," I muttered.

And then I saw her.

Molly Weasley.

I don’t know what it is about meeting someone’s mum that flips your internal courtroom into a circus, but I stood up straighter like I was presenting a case to the Wizengamot.

Fred waved her over. "Mum! This is Alexandra Rosier."

Molly paused, then approached with an evaluating gaze that could pierce dragonhide. Her eyes flicked to the parchment in my hand (which I quickly tucked away), then to the twins, who were looking a bit too innocent.

"Nice to meet you, dear," she said in a tone that suggested she was already debating whether or not I was a bad influence.

"Likewise, Mrs. Weasley," I said, and to my horror, I curtsied.

Curtsied.

Fred made a choking noise that he disguised as a cough. George elbowed him, barely containing a grin.

"We’re just, um, gathering supplies," I said quickly. "Books and ink and—" I glanced at the bag Fred was holding, which currently contained four Dungbombs, two Puking Pastilles, and what looked suspiciously like a Fanged Frisbee. "—educational materials."

"Uh-huh," said Molly.

George stepped in like a true savior. "We were just heading back in to help Alex find her mum."

"Lovely," Molly said, eyeing me one last time. "Do keep an eye on those two, dear. They mean well, but their idea of responsibility is usually just a louder explosion."

"Understood. I’ll try to keep them within legal bounds."

Molly blinked. "Are you studying law at Hogwarts?"

"No, I just know how to sound like I am."

With that, she bustled off toward Ron, who was mid-rant about Lockhart forcing him to take a family photo.

Fred looked at me, eyes wide with delight. "You curtsied."

"Don’t start."

"You’re never living that down."

"Fred."

"Never."

I rolled my eyes. "Let’s go find my mum before I end up confessing to crimes I haven’t even committed yet."

The twins escorted me deeper into Flourish and Blotts, where the noise of Lockhart’s fan club faded into the background. I spotted my mother near the potions section, perusing a new edition of Advanced Ingredient Interaction with the same intensity she reserved for courtroom transcripts.

"Maman," I called, waving. She turned, raising one elegant brow as she caught sight of my entourage.

"I see you’ve been reacquainted with your mischief committee," she said in French.

"Of course. Essential academic networking."

She looked at the bag of joke shop items in my hand and sighed, but there was a small, fond smile hiding behind her espresso-cool facade.

"Stay away from the front," she warned, nodding toward the growing commotion at the entrance.

That’s when I saw them.

Arthur Weasley. Lucius Malfoy.

Both were posturing like two territorial Hippogriffs on opposite sides of a diplomatic table. My mother steered me behind a stack of textbooks just as the tension snapped. I caught a few choice words—something about "inferior bloodlines" and "bigoted twits"—before a loud scuffle broke out.

I did not need to see more.

"Come," my mother said, steering me away. "We’ll get your Transfiguration book and let the Ministry sort that mess out."

As we disappeared into the safety of the shelves, I glanced back once. Lockhart was still signing books, oblivious to the chaos, his smile gleaming with the smug satisfaction of a man entirely unaware he’d just autographed four copies of To My Mirror, My Truest Love.

I couldn’t help it.

I grinned.

This was going to be a very good year.

Later that day, the sun was setting, casting long shadows over Diagon Alley, the golden light turning the cobblestones into something that almost looked like it could’ve come out of a fairy tale. I was sitting at an outdoor table at Florean Fortescue’s, my feet dangling lazily beneath the chair, a melting ice cream cone in one hand and a sense of mild discomfort in the other. It wasn’t the ice cream that was off-putting—honestly, the triple-scooped chocolate and strawberry swirl was a masterpiece of frozen perfection—but the other situation, the one involving my mother’s apparent need to analyze everything about me, specifically my proximity to boys.

We were in the middle of our own little aftershocks from the earlier spectacle of Lucius Malfoy and Arthur Weasley—who, for all their differences, had managed to find a common cause in the destruction of both decorum and personal dignity. But now, the twins had wandered off to plan more mischief, and Theo had disappeared into the crowd, probably off to read something morbid or brood over ancient tomes, so it was just me and my mother in this strange slice of normalcy.

She took another sip of her espresso, her gaze sharp, scanning the crowd with the air of someone who was trying to look casual but was actually cataloging every detail for future use. There was something almost surgical about her quiet observations.

“You’ve been getting a lot of attention today,” she said, as if I hadn’t noticed the parade of overly enthusiastic witches and wizards glancing in my direction.

I glanced sideways at her, the ice cream now dripping slightly onto my hand. “Mother, it’s just the usual. You know, my charm, my looks, my general inability to be invisible.”

She narrowed her eyes, smirking. “Mm, of course. Though, I daresay you’ve become rather… noticeable.”

“Oh, please,” I groaned, taking a long lick of my ice cream in an attempt to distract myself from the topic.

“Don’t be coy, Alexandra. You are in the prime age for—how shall I put it—interest. It’s only natural.” She glanced at me over the rim of her cup with a look that might’ve been a little too knowing for comfort.

I froze, mid-lick. “Interest?” I repeated, just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re starting to resemble that Rosier woman more and more every day. And you do look quite charming, even if I do say so myself.” She took a breath as if she was about to continue with a particularly sharp comment, but then she just… paused. There was something in the way she said it that made me uneasy. It was like she was a chess player with an invisible checkmate waiting to happen. “And that boy, he was giving you quite the look just now.”

I followed her gaze across the street, and there, standing like a beacon of awkward teenage life, was Cedric Diggory—handsome, tall, his hair still a bit wind-swept from the day’s events. He waved at me with a smile that was so genuine it made the air around us feel a little bit warmer, almost like he was trying to send a message from across the street. A warm, harmless wave that made me want to melt into the pavement.

I froze again. “Mother,” I hissed, “stop.”

But it was too late. She leaned in just a little too closely for comfort, the glint of amusement in her cold, calculating eyes somehow turning affectionate. “It’s sweet how he seems to like you. You really ought to do something about that, don’t you think?”

“What do you want me to do?” I demanded, looking back at Cedric, who—thankfully—had just turned around to rejoin his friends.

“Oh, nothing. Just…” She tapped her finger against her chin, feigning deep thought, though I could see the amusement in her eyes. “Maybe give him a wave? Or—if you’re feeling particularly brave—do something more drastic, like smile?”

“I don’t need to smile at him,” I muttered, as if the very suggestion was some sort of outrageous challenge. “It’s not like we’re…” I trailed off, avoiding her gaze. He’s a boy. “I’m thirteen! And he’s going to be fifteen!”

“And what’s the problem with that?” she said lightly, her tone dangerously calm. “You’ve always had such a clinical view of things. I remember when you were nine and you made a chart ranking boys in your class by handwriting. It was like watching a tiny barrister prepare a cross-examination.”

“Mother!” I hissed, mortified.

She smirked, clearly enjoying the moment far too much. “Oh, I simply mean that you’ve come into your own in the most charming way, and it would be unnatural for someone not to take notice. What’s so strange about him noticing you?”

“He’s just… waving. I think he’s being polite.”

“I didn’t say it was strange.” She raised an eyebrow, her voice now lowering slightly, like she was teasing the truth from a reluctant child. “But I must say, Cedric Diggory’s smile is positively adorable. I can hardly imagine you’ve never noticed it.”

I felt my face go an unpleasant shade of pink. “No, I mean—okay, fine, yes, I noticed, but that’s it. That’s all. You’re making this a huge deal.”

“Am I? Oh, my dear, you are all grown up now. In another year or two, you’ll be practically swarmed. You’ll need to sort out who catches your interest before you’re tripping over your admirers at every turn.”

“Why does this sound like some sort of public relations warning?” I groaned, feeling like my teenage self was about to combust.

“You should be flattered,” she said, her voice taking on that aristocratic tone that meant she was enjoying every minute of my discomfort. “When you’re as beautiful as you are, and as clever, you have quite a few admirers already. But I think you’ll find it’s much more subtle than you might expect.”

“Subtle?” I repeated, my eyes wide. “Mother, I’m thirteen! I’m not some debutante.”

She leaned back in her chair, regarding me with that familiar look—the one that said she was more pleased with herself than anything else. “Of course you’re not. But, Alexandra, there’s a difference between knowing how to be and knowing how to let.”

I stared at her, blinking rapidly. “This is the worst,” I muttered, realizing just how deeply my life had descended into chaos in a year’s time. “The absolute worst.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said airily, as if she was imparting some great secret. “You’ll figure it out. And I daresay, you’ll enjoy figuring it out even more.”

I buried my face in my hands for a moment, the embarrassing mix of too much wisdom from my mother and too much hormonal chaos from my actual self-creating a collision of awkwardness that made my insides twist.

And all the while, Cedric Diggory was somewhere out there, probably still thinking I was the strangest creature he’d ever waved at.

Merlin, I was doomed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Glitter Bombs, Heart Bombs, and Other Dangerous Cargo

Alex’s POV

Rosier Manor groaned in its sleep.
The walls creaked like old knees predicting rain, and the wind sighed against the leaded glass windows like a dramatic aunt reliving her tragic youth. Down the hall, the grandfather clock ticked in that distinct Rosier rhythm—slow, aristocratic, and deeply judgmental, as if it had personally reviewed my entire academic record and found it lacking.

I was sprawled across my canopy bed like a heroine in some tragic opera, arms flung wide, my curls rebelling in every direction as if staging their own tiny uprising.

I had packed everything already. Twice. Then unpacked it once in a fit of doubt. Then repacked it with military precision because Tottle, our perpetually scandalized house-elf, had threatened to iron my undergarments with a smoothing charm if I kept making “clothing mountains” in the middle of the Persian rug.

My trunk sat smugly by the door: polished, reinforced with enough anti-theft spells to make Gringotts blush, and stuffed with books I actually wanted to read… plus robes that reeked of pureblood expectations and mothballs.

But robes weren’t on my mind.
Death was.
Specifically: mine.

Well—not mine exactly. The other me.

The thirty-year-old Frenchwoman who had once practiced law with surgical precision, lived in an overpriced Parisian flat filled with legal tomes and anxiety, and drank espresso like it was a coping mechanism (because it was). The one who used to say things like “I object!” and “This clause is unconstitutional”—definitely not “accio dungbomb.”

And the worst part?
I was forgetting her.

Not the facts—those stuck like enchanted gum on the underside of my brain. Ginny and the diary. The basilisk slithering through pipes like the world’s worst plumbing disaster. Lockhart’s hair, which defied the laws of physics and decency.
No, I still remembered.
I just didn’t feel it anymore.

That sharp-edged, corporate version of me was getting quieter. Fainter. Like an old radio signal fading out between stations. Sometimes I caught myself saying things in this accent—Rosier’s clipped, posh diction, all polished vowels and pointed disdain—and then realized with a start that I hadn’t mentally translated it from French.

“I’m becoming her,” I whispered to the ceiling. “Fully.”

Not just physically. But entirely. Like my soul had thrown up its hands and decided, Fine, we’re doing this now. Pass the pumpkin juice.

And it wasn’t bad, not really. Alexandra Rosier was clever and cunning and magical and... surprisingly similar. She had been raised by a demanding mother who treated warmth like a fine wine—rare, carefully poured, and never wasted on people who used the wrong fork.

No siblings. No softness. Just sharpness, silence, and the sort of expectations that came with long bloodlines and ancient portraits that literally hissed if you brought home substandard grades.

It made me wonder—were they linked somehow? My two lives? Parallel aristocracies, one magical, one mundane? Two girls with different names but the same lonely rooms?

I hugged my knees to my chest, the silk nightgown bunched like fancy armor.

“I should be excited,” I muttered. “Tomorrow’s Hogwarts. Chaos. Slytherin camaraderie. Fred and George.”

My stomach fluttered in a very undignified way at the thought of the twins. Especially Fred, with that grin that promised trouble and poetry, and George with his knowing smirk like he saw past the thorns.

I wanted to see them. To be myself around them. Not weepy, not confused, not existentially unhinged. I couldn’t explain why, but I felt safe with them—as if they’d laugh even if I broke down mid-prank.

And yet…
The fear twisted inside me like a cursed necklace.

I knew what was coming. The diary. The chamber. The bodies.
And I couldn’t stand the idea of Theo petrified in a hallway. Of Ginny sobbing under the weight of something no eleven-year-old should bear. Of Fred—no, I couldn’t think about that. Not now.

I had to change it. All of it. Rewrite fate before fate rewrote me again.

The candle on my bedside table flickered violently. I stared at it.

“I’ll fix this,” I whispered. “I swear on every clause of the 1429 Goblin-Wizard Accord—I will not let this year unfold the way it did before.”

The candle seemed unconvinced.

“Fine,” I snapped. “Be dramatic. You’re not the only flammable one in this room.”

I threw myself onto my back, curls puffing up like a distressed Pygmy Puff.

I was thirteen. A Rosier. A Slytherin. And absolutely not going to cry.
Tears, after all, were practically illegal the night before term.

I inhaled deeply. Held it. Exhaled like I was trying to blow my doubts out of existence.

Tomorrow would be chaos.
But it would also be laughter. And Theo’s quiet barbs. And maybe—if I was lucky—George Weasley trying to trip me with a wink.

My lips twitched.

“I’ve survived worse,” I murmured. “And Lockhart’s hair can’t actually kill me.”

I shut my eyes.

Somewhere in the house, the grandfather clock struck midnight with the offended chime of a society matron discovering someone had worn polyester to a ball.

And I—who had once been someone else entirely—fell asleep, tucked between past and future, smiling like a girl who knew the storm was coming… and was sharpening her wand for it.

***

There was nothing quite like the chaos of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

Owls screeched like feathered banshees suffering caffeine withdrawal. Trolleys squealed under the weight of cauldrons, cats, and emotionally unstable trunks. First years darted about like bewitched squirrels, some looking mildly terrified, others vibrating with enough energy to power a Floo Network. Parents shouted dramatic goodbyes as though their children were off to battle Mordred himself and not a castle with mandatory feasts and the occasional murderous artifact.

And in the middle of it all, rising like a funeral statue sculpted by a moody artist in Milan, was my mother: Vespera Rosier.

She was dressed, of course, in full widow-chic. All black silk and severe lines, like a couture Dementor who disapproved of public emotion and dairy products. Her hat alone could probably detect lies.

“Remember,” she intoned, as I adjusted my trunk for the fifteenth time, “stay out of trouble. Stay elegant. Stay brushed. And do not get sorted into any scandalous messes. No seducing professors, no meddling in political uprisings, and absolutely no more than three detentions per term. I mean it this time.”

I blinked. “So… that’s new.”

She sniffed with the air of someone who considered common sense a vulgar rumor, and began plucking imaginary lint from my robes like I was a priceless tapestry that had been left near commoners.

“I expect letters,” she continued. “Legible ones. No abbreviations. No doodles. And on parchment that doesn’t smell like owls in heat.”

“Of course.”

“And no kissing.”

“I’m thirteen.”

“I’ve read literature.”

There was a pause. Then—abrupt and shocking as a slap from a velvet glove—she pulled me into a hug.

Two seconds. That was her limit. It felt like being briefly embraced by a very high-quality curtain: perfumed, expensive, and vaguely itchy. But still. A hug. I nearly dropped my trunk from the sheer absurdity.

“I’ll miss you,” I mumbled into her shoulder. “Do try not to destroy the staff’s morale while I’m gone.”

She stepped back, smoothing her gloves. “Do write if you do anything regrettable.”

“Of course. I’ve got a pre-addressed scroll for ‘utter disgrace.’”

Vespera gave a satisfied nod. “Someone must maintain standards in your absence.”

“Merlin help you all,” I muttered, and hauled my trunk toward the train.

She gave a sharp, aristocratic nod—and just then, like a glitter bomb of perfume and dramatics, Pansy Parkinson descended upon us.

“Did you bring it?!” she cried, a swirl of green tulle and barely suppressed scandal. She looked like a peacock that had been trained in couture warfare. Her boots were probably enchanted to kick misogyny.

Behind her, our parents were locked in Pureblood Parent Diplomacy—tight smiles, whispered barbs, the faint but distinct scent of competition and generational trauma.

“Bring what?” I asked, all innocent, like I hadn’t been hexing the mirror into working properly until 2 a.m.

“You know what! The mirror, Alexandra. I need emotional support from Rihanna and confidence from Måneskin or I will hex Draco’s hair off by breakfast.”

I grinned, slipping the enchanted compact from my pocket like it was contraband. “Fully charged, glamoured, and ready to scream ‘Don’t Call Me Up’ if anyone says the word ‘bloodline’ before noon.”

Pansy squealed, hugged me, then held me at arm’s length with a critical eye.

“Merlin, look at you. You’ve grown. Tanned. Your curls are actually respecting you. Are you trying to become a femme fatale or is it just happening?”

“Possibly. Or I’m just emotionally devolving into chaos with lip gloss.”

We turned in perfect sync to look at our mothers, who now resembled dueling swans—elegant, predatory, probably exchanging hexes through subtle hand gestures.

“Are they... bonding?” I asked.

“They’re either planning a coup or judging everyone on handbag quality,” Pansy replied. “So yes.”

“I feel personally endangered.”

“You love it.”

She was right.

The Hogwarts Express whistled nearby, a regal screech of polished metal and thinly-veiled threats. Steam poured around us like an overenthusiastic theatre production. My heart thudded—not from fear, but that dangerous little thrum of possibility. Another year. Another wild, magical, maybe mildly illegal adventure.

I looked toward the train, half-expecting to see Fred’s grin peeking through the smoke like a fox waiting to set fire to something. George would be nearby, already plotting chaos in iambic pentameter. And Theo… well, Theo would pretend he wasn’t waiting at all.

My chest tightened in that ridiculous, inconvenient way it sometimes did now—like my emotions had been replaced by glitter bombs.

I turned back to my mother. She wasn’t smiling. Rosiers didn’t do that in public. But her eyes had a gleam. And it wasn’t disappointment.

I adjusted my trunk. Smoothed my robe. Lifted my chin like I, too, had an ancient bloodline and a mother who judged posture like it was prophecy.

“Let’s go be beautiful menaces,” I said.

Pansy nodded solemnly, her curls bouncing like a war drum roll. “Always.”

We boarded the train, steam curling behind us, and just for a moment—just a flicker—I forgot I was ever anyone else.

***

Cedric’s POV

There are few things more dangerous than the corridor of the Hogwarts Express on September first—maybe Hungarian Horntails, maybe an angry Sprout, maybe tripping over a first-year while holding a cauldron. And yet, here I was, valiantly navigating it like I hadn’t just gotten smacked in the shin by someone’s trunk for the fifth time.

“Honestly, it’s like a jungle in here,” I muttered, dragging my bag and half-dragging Owen, who looked like he’d rather evaporate than interact with people.

“Someone let their Kneazle loose. It tried to eat my bookmark,” he whispered.

“You still use bookmarks?”

“Some of us don’t deface our books, Cedric.”

I laughed, mostly to cover the fact that I was scanning each compartment like some kind of overgrown meerkat. Looking for her.

Alexandra Rosier.

I’d seen her a few days ago in Diagon Alley. Ice cream in hand, curls bouncing like they had their own gravitational laws, and her mother next to her looking like she’d just filed someone’s soul in triplicate. I’d waved. She might’ve smiled. Or sneered. Or blinked. Hard to say—Slytherin girls were like that.

But now—now she was right there. Just up ahead, standing in the corridor like she owned the bloody train.

She was saying something to Luna Lovegood—who was wearing Spectrespecs and looking at the ceiling like it held answers about crop circles—and had just parted from another Slytherin girl. Dark bob, sharp eyes, walked like her heels had knives in them. Parkinson, maybe?

And Alexandra… well, she looked different.

Taller. A bit more poised. Still all pale curls and porcelain cheekbones, but there was something new—something between a fairytale princess and a gremlin planning arson. A kind of elegant mischief. Like if you kissed her, she’d kiss back and then steal your wallet.

“You’re staring,” Owen muttered.

“I’m not staring,” I lied, tugging at my collar like it was personally responsible for the heat in my face.

“You look like you’re writing poetry in your head.”

“Shut up,” I whispered, already halfway down the corridor.

I took a breath, stepped forward, and then—there she turned.

“Diggory,” she said, in that dry little drawl of hers that made everything sound like a witty insult.

“Rosier,” I replied. Cool. Calm. Only slightly off-pitch.

She tilted her head. “On a mission? Or just trying to avoid being roped into Luna’s Snorkack sermon?”

“I multitask,” I said, pretending not to be mildly fascinated by both.

Her smile twitched. “Impressive. Did you grow taller again over the summer?”

I blinked. “Did I? I think I just… stretched.”

“Unnatural,” she said. “Next you’ll be bumping into chandeliers.”

I coughed. “You grew too.”

“Height-wise or personality-wise?”

“Uh. Both?”

Smooth, Diggory. Real bloody Casanova.

She grinned, turning toward me properly now. “I did spend most of the summer hanging upside down from a broom. Helps with blood circulation and dramatic flair.”

I tried not to smile like a complete idiot. Failed. “Heard you’re trying out for the Slytherin team?”

“Someone’s been spying,” she teased.

“Someone’s been commentating,” I shot back. “Last year, you called me ‘Prince Charming of the Pitch.’”

Her eyes sparkled. “Did I? How embarrassing. For you.”

“I tripped over my broom that day.”

“Yes,” she said, mock-sympathetically. “But you fell charmingly.”

Merlin help me, I was blushing.

“If you want help—tips, training—I mean, with Quidditch,” I added quickly, “I could—uh, help.”

She blinked. “Would that be before or after you heroically dive for the Snitch with your hair catching the light?”

I groaned. “You’re never letting that commentary thing go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

Owen was hovering behind me like a ghost trying to disappear.

She leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Have you seen the Weasley twins yet?”

“Haven’t seen them. Probably planning something explosive.”

“They better find me before lunch. I’m owed three galleons and a chocolate frog.”

I laughed, stepping back reluctantly. “See you around, Rosier.”

She gave me that little smirk again. “Probably before you see the Snitch.”

“Harsh.”

“Accurate.”

I turned, heart hammering stupidly, and followed Owen toward the next carriage. He didn’t say anything for a beat. Then, just as we passed the trolley witch:

“So… when’s the wedding?”

I elbowed him. Hard.

But I couldn’t stop smiling.

She was younger. Slytherin. Slightly terrifying.

And probably the funniest person I’d ever met.

Fred’s POV

Few things kick off the school year quite like the high-pitched thrill of impending disaster.

Lee had the glitter. George had the charm. I had the plan. Well, “plan” is generous. It was more like “a semi-formed idea with sparkles taped to it.” Luna pointed us toward compartment twelve with that dreamy look in her eye, which, in hindsight, should’ve been a warning sign.

“From Hogwarts’ Most Delightfully Unqualified Guidance Counselors,” read the ribbon George tied around the package.

I wiped a tear of pride. “We’re doing Merlin’s work.”

And then—boom.

Not a polite boom. Not a “this prank was successful” boom. No, this was the sound of a glitter bomb going through an existential crisis mid-detonation and deciding to explode sideways.

A shriek. Then another. Then French shrieking.

That’s when we knew.

“Oops,” Lee whispered, looking like a toddler caught with a wand and a vat of pudding.

“RUN!” I shouted.

Cue chaos. Someone’s Kneazle dove into someone’s butterbeer. A third-year screamed, “It’s in my ears!” A wizard in pinstripes tried to cast Finite with his hat.

We bolted. I grabbed George. George grabbed Lee. Luna floated along behind us like a serene glitter ghost.

We split at the junction. I yanked open a storage cupboard, dragged Lee in, slammed the door, and—

“Fred?”

It was not Lee.

I turned. A pale blonde blur blinked up at me.

Alexandra Rosier.

Well, this was suddenly very close. The kind of close that Pureblood etiquette books issue vague threats about.

“This is… a cupboard,” she said slowly, as if narrating my crimes in real-time.

“I can explain,” I started, but then her curls brushed my arm and my brain temporarily forgot how words worked.

She narrowed her eyes. “You set off that glitter bomb, didn’t you?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. It was meant for Ravenclaw prefects!”

“Who did you hit instead?”

“A Beauxbatons exchange student and her Ministry handler.”

Her mouth twitched. “So an international incident. Neat.”

From down the hall: “THEY WENT THAT WAY!”

“TRAITOR!” Lee’s voice.

Alexandra sighed. “If I get banned from France because of you, I expect at least two apology biscuits.”

“Done.”

We pressed shoulder to shoulder in the dark cupboard, trying very hard not to breathe too loudly. Or think about proximity. Or knees.

Fred. Focus.

Her voice was quieter now. “You got taller.”

“Did I?” My voice cracked slightly. Fantastic.

She nodded. “It’s rude. I have to tilt my head now.”

“I’ll stoop artistically if it helps.”

“You’ll look like a tragic Victorian chandelier.”

“I could pull that off.”

“You probably could.”

I grinned.

Then George’s voice: “They’re not on the train!”

Alexandra pulled the door open and stepped into the corridor, glitter still dusting her shoulder like the aftermath of a party no one survived.

“Wait, what?” she asked.

“Hermione’s freaking out,” Lee said as he and Luna rejoined us. “Harry and Ron never boarded.”

Alexandra’s eyes darkened a little. “That’s… bad.”

Very bad.

But she didn’t panic. She straightened, tugged her jacket smooth, and said, “Let’s find Hermione before she sets someone’s robes on fire with righteous indignation.”

I offered my arm. “Shall we pretend to be responsible?”

She took it with a smirk. “Let’s try both.”

***

George’s POV

If there was one thing Fred and I loved more than pranking Ravenclaws or enchanting Lee’s quills to write in rhyme, it was the snack trolley.

Well. That, and being admired in corridors like we were shirtless calendar models for Magical Maintenance Men Monthly.

“George,” Fred said seriously, as we strutted down the aisle behind Luna Lovegood and her bag full of cursed biscuits, “are we getting broader?”

I flexed. “Feels like it. Taller, too. Almost like we grew over the summer like normal human boys.”

“Or like wizards finally,” he agreed solemnly.

“Finally,” I echoed.

We paused as we reached the junction between carriages, because two girls—Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff by the looks of them—were very clearly staring.

Not just a little glance. Oh no. This was active appreciation.

The Ravenclaw tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear in that universal I-want-you-to-notice-I-have-hair move. The Hufflepuff giggled and whispered something, nudging her friend. Classic.

Fred wiggled his eyebrows. I grinned.

“Well,” I muttered. “We’ve still got it.”

“We never lost it,” Fred replied.

Luna turned, blue eyes wide and dreamy. “You’re being ogled.”

“Noticed that, thanks,” I said.

“They think you're handsome. Very symmetrical ears,” she added thoughtfully.

Fred beamed. “Cheers, Luna.”

“You’ll probably have girlfriends by the end of the term,” she continued airily. “That Ravenclaw looks like she already named your future children.”

Fred snorted. “Do not say that where Alex can hear you.”

“Or Lee,” I added quickly. “They’ll never let us live it down. I can hear it already—‘George’s got a girlfriend! Should we get her safety goggles and a sarcasm shield?’”

“Alex will write a play about it,” Fred muttered.

Luna blinked. “I think it’s lovely. You’re like two tall roguish heroes in a Chocolate Frog card. Girls like that.”

“They like danger and cheekbones,” Fred said proudly. “We have both.”

“They also like snacks,” Luna pointed out.

“Ah yes,” I said, nodding. “To the trolley, then. For snacks. And to casually flex our biceps whilst choosing Cauldron Cakes.”

As we passed the giggling girls, I tossed them a wink.

The Hufflepuff—Petra Bellamy, I realized; same year as us, known for laughing at everything and once trying to domesticate a Puffskein—blushed like a tomato.

Fred gave Calla Whitcombe the classic Twin Smile. She practically dropped her book.

Luna hummed. “Do you want me to arrange a meeting? I could write notes. Like a chaperone. Or a professional matchmaker.”

Fred hissed. “Luna, we’re trying to be cool.”

“Then why do you keep bumping into that trunk?”

“Strategy,” I said.

“Charm,” Fred added.

“Clumsiness,” Luna corrected. “You’re flushed. Is that from the girls or the walking?”

“Snacks,” I said quickly. “We’re just excited about snacks.”

“And definitely not discussing any girls,” Fred added.

“Definitely not,” I echoed.

Luna raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to tell Alex you’re in love.”

“You will not,” we both said, scandalized.

“She’ll do that face where her eyebrows disappear into her hairline,” I said.

“She’ll say something like, ‘Have they been hexed or just concussed by hormones?’” Fred added.

“Or—worse—she’ll tell Lee,” I finished, horrified.

Luna just smiled mysteriously. “Your secrets are safe with me… for now.”

And with that ominous promise, she skipped off ahead, humming something about dancing Bowtruckles.

Fred elbowed me. “This year’s going to be chaos.”

I grinned. “Exactly how we like it.”

*

By the time we collapsed into our compartment like fainting Victorian heiresses after a duel with the snack trolley, we were approximately 80% sugar and 20% bad decisions.

Alex was already sprawled across our bench like she’d claimed it by conquest, head pillowed against my leg without ceremony, as if she'd been there for years. Luna curled up beside her with Fizzing Whizbees stuck to her cardigan and a dreamy smile, looking like she'd communed with the divine spirit of sherbet. Lee had melted onto the floorboards like a heroic casualty of Cauldron Cake overload.

Fred and I sank into the opposite seats, sticky with smugness, drowning in sugar wrappers and the unspoken bond of idiots who'd dared Honeydukes and lived to tell the tale.

“I think I can feel my teeth protesting,” Lee groaned.

“Mine packed up and left after the third Pumpkin Pasty,” Fred replied solemnly.

Alex cracked one eye open and gave us that slow, dangerous grin that meant she was either about to mock us, bless us, or both. “You look like Honeydukes exploded on you,” she said, stretching like a very self-satisfied cat. “I’m so proud.”

She shifted slightly—barely a nudge—and suddenly her fingers were in my hair. Just like that. No grand preamble. No “do you mind?” or “brace yourself.” Just... hand to scalp, like her brain had decided this was the natural next step in her sugar recovery process.

It should have been weird.

It wasn’t.

It was devastating.

Her fingers moved in slow, absent circles, dragging through the curls at my temple and drifting toward the back of my neck. I think I blacked out for a second when her nails scraped lightly at the spot just behind my ear—right where your spine decides it's had a good run but would now like to dissolve into soup.

I blinked. Swallowed. Pretended I was a functioning human boy.

Fred made a sound. It wasn’t a complaint exactly, more like the noise you make when someone else gets the last bite of pudding and the nice bit of attention you were hoping for. Subtle jealousy, wrapped in a laugh.

Alex either didn’t notice or pretended not to. Her fingers were still in my hair, tugging gently at a curl near the crown, like she was trying to remember something.

And that was the thing—she didn’t mean anything by it. She never did. It was just comfort. Habit. She did it when she was sleepy, or thinking through a prank plan, or too emotionally wrung out from some Slytherin drama to form sentences. Her fingers would drift up like they had their own agenda. Sometimes Fred got the treatment. Sometimes I did. Sometimes both. Like the Sorting Hat of affection had made up its mind mid-carriage ride.

This time, it was me.

And I wasn’t coping.

Because she was still stroking—fingertips slow, gentle, like she was smoothing down something frayed. Occasionally her nails would drag, feather-light, at the nape of my neck, and I had to physically stop myself from making a noise that would’ve gotten me hexed in any respectable pub.

Fred was watching us with that tight-lipped smile that meant he wasn’t exactly thrilled about being on the outside of the hair-petting gods’ favor. His arms were crossed. His foot was twitching. He looked like he might launch into a dramatic monologue about injustice and scalp envy at any moment.

“She’s doing the thing again,” he muttered, too quietly for anyone but me to hear.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. My brain had turned into something gelatinous and useless, like overcooked treacle tart.

“I forgot how much I missed that,” Fred added after a pause, still watching her hand in my hair. “All summer and not once—nothing. Not even in Diagon Alley.”

Fred gave me a look of betrayal, wonder, and grudging respect. “You brilliant bastard.”

Alex yawned. A real one. The kind that made her snuggle just a little closer, hand still in my hair like a benevolent kneazle fluffing her favorite napping spot.

We. Were. Dying.

Fred let out a sigh so dramatic it could’ve ended an act. Then he slouched over with a groan, dragging a hand down his face.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said.

“No,” I mouthed. “We don’t. Everything’s fine. She just… pets us.”

“She doesn’t pet us,” he mouthed back. “She grooms us. Like we’re royal ferrets.”

“Is that a complaint?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then muttered, “No.”

We sat in silence.

She shifted again, and her pinky brushed the spot under my jaw that makes your soul flicker like a dying lantern. I might have sighed. Or whimpered. Or melted directly into the upholstery.

Fred didn’t look at me.

I didn’t look at him.

Because if we did, we’d have to acknowledge that we were both in so much trouble.

But we never told her.

What were we supposed to say?

Hey Alex, maybe stop affectionately dismantling our central nervous systems because one more scalp massage might make us ascend into the next plane of consciousness and we’ll have to call it love?

Right.

We’d rather perish in silence.

So we made another pact.

No talking about the hair thing. No letting it mean anything. And absolutely no encouraging it.

Except I leaned slightly closer.

Just a bit.

Barely a breath.

And her fingers kept going—soft, warm, familiar. Like a spell she didn’t even know she was casting.

Outside, the green and gold blur of summer fields flashed past.

Inside, the world stilled.

And I stayed there, sugar-crashed, head-stroked, and catastrophically fond of the girl using my scalp as a thinking aid.

This was ours.

And it felt like home.

Fred’s POV

When I finally slumped into the train compartment, my body was ninety percent sugar and ten percent righteous fury. Not that I was angry, per se. Just... strategically irritated. For no reason. At all.

Okay. Maybe one reason.

Alex.

Alex, who was currently arranged across the bench like she was holding court in a very exclusive salon of chaos. One leg flung over Luna’s as if they’d known each other for decades. Head? Squarely in George’s lap. Like his thighs were some sort of pillow she’d pre-booked over the summer holidays and I was just the idiot who forgot to RSVP.

It was appalling.

She hadn't even asked.

And that mattered. Because Alex always asked.

It was part of the ritual. The sacred art of curl-stroking. “May I?” she’d say, all innocent mischief and diplomatic charm. “I need your curls for mental equilibrium.” Or “You’re just so fluffy, it’s illegal to resist.” You know. The sort of things one prepares one’s dignity for.

And when it was me, I let her. Obviously. Because it was harmless. Friendly. Definitely not because her fingers in my hair felt like warm Butterbeer for the soul and possibly triggered a spiritual rebirth.

But this time?

No request. No prelude. Just: plop—head in George’s lap. Like he’d won some unspoken intimacy lottery and I hadn’t even gotten a scratch card.

I watched from across the aisle, arms crossed and expression very mature and unbothered. The image of casual detachment. Inside, however, I was cracking open my fourth Chocolate Frog like it was a stress ball and mentally reviewing whether sibling betrayal was punishable by Bat-Bogey Hex.

Because now—now—she was doing it.

The thing.

Her hand floated upward, as if guided by divine instinct, and disappeared into George’s hair. Fingers disappeared into his curls like explorers finding sacred ground. She was stroking his scalp—my scalp territory—with the gentle rhythm of someone absently tuned to a private lullaby.

George had the audacity to look like he was experiencing transcendence.

I mean, his eyes actually fluttered. His shoulders dipped. The git looked like he'd merged with the universe and the universe was purring back.

I wasn’t jealous. Obviously.

Just observationally furious.

Alex had explained it once—last year, when she'd first commandeered my head like a cat picking a windowsill. Said she didn’t get much affection growing up. Said she was making up for lost time. So she sought it out, casually and deliberately, with the friends she trusted.

Sometimes she toyed with Lee’s dreadlocks. Sometimes Luna’s wispy ends. But mostly—mostly—us.

Me.

I used to get the lion’s share of hair-stroking real estate. And I’d come to expect it, you know? Like a right. Like a privilege. Like maybe my curls had superior soothing potential.

And now? Now I was across the carriage, unsoothed, unruffled, emotionally abandoned.

What did I get instead?

A bise. On the cheek. That’s what.

It had been in Diagon Alley, all sunshine and parchment and far too many witnesses. She’d skipped up to us, thrown her arms around George, kissed his cheek—smack—and then turned to me and done the same.

And let me tell you: I felt that kiss. Felt it in my kneecaps. Didn’t know how to hold my face afterwards. Laughed too loudly. Said something idiotic about eels. Bought seventeen Snackboxes and an entire jar of mustard instead of quills.

I hadn’t thought about it since, obviously.

Except I had. Constantly. Quietly. Like a lunatic.

And now she was upending the natural order, curling deeper into George’s lap like he was the patron saint of scalp comfort. Her hand made lazy patterns near his temple, and his mouth twitched like he was trying not to drool.

I watched all of it. Stoically. A hero, truly. A silent martyr to the cause of affectionate parity.

I mean, really. What had he done to earn this?

I sat there, trying not to look. Trying not to want. But every time her fingers ghosted behind his ear, I felt my soul whimper. Her touch was delicate. Thoughtless. Like it meant nothing.

But it did mean something.

To me.

Not that I cared.

I was fine.

Just a boy. Sitting on a train. Absolutely not calculating how close I’d need to lean for her to “accidentally” graze my shoulder. Wondering if I should drop something. Maybe dramatically twist my ankle and collapse head-first into her hand like oops, guess you’ll have to pet me now.

I didn’t do it, of course.

Because I had dignity.

A crumb of it.

Probably.

George, meanwhile, looked drunk on serotonin, and I sat there sulking like a prince cast out of the cuddle kingdom.

I opened another Chocolate Frog and bit its head clean off.

This was fine.

This was absolutely fine.

Just two brothers. One girl. And a tragic, scalp-based power imbalance that might actually kill me.

But no. I wasn’t jealous.

Just... disappointed in the systemic injustice of the universe.

That’s all.

Probably.

Maybe.

Shut up.

*

Later, the Great Hall had that perfect post-feast glow—enchanted ceiling full of stars, table covered in sticky tart crumbs, and the comforting buzz of students already swapping summer stories and secrets like underground sweets.

Ginny had been Sorted into Gryffindor, which meant Mum was probably sobbing into a doily back home. Percy had disappeared in full Prefect mode. And still, no sign of Ron or Harry.

George and I were trying not to worry, but my spoon had been massacring a scoop of treacle tart for five straight minutes, and Lee kept glancing at the doors like he expected them to burst open mid-triumphant fanfare.

Then, like some tiny fashionable storm cloud, Alexandra Rosier descended.

She dropped into the seat beside us like she owned it—which, knowing Alex, she probably did on some technicality involving charm work and bribes—and slapped down a folded Evening Prophet like a winning hand of Exploding Snap.

“I bring news from the realm of legends,” she declared, eyes gleaming.

“Should we bow?” I asked.

“Only if you want ink on your forehead.” She pushed the paper toward us.

The headline was so insane I almost checked if she forged it:

FLYING FORD ANGLIA SPOTTED OVER MUGGLE TOWN – HOGWARTS STUDENTS SUSPECTED

There was a photo. A car in the sky above a small town. And inside the car, looking both thrilled and catastrophically proud, were Ron and Harry.

“Oh, come on,” I groaned, scandalized. “They didn’t even invite us?”

“They flew,” Lee said flatly. “To Hogwarts.”

Alex’s face was lit up like a Christmas pudding doused in firewhisky. “They crashed it into the Whomping Willow. The Whomping. Willow.”

I let out a slow, reverent whistle. “They stole Dad’s car and turned it into a high-speed arboreal disaster. That’s… honestly impressive.”

“They didn’t even tell us they were planning it,” George said. “I would’ve packed fireworks.”

“And a fog machine,” I added. “Obviously.”

Alex clutched the paper like it was holy scripture. “Isn’t that so cool?”

There was a beat. A weird, quiet beat. She was full-on fangirling. Over Ronald.

“Ronald,” she said dreamily, “may have ascended into chaotic demigod status.”

I stared at her. Ronald. My awkward little brother who once got his head stuck in a milk jug.

Beside me, George gave me the same look I was giving him: Is she okay?

And yet—I remembered the train. Her head in George’s lap. Fingers in his curls. The utterly tragic redistribution of scalp privileges. And now this? Now she was fawning over Ron like he was some mythic outlaw from a cursed fairytale?

Something inside me—probably the last surviving crumb of emotional dignity—curled up and died.

“I mean, sure,” I said carefully. “It’s bold. It’s criminal. It’s—slightly mental.”

“And completely brilliant!” Alex crowed. “Imagine if we had done it. We could’ve charmed the exhaust to play music. Or made the headlights shoot confetti!”

Lee leaned forward. “We’ve literally done that to a broomstick.”

“Exactly!” she said. “Why didn’t you invite me? It could’ve been a symphony of catastrophe!”

“We’re as disappointed in ourselves as you are,” I sighed.

Truth was, we’d spent the summer dreaming up chaos—but with Alex away and Lee busy with his cousins, most of it had been harmless pyrotechnics and a mildly cursed goose.

She dropped into the seat beside me and started pulling out a glittery quill that looked like it had been birthed by a unicorn with a flair for drama. “Do you think your dad would mind if I wrote to him about magical cars? I have so many questions.”

“Dad would send you blueprints and a toolkit,” I said. “He’d adopt you.”

“He keeps a drawer labeled Curious Muggle Incidents.”

“With bite marks,” George added helpfully. “No one knows why.”

Alex beamed. “He sounds magnificent. What a man.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Alright, that’s our dad.”

“Relax,” she said, flicking her quill at me. “I’m not about to move in. But I will write him.”

“Just don’t replace us,” George grumbled. “We’re already trying to win your affection back.”

I laughed, but there was still a faint weird twist in my gut. Maybe it was the way she’d called Ron a demigod. Or maybe it was because, for the last hour, George and I had been basking in the memory of Calla Whitcombe and Petra Bellamy eyeing us on the train like we were butterbeer ads.

We’d seen them again during the trolley run—Calla, all smooth blonde hair and knowing glances, and Petra giggling so hard she almost dropped her Cauldron Cakes. We weren’t officially planning girlfriend status. Yet. But we weren’t not.

Fred and Calla. It had a ring to it.

Still, something about Alex being dazzled by Ron—the walking pile of freckles and ill-timed sarcasm—felt deeply, cosmically wrong.

I had been replaced. Twice. First the lap. Now the legend.

“She’s gone rogue,” I whispered to George.

“She’s crossed into Ron territory,” he whispered back. “There’s no coming back.”

“Are you two done muttering like paranoid old men?” Alex asked sweetly.

“Depends,” I said, raising my goblet. “To a glorious, chaotic year?”

Alex raised hers too. “And to Ronald Bilius Weasley, Patron Saint of Stupidly Brilliant Ideas.”

“I’m telling him you said that,” I muttered.

“Please do. I’ll include it in the letter,” she said, grinning that mischievous grin of hers.

I tried not to find it charming.

I failed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Not Crying, Just Leaking Teenage Hormones

Fred’s POV

There are precisely three things that can derail a perfectly average Hogwarts morning: a fire-breathing Niffler, Filch discovering your decoy dungbomb blueprint, and Alexandra Rosier losing her mind over Ronald Bloody Weasley.

Which is exactly what happened over breakfast.

One moment, she was buttering her toast like a civilized gremlin. The next, she was dramatically clutching her chest like she'd just seen Merlin reincarnated in a Gryffindor jumper.

And all because my little brother had just survived The Howler.

It had arrived minutes earlier like a cursed valentine, erupting in Mum’s furious voice loud enough to rattle the goblets. “YOU STOLE THE CAR?” echoed off the enchanted ceiling like the voice of vengeful domestic thunder. First years whimpered. A Hufflepuff dropped their juice. The Slytherins were halfway through placing bets on whether Ron would combust on the spot.

And Alexandra? She had calmly buttered her toast the entire time. Not a blink. Not a flinch. She simply chewed, nodded, and said, “See? Even his mother has dramatic range.”

As if that was just part of the Ron Weasley mystique.

“You—” she gasped now, standing on the bench like a tiny Slytherin lighthouse. “You flew a car. A car! To Hogwarts!”

Ron, poor soul, blinked like she’d just proposed marriage. “Er—well. Yeah?”

“An actual enchanted Muggle car.” She was glowing. Positively incandescent. “You’re not a boy. You’re a myth wrapped in polyester.”

I made a noise like a cat choking on a toad. I think it was meant to be a laugh, but it came out strangled. I jabbed my fork into a sausage with unnecessary violence. “Please, tell us more about how Ron’s fashion crimes are heroic.”

“Honestly, Ronald,” she said, with the kind of breathless reverence usually reserved for rockstars and very good cheese. “You’re a revolution in a jumper.”

Ron turned a shade of pink so bright it could’ve been bottled and sold as Gryffindor Blush. “I—I didn’t mean to—it was just—we missed the train and—”

“Legendary,” Alexandra declared. “Utterly reckless and probably illegal. I’m obsessed.”

I slammed my goblet down with the elegance of a troll in a tiara. “Oh, sure. Let’s all worship the idiot who hijacked Dad’s car and nearly pancaked half of Devon.”

George kicked me under the table.

“What?” I hissed.

“You sound like Mum,” he muttered.

“Well maybe Mum had a point for once!”

Meanwhile, Alex was circling Ron like a magpie with a new shiny. “Did it rattle when you flew over London? Were you scared? Was it loud? Did the Ministry hunt you down with enchanted pitchforks?”

Harry, to his credit, just quietly facepalmed beside Ron, while Hermione pretended none of us existed and aggressively buttered her toast like it had personally offended her.

And me?

I just watched. Because every time Alexandra tilted her head, every time she smiled at Ron like he’d hung the stars with his idiot Gryffindor hands, something in my chest clenched like it was being hexed by a jealous Kneazle.

It wasn’t fair.

We were the ones she pranked with. We were the ones who helped her turn Filch’s quill into a howling goose. We were the ones who found her in the corridor outside Charms that one time she’d clearly been crying but insisted she was just “having a passionate disagreement with the universe,” then hexed the bathroom door to insult anyone who looked smug about it.

And yet here she was. Worshipping Ron. Like he was the hero of her story.

Ridiculous.

I threw a pea at her. It bounced off her sleeve. “Oi. Traitor. Don’t go fangirling my brother. It’s unnatural.”

She blinked down at us, a picture of faux innocence in Slytherin green. “Relax. I’m just admiring chaos when I see it.”

“You admire it a little too loudly,” I muttered.

“And speaking of chaos,” she added, plopping back onto the bench between us, “I need a favour.”

George and I exchanged a look. We knew that tone. That tone meant: someone’s about to accidentally grow antlers.

“What sort of favour?” I asked.

“I want to write to your dad.”

I blinked. “Our dad?”

“Yes. Arthur Weasley. Genius. Tinkerer. Man who turned a Ford Anglia into a sky demon.” She folded her arms with regal determination. “I need enchanting advice.”

George raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

“I’m trying to enchant headphones.”

“…Muggle headphones?” I asked, slowly, like she might say she was also trying to charm a toaster into singing opera.

“Yes. To play music through my mirror. I’ve already got some songs working—Rihanna, Ava Max, some classics—but the sound’s tinny, and I want something immersive.”

I snorted. “And you want to ask Dad for help?”

“Who else would understand the sheer joy of charming non-magical objects to explode with wonder?”

George was staring at her now like she’d grown a second wand. “You really think Dad’s going to help you rig your enchanted Muggle club-mirror to headphones?”

She beamed. “I think he’ll be delighted.”

And maybe he would. Because honestly? She had that effect on people. Like the world might be mad, but she could charm it into singing along if she just grinned wide enough.

But I still hated how pink Ron’s ears were.

Harry’s POV

By second year, I’d learned that Hogwarts runs on three things: toast, trauma, and total unpredictability.

So, when Alexandra Rosier—Slytherin’s favourite chaotic weather system—climbed onto a bench mid-breakfast and started praising Ron like he’d invented gravity, I wasn’t even surprised. Confused, yes. Startled, a little. But not surprised.

“You flew a car,” she was saying, eyes wide with wonder. “To Hogwarts. An actual flying Muggle car. You’re not a boy. You’re an event.”

Ron made a noise like he’d swallowed a Quaffle. “I—it wasn’t—Fred told me where it was—”

She leaned in, reverent. “A moving violation of several wizarding laws and basic aerodynamics. I’m obsessed.”

I blinked at my eggs. “Okay,” I muttered. “Sure. Let’s all fall in love with my best friend because he committed minor vehicular terrorism.”

Hermione made a noise beside me that might’ve been a scoff or indigestion. Hard to tell with her these days. Especially when Alexandra was involved.

See, Hermione and Alexandra had this... thing. Not a proper rivalry. Just a mutual understanding that they were both brilliant—and possibly plotting each other’s academic demise.

Hermione hated how good Alexandra was at Potions, Transfiguration, and Charms. Really good. Sometimes better than Hermione herself, which was apparently a direct insult to the natural order of the universe.

“She doesn’t study,” Hermione had whispered to me once, like she’d caught her hiding a basilisk under the bed. “She doodles in the margins and spends half her time turning ink bottles into frogs.”

I didn’t disagree. Half the time Alexandra was off whispering with Fred and George in the library, plotting chaos and cackling in unison. The other half, she was outperforming all of us—like prank-based magic was a valid study method.

Maybe it was.

“And did the car roar?” Alexandra was asking now, practically vibrating with glee. “Did the Ministry send a warning owl shaped like a fist? Was it metallically poetic?”

I sipped my pumpkin juice. “You remember she co-commentated Quidditch last year with Lee?” I said to Hermione.

Hermione scowled. “Yes. She called Davies ‘a broomstick in search of a personality.’”

“She wasn’t wrong.”

“She also called our Keeper ‘a sentient turnip in gloves.’”

“She really wasn’t wrong.”

Alexandra had taken over the magical megaphone like she’d been born with it. Her Quidditch commentary was absolute chaos—brutal, brilliant, and somehow educational. If you got roasted, you learned something. Usually after therapy.

And now, I’d heard she was planning to try out for the Slytherin team as a Chaser. Apparently, she had an arm like a Bludger in heels—probably from some Muggle sport involving spiked balls and violence. Fred said she once hurled a Dungbomb into a moving suit of armor from across a staircase landing. Nothing but net. It made sense.

“Anyway,” I muttered, watching her now as she jabbered excitedly about Muggle car parts like they were ancient relics. “She’s terrifying.”

“She’s infuriating,” Hermione corrected.

“She’s kind of funny.”

“She’s using her comedy to hide how much magic she’s practicing,” Hermione hissed. “Do you realise she levitated an entire bookshelf back into place yesterday after Peeves knocked it over? Nonverbally?”

“She did?”

“Yes! And then she made it sassy. It told me to ‘try a scroll instead of a tantrum.’”

“…Fair.”

Hermione stabbed her toast.

Across the table, Ron was still blushing like he’d just been knighted. Fred and George were laughing, but there was something tight in it—like they’d missed a punchline they’d been expecting to own. Fred tossed a grape at George’s head, and George muttered something about “Muggle charmers” under his breath.

One of them mentioned “enchanting headphones” and “bass-boosted mirrors,” and Alexandra nodded like they were discussing academic theory, still grinning at Ron like he was a human fireworks show.

I just watched.

Because there was something about her. She wasn’t loud all the time. She wasn’t even mean, really. She just seemed like she was five steps ahead and deliberately choosing chaos instead of showing off. Like magic wasn’t a subject—it was a toolkit—and she was already building her own secret staircase while the rest of us were still reading the floor plan.

And yet she was sitting there between the twins, hair messy, cheeks flushed, butter on her sleeve, laughing like she didn’t care that half the school didn’t know what to make of her.

And maybe that was the strangest thing of all.

Ron leaned over. “Do you think she’s mad?”

I blinked. “Which kind?”

He considered. “The genius kind. Or the regular shouting-at-the-milk kind.”

I watched as Alexandra flicked her spoon and made Fred’s juice do a backflip. “Both.”

“Brilliant,” Ron said, grinning. “Proper mental.”

And then he turned bright red again, because she looked back at him and winked.

I sighed. “Great. There goes whatever peace we had left.”

“She’s got a wicked arm,” Fred muttered, a bit too casually. “Might actually beat Montague at tryouts.”

Hermione glared at her toast like it had betrayed her.

And me? I wasn’t sure if Alexandra Rosier was a genius, a disaster, or both.

But I had a feeling Hogwarts was going to remember her name.

Whether we wanted to or not.

Dear Mr. Weasley,

First of all—your sons are not in trouble.

(Well. Not with me, anyway. The corridor on the third floor might have a different opinion.)

I hope this letter finds you well and not stuck in a malfunctioning toaster or accidentally transported into a set of enchanted Christmas lights. Your reputation precedes you, sir—Fred and George talk about you all the time. Usually with a sort of reverent glee, like you're some kind of wizarding Da Vinci with a socket wrench and a dream. I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Which brings me to my request!

Last year, with Professor Flitwick’s assistance (and possibly a bribe of licorice wands), I managed to enchant a pocket mirror to play music. It responds to spoken commands, rotates through what I very legally acquired as a curated collection of contemporary hits, and occasionally sasses me in French if I skip too many songs. She's a temperamental queen and I adore her.

However, I’ve run into a dilemma. The acoustics in the Slytherin common room are… aggressively damp. Like someone cast Muffliato on the air itself. So I was hoping to link the mirror to a pair of Muggle “headphones.” You’ve probably seen them—over-the-ear contraptions that look like earmuffs but cooler. Muggles wear them while walking purposefully through train stations and pretending not to notice people they know.

Anyway, I’d like to hear my music privately without waking up half of Scotland. I’ve been tinkering with a Sonorus–Quietus channeling loop, but it fizzled and turned my parchment into confetti. So I thought—who better to ask than the man who enchanted a car to fly?

If you have any insight into magically linking enchanted Muggle tech to another enchanted object—especially one involving wireless auditory spells—I’d be thrilled to hear your thoughts. Or diagrams. Or long-winded tangents about how plugs work. I’m open.

With admiration (and absolutely no plans to launch myself into the sky in a car, unless it’s really well-insulated),

Alexandra Rosier
Second-year, Slytherin House
Current project: Mirror Music, Phase Two

P.S. from Fred & George (mostly Fred, but George was nodding a lot):

Hi Dad—yep, this one’s the chaos goblin we told you about all summer. She’s brilliant, unhinged, probably cursed (in a charming way), and we missed her more than we’ll ever admit out loud. Consider her an honorary Weasley.

Also—if she blows up the mirror, we definitely didn’t help.

Love,
Fred & George

***

George’s POV

Some mornings slap you in the face like a wet sock from Peeves. Others float in like Luna Lovegood, gliding across the common room with the serenity of a nargle priestess and the flair of someone who knows exactly how unsettling pink wax seals can be.

“Special delivery,” she said, dreamily, handing Fred and me two folded notes. The wax shimmered faintly, and the envelopes smelled suspiciously like rosewater and a dare.

She handed me mine first. “From Petra,” she said. “She thinks your hair smells like parchment and lemon biscuits.”

I blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”

Luna nodded like this was perfectly normal. “And this is from Calla,” she added, passing Fred his. “She told me to say she was wearing your jumper when she wrote it. Said it smells like rule-breaking and cinnamon.”

Fred grinned like he’d just been named King of the Quidditch Pitch and Supreme Ruler of Bad Ideas.

Lee, halfway through a bacon sandwich and already ten minutes into judging our lives, raised an eyebrow. “Oh ho ho. What’s this, then? The Weasley twins receiving actual romantic correspondence? Is the world ending? Are hearts involved?”

I opened mine with the swagger of a man accepting a love potion tastefully disguised as an award.

“She put a heart over the ‘i’ in George,” I announced, holding it up like I was presenting a newly discovered artifact. “And there's a sketch of us snogging behind Greenhouse Three. Artist’s interpretation, obviously.”

Lee nearly choked on his sandwich. “Petra’s got ambition. You’re a marked man.”

Fred opened his like he wasn’t vibrating with chaotic glee. Calla’s note, from my casual over-the-shoulder glance, was all swoopy loops and shameless flirtation about how he “brings chaos and freckles in equal measure” and “should let her wear his jumper again sometime, preferably while sneaking out past curfew.”

It was either an invitation to romance or a coordinated heist. Either way, Fred was clearly in.

We looked at each other. That shared twin look—equal parts smug and mildly horrified.

“We have girlfriends,” I whispered.

“Possibly,” Fred whispered back.

“Probably.”

“Definitely adjacent to girlfriends.”

Lee wiped an imaginary tear, beaming. “I can’t wait to tell Alex. She’s going to roast you.”

A chill ran through us like someone had dumped ice water down our socks.

We froze.

“Oh no,” Fred muttered. “She’s going to do voices.”

“She’s going to narrate it like a tragic soap opera,” I said, already wincing.

“‘Oh Freddie, don’t leave me for someone with symmetrical eyebrows!’” Lee cried, clutching his chest like he’d been betrayed by an entire eyebrow salon.

“‘Oh Georgie, your jumper smells like conformity!’” I wailed back, full scandal.

But even with the impending dramatics and inevitable reenactments, we couldn’t stop grinning.

Because, for once, it was actually nice. To be wanted. To be seen. In that heart-flipping, name-scrawled-on-your-parchment kind of way.

Even if Alex was going to turn it into a three-act tragicomedy by dinner.

And truth be told?

We were looking forward to it.

Fred’s POV

The sun was at that perfect angle—just enough to cast lazy shadows across the courtyard, making it look like the Hogwarts grounds had been dipped in golden syrup. Or maybe that was just my mood after the unbelievable amount of attention we were suddenly getting from Calla and Petra.

For a couple of lads who’d spent most of their lives dodging flying pies and avoiding Filch’s “whipping post,” this was new ground.

Lee leaned against a stone pillar, cracking his knuckles like he was preparing for a world-class Quidditch match. “So,” he started, watching as Alex approached, carrying that clipboard of hers with a faintly ominous look in her eyes, “I assume you’ve figured out how you’re going to respond?”

I didn’t answer immediately. Mainly because Alex had been suggesting the idea of writing the replies in rhymes all morning.

“I think I’ll keep it simple. Calla likes my freckles,” I said, raising an eyebrow, just to see if she’d bite.

“Oh, yeah, because that was what stood out to her in your note,” Alex teased, planting herself next to us, clearly amused at our sudden rise in social standing. “I’m telling you, boys, you need to write back in rhymes. Something like, ‘Dear Calla, my love for you is bold, but please don’t expect me to ever do what I’m told.’”

I snorted. “’Dearest Petra, your letter was nice, but my hair’s already too good for it to suffice.’”

“Perfect,” Alex giggled, then went quiet, folding her arms and giving us a serious look. “But, seriously, if you two don’t get a move on, I might just write it for you. And I’ll sign it as your future collective girlfriend.”

I blinked at her, confused for a moment, until she added, “You know, one day I’ll have three boyfriends at once—because I’ll have been collecting them for years. No rush. It’s going to be a masterpiece.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Wait—three? Are you planning to run some sort of boyfriend museum?”

“Exactly,” she said, grinning as she leaned in closer, voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “There’s a method to this madness, George. You see, I’ll collect the best of the best. A little Cedric Diggory here—just to keep me grounded, you know? Someone who’s friendly with everyone—”

“Classic Cedric, always the gentleman,” Lee interjected, waggling his eyebrows like he was auditioning for a part in a soap opera.

“And then,” Alex continued, undeterred, “a bit of a rogue, say, someone with a penchant for chaos... like you two. Maybe you’ll even have to share me. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. It wasn’t the first time she’d teased us about being part of some grand scheme, but there was something so casual about it today that I found myself intrigued. “Three boyfriends, huh? One for each phase of your life, I suppose?”

“Exactly!” Alex smiled, pleased with herself. “In a few years, I’ll be so well-established in my romance that I’ll be the Hermione Granger of dating. You’ll just have to stand by and admire my... growth.”

Lee slapped his knee, laughing. “Oh, we’ll be adoring that phase. You can tell us all about your extensive collection, Alex.”

The sound of footsteps interrupted us then—Cedric Diggory strolling by with his usual easy-going, perfectly-pleasant smile, greeting everyone with that air of someone who could charm a tree into giving up its leaves for autumn.

“See? There he is,” Alex said, rolling her eyes with affection. “Already gathering admirers.”

“Oh, no doubt,” I muttered, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t start collecting flying cars next. He might need a parking lot.”

Lee snorted and slapped my back, grinning as Cedric gave us all a friendly wave.

“So,” I said, turning back to Alex with a wicked smile, “you’ll have a full roster by third year, then?”

“Definitely. I’ll be that girl who’s always got at least two ‘dates’ waiting at the entrance hall. Maybe one with a Quidditch obsession, and one who’s good with charms. A perfect balance.”

I caught George’s eye, and the two of us exchanged an unspoken wordless agreement: Our collection of chaos was complete.

“Alright, alright, let’s get serious now,” Lee said, still chuckling. “You can’t just collect them like they’re matchsticks. You have to manage them, coordinate them. Maybe start a... boyfriend timetable?”

Alex winked. “Leave that to me, Lee. In a few years, I’ll have a waiting list for any available time slots. And I’ll tell you, you’ll all want to be on it.”

“God help us,” George muttered.

But I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Because somehow, even in the middle of this weirdly realistic scheme of hers, I was starting to wonder if maybe she was onto something. Not the whole three boyfriends bit—but the collecting the best part.

If she could pull this off, maybe there was something to be said for the way she just... fit everything into place, no matter how mad it seemed.

“Fine, we’ll get you your boyfriends,” I said, grinning. “But no promises on the timetable. You’re going to have to juggle.”

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

And as we all continued to laugh, I realized something. Maybe Alex wasn’t just talking about collecting boyfriends.

Maybe, for all her chaos, she was starting to collect pieces of herself, too.                   

The moment Cedric vanished around the corner like a walking romantic subplot in a shampoo commercial, Alex dramatically snapped her clipboard shut. The sound echoed across the courtyard like a judge sentencing us to eternal romantic confusion.

Then she climbed onto the bench.

Lee blinked. “Uh-oh. She’s climbing furniture. This is either about to be a motivational speech or a bloodletting.”

“I,” Alex announced, “am no longer Alexandra Rosier. I am Rosalinda de la Passionata, cursed with the gift of tragic insight and high cheekbones. And I bring news... from La Casa de Caos y Corazones.”

George rubbed his temples. “Oh Merlin. She’s monologuing in telenovela.”

Lee looked delighted. “Finally. Our lives have the production value they deserve.”

Alex pointed her quill like a sword. “Episode One: Twin Temptations. Starring Fredrico Weaselón, a man tormented by his own freckles, and Jorge de Whimsy, who hides a storm of longing beneath his tragically tousled hair.”

“I don’t—” George began, but Alex cut him off.

“Silencio!” she cried, as if dueling us in front of a magical jury. “You have both seduced the most feared and fabulous of all the Hogwarts dames... La Minerva del McGonagall.”

I choked on my own spit. “Wait—McGonagall?!”

“She saw your Transfiguration essays and mistook them for love letters,” Lee said gravely. “And now... she must choose.”

Alex threw her clipboard dramatically over her shoulder. “The triangle is set. Jorge, who once brought her a box of sugar quills after class... and Fredrico, who charmed her spectacles to sparkle when she smiled.”

“She confiscated those!” I protested.

“Because they made her feel too much,” Alex whispered with a hand over her heart.

Lee paced like a soap opera narrator recovering from a dramatic fainting spell. “But fate is cruel. Because just as La Minerva began to feel something real... a challenger appeared.”

Alex descended from the bench like a tragic widow at a funeral. “Me. Rosalinda de la Passionata. Transfiguration prodigy. Spreader of chaos. Wearer of impractical but highly fashionable cloaks.”

“You hexed her armchair to recite limericks,” George muttered.

“She liked it,” Alex sniffed. “It reminded her of her youth. Which brings us to our duel. Episode Dos: Spells and Spurned Affections. The courtyard. High noon. I stand across from Jorge and Fredrico... our wands drawn, our hearts conflicted.”

Lee nodded solemnly. “She casts the first spell. Accio Emotional Vulnerability.”

George gasped in mock horror. “Too powerful. We’re doomed.”

“But Fredrico fights back!” Alex spun, pointing to me. “With Confundus Amorosus. Suddenly, all of Hogwarts is convinced he’s emotionally available and ready for monogamy.”

“I am emotionally available!” I cried.

Lee crossed his arms. “You’re emotionally available like a Chocolate Frog is nutritionally balanced.”

“Meanwhile,” Alex continued breathlessly, “Jorge casts his final move—Obliviate Regret. But alas—he forgets to dodge the incoming feelings.”

George flopped dramatically onto the bench. “My heart... it has too many compartments.”

“Just like your trunk,” Lee added helpfully.

Alex stepped over him with all the grace of a cursed duchess. “And as La Minerva watches from the Astronomy Tower, torn between discipline and desire, she whispers to the night, ‘Why must they be so twinly?’”

“I can’t breathe,” I wheezed. “This is art. Pure art.”

Alex turned to us with a gleam in her eye. “Season Finale. A Choice of Chaos. Will she choose Jorge, the brooding twin who writes tragic poetry on parchment napkins... or Fredrico, whose heart is a prank waiting to detonate?”

Lee gasped. “Plot twist! She runs away with Flitwick. Elopes in Hogsmeade. Leaves nothing but a tartan scarf and a bottle of sherry.”

“NOOOO!” I shouted, clutching the air. “Minerva!”

George dramatically buried his face in his hands. “We should’ve known. She always did like height contrast.”

“And wit,” Lee added.

Alex stood center stage—well, courtyard bench—and bowed deeply. “In conclusion: Your lives are telenovelas. Your love is a battle. And I am the omniscient narrator with a clipboard and no mercy.”

I flopped back against the wall, utterly defeated by laughter. “We are unworthy of this storyline.”

“Completely,” George agreed. “But also... weirdly invested?”

Alex grinned like a villainess in episode twelve who just returned from the dead. “Oh, don’t worry. We’re only in season two.”

Lee nodded. “Still plenty of time for betrayal, heartbreak, and at least one dramatic kiss during a thunderstorm.”

And as we all collapsed into fits of laughter, I realized something even more terrifying than being romantically linked to Professor McGonagall in Alex’s tragic opera:

I wanted to know what happened next.

Because somehow, the most ridiculous girl I knew had turned our real lives into a running joke, a battle, and a love story—

And whether we liked it or not...

We were all characters in her damn show.

The Burrow
Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon
September 10th

Dear Miss Rosier,

First, allow me to say what an unexpected and utterly delightful letter this is! I don’t often receive post from young witches (particularly not second-year pure-blood heiresses, if I may be frank) asking how to enchant Muggle technology for recreational purposes. I had to sit down with a biscuit to process the joy.

Before I go any further—yes, I am aware of the incident involving my flying car. And yes, I am mortified. I’ve already had two rather firm owls from the Ministry and one extremely tense “corridor chat” with Perkins from the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. You’d think I’d hexed the Minister’s socks off, the way they’re carrying on. I love Ron dearly, but sometimes I do wonder if he’s inherited his mother’s talent for dramatic entrances. Please do not encourage him.

Now, onto the matter of your enchanted mirror and headphone endeavor. Absolutely brilliant. Charmwork like this sits somewhere between Arithmantic tuning and Muggle radio circuitry—a notoriously tricky marriage. But you’ve already enchanted the mirror with Professor Flitwick (fine man, charming whistler), so you’ve got a head start.

To link it with a set of Muggle headphones, you might try a modified Sonorus charm filtered through a Muffliato field—essentially directing sound exclusively into the headphone space. I would recommend adding a Fidelius Vox enchantment, which stabilizes magical sound frequencies in non-magical receivers. (I made that up, but it sounds like something that should exist, doesn’t it? Try using Reverberatus Minor in its place if you can’t find the incantation.)

You may also need to embed a Conductus Loop around the headphone wiring—wrapping it with silver-threaded unicorn hair works nicely—and sync the spell to the mirror’s main magical node. If that last sentence made sense to you, then congratulations: you’re well on your way to becoming my favorite young enchantress.

I’ve heard a great deal about you from Fred and George. They describe you as “chaotic in the best way,” “sharp as a hex,” and “part gremlin, part genius.” They also muttered something about a prank involving treacle fudge and a Slytherin prefect’s eyebrows. (I didn’t ask.)

If you’d like to show me your work next summer, I’m sure the boys would be thrilled to have you visit the Burrow for a few days. Just warn us in advance if you plan to enchant any of our furniture—we’re still recovering from the last time Fred tried to make the teapot flirt with guests.

Warmest regards,
Arthur Weasley
Head of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office
Still Fond of Batteries, Despite Everything

George’s POV

We read Dad’s letter at breakfast. I had the envelope in one hand, eyeing it like it might burst into flames or break into iambic pentameter. You could never rule that out with Dad—he once signed a note with a limerick and a tea stain in the shape of Wales.

Alex unfolded the parchment beside me, her eyes scanning it like a cat tracking a Snitch—quick, laser-focused, like her whole nervous system had tuned to one frequency: Weasley, Arthur, Parental Evaluation Mode: Activated.

Then her face lit up.

And Merlin, it wasn’t subtle. It was like sunrise punched the morning in the face and took over the kitchen.

“Oh my stars, he answered. He actually answered! And he’s not even mad I bothered him? I love your father. He’s a revolutionary. A wand-wielding Da Vinci. I want to put him on a biscuit tin.”

I groaned, because that’s what was expected of me. “Please don’t flirt with our dad in front of the porridge.”

But she didn’t hear me. Of course she didn’t. She was too busy smiling at that letter like it had written her a love poem and enclosed chocolate. Her hands clutched the parchment like it might vanish, and she was babbling now—

“He’s inviting me over the summer,” she said, breathless with joy. “Me. Over. To. The. Burrow.”

Fred actually punched the air like an idiot. No one will ever prove it, but I saw the wrist twitch.

“That’s brilliant!” he grinned. “We told him about you all summer. You were basically the third twin by the end of July.”

I nodded, though I felt that familiar twist behind my ribs. Third twin. Right.

It wasn’t wrong, per se. She was like us—chaotic, clever, a professional menace in training. She slotted into our rhythm so naturally it sometimes scared me. But a sister?

No. Not quite.

Mum had made a plate for her every night. Like she was some wayward creature with dietary needs and a habit of setting things on fire. “That’s for Alexandra,” she’d say. “She sounds like she burns things.”

Alex blushed at the memory, her cheeks pinking like someone had charmed embarrassment right onto her skin. “I’d love to come.”

And then I did it—I shifted into full-on Responsible Older Twin mode, like a prat. Couldn’t stop myself.

“Right. And your mother will allow you to spend a week with two adolescent boys in a house full of cursed pans and one overgrown ghoul?”

She blinked, just for a second, her smile dimming at the edges. Still hopeful, but with a trace of realism creeping in. “Fair point. She might want a written statement promising I’ll remain pure and hex-free.”

Lee slid into the seat beside us, chewing like his life depended on it. “She’s not a girl. She’s our Alex. It’s like having a sister who occasionally curses the carpet.”

Our Alex.

It hit me weird. Like someone had pressed a button I didn’t know existed. Too comfortable. Too easy.

I didn’t say anything. Not right away. Because if I started pulling that thread, I didn’t know where it would end.

But Fred did. Of course he did. Loud as always, cutting the air like a charm gone sideways.

“Maybe,” he said, sounding weirdly careful. “But I don’t really think of her as a sister.”

I blinked. Lee froze mid-chew. Alex stared at Fred like he’d grown a second head that only spoke Hungarian.

I didn’t move.

Because here’s the thing: I agreed with him. Maybe too much.

She wasn’t my sister. She never had been. And I wasn’t deluded enough to think it was because she acted differently. It was because I felt differently. Even if I would never—ever—say it out loud. Not even to Fred.

She was like a twin, sure, if we were measuring chaos-per-second. But not a sibling. That word didn’t sit right. Never had. Not with her.

Fred stuffed toast into his mouth like he regretted the syllables escaping. I stared at the letter in Alex’s hands instead.

She was still reading it. Still smiling a little. But it was a quieter smile now. A smaller one.

Sometimes, I swear, she sees through people like glass. Knows when someone’s about to crack, or when they’re hiding something under layers of jokes and toast and sibling jokes they don’t believe themselves.

I didn’t say anything, though. Because if I started, I might not be able to stop.

So I just glanced at her again.

And in that moment, she wasn’t our Alex.

She was something else entirely. Something I couldn’t name. Something that didn't quite fit in a box. Or a letter. Or a bloody biscuit tin.

***

Alex’s POV

The Slytherin common room was at its usual simmer—green firelight casting eerie shadows across the walls like they were trying to whisper secrets in Parseltongue. Most people had gone to bed, and the silence was only interrupted by the occasional flick of parchment or a lazy flicker of fire. I was curled up in the corner, pretending to read a Charms essay. The book was open, the quill was poised, and I was accomplishing absolutely nothing.

My thoughts were drifting again. Off-script. Off-planet.

The truth was, I’d been off all day. Something about that letter from Mr. Weasley—Arthur, the twins’ dad—had sucker-punched me straight in the feelings. Which was annoying, because feelings are terribly inconvenient things. You can’t Vanish them, and Merlin knows I’ve tried.

It wasn’t just that the letter was kind or helpful or unexpectedly poetic in a dad-who-tinkers-with-Muggle-tech sort of way. It was that it existed at all. That someone’s father had taken the time to write back, to care, to offer help and—bloody hell—even an invitation.

In my first life, the one I left behind when I woke up as Alexandra Bloody Rosier, I never met my father. He was a name on paperwork, a story my mother never quite finished telling. Just a blank silhouette where a presence should’ve been. I told myself I didn’t care—I was busy being a lawyer, a grown-up, a walking espresso shot with deadlines. I didn’t have time to care.

But now... I’m thirteen. Again. And teenage hormones are hitting like a rogue Bludger, and I’ve got two lives’ worth of emotional baggage crammed into one undersized trunk.

And the weirdest part? Alexandra Rosier never met her father either. Evan Rosier—dashing, dark, and dead before she could form a memory of him. A Death Eater. A killer. A name in the Prophet and a ghost in the manor. And yet, despite everything... I could feel her missing him. Not the man, maybe, but the idea of him.

And those feelings—hers and mine—were starting to swirl together like two potions that shouldn't mix but do anyway, fizzing and simmering under my skin.

I sniffed, quietly. Ridiculous. Crying in the common room over some kind fatherly encouragement and a ghost I never met. I tried to tell myself I was just tired. Or allergic to green fire. Or both.

Across from me, Theo turned a page too sharply to be casual. He was watching me. Of course he was.

"You’ve read the same paragraph five times," he said, dry as parchment. "Unless it’s about a time-turner, you’re either incredibly fascinated or incredibly distracted."

I didn’t answer right away. Mostly because my throat had done that annoying tightening thing and I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I’d croak like a toad in a tutu.

Theo leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was softer now. "Is it about your dad?"

That made me look up. He wasn’t mocking me. He looked—oddly—like he understood.

"In my life," I said slowly, quietly, "I never met him. My father. No heroic stories, no tragic endings. Just... silence. My mother barely spoke of him. I used to make up stories—fill in the blanks with daydreams and the kind of fathers you see in films. And now..." I waved vaguely at the common room, the snake crest on my robes, the echoing weight of this name I wore like an antique cloak. "Now it’s strange. Because I never knew him, and yet—I still miss him. Like I inherited the ache. Like I’m feeling something that was never really mine but somehow still lives in my chest."

Theo didn’t flinch. He just nodded. “I get it.”

Of course he did. His mum died over the summer. He’d spent a few quiet, sun-drenched weeks at Château Rosier afterward, a kind of retreat arranged by our parents. We’d enchanted Muggle water pistols, declared war on the garden gnomes, and accidentally dyed half a hedge bright pink. He laughed. I laughed. For a moment, grief sat in the background and let us breathe.

“You’re allowed to miss him,” Theo said, his voice low and steady. “Even if you never met him. Even if he wasn’t a good person. Loss doesn’t wait for logic. It just... is.”

I blinked back whatever tears were being dramatic enough to rise up. “Even if he was a murderer?”

Theo’s gaze didn’t waver. “Even then. Missing someone doesn’t mean you excuse them. It means you wonder what they could’ve been—for you.”

That was when the guilt hit me. Sharp and unexpected.

“You shouldn’t be the one comforting me,” I murmured, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “You just lost your mum. I’m here falling apart over someone I never even knew, and you—”

“I’m not made of glass, Alex,” he said, gently. “And I want to be here.”

“But—”

“I miss her every day,” he continued, voice a little rougher now. “And some nights, like this, when the world’s quiet... it creeps up. That ache. That empty space where she was. But you know what helps?”

I looked at him, wary of the answer.

“You,” he said simply.

And that’s when I stood up and crossed the room—slowly, because words had turned into soup in my throat—and knelt beside his chair.

“Can I—would it be alright if I gave you a hug?” I asked. “Not just for me. For you too.”

He stared at me for a beat, brows lifted in something like quiet surprise. Then he gave a small nod, like it cost him something but was still worth the price.

I slipped my arms around him gently. And he leaned into it—not dramatically, not like in the books—but enough.

We stayed there. Silent.

There was no speech, no cathartic sob, no plot twist. Just his breath brushing my shoulder and the weight of two kids trying not to drown in all the things they couldn’t say out loud.

His hand twitched once, like he might pull away, but didn’t.

And I thought, absurdly, This. This is what mourning should look like sometimes. Quiet. Shared. Soft.

Eventually, I loosened my grip and sat back, just enough to meet his eyes.

“You always let me curse gnomes when I need to,” he said, voice hoarse but wry. “Least I can do is let you fall apart a bit.”

I sniffed again. “Thanks. For not minding.”

“Thanks for asking,” he said. “And for not judging. I’m not really a... public hugger.”

“Good thing it’s just us.”

“Yeah.” He offered the ghost of a smile. “Just us.”

The fire popped softly. And the shadows on the wall kept whispering secrets neither of us needed to translate.

We both smiled. And in that quiet, flickering moment, the ache in my chest loosened just a little.

Then, softly—so softly it felt like I was asking a spell not yet invented—I said, “Can I touch your hair?”

Theo blinked. “What?”

I scratched the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like a kneazle caught climbing the drapes. “I—um. I used to do that. Run my hands through someone’s hair when things got… overwhelming. Grounding, I suppose. I didn’t grow up with much physical affection. Not the cuddly sort. The warmest gesture I’ve ever gotten from Vespera was a pat on the shoulder—like I was a taxidermied fox that hadn’t disgraced the family name.”

He gave a single dry blink, but didn’t interrupt.

“I do it to Lee, sometimes. Luna. The twins, when they sit still long enough. It helps. So I always ask, obviously, because people have rules about touch and boundaries and all that.” I looked at him. “But you’re here. And I just… I’d like to. If that’s okay.”

Theo stared at me for a long beat. He looked like he was doing maths in his head, the kind that involved probabilities, personal dignity, and whether he could endure being mildly fondled like a housecat.

He sighed, resigned but not unkind. “Fine. But only because I’m too tired to argue and mildly curious what kind of weirdo finds comfort in Slytherin hair texture.”

I grinned, relieved. “Yours is objectively the best kind. Silky but dramatic. Like an aloof raven’s nest.”

“Flattering.”

I shifted closer and slowly reached up, fingers brushing through his dark hair with practiced gentleness. It was, in fact, absurdly soft. He huffed once but didn’t move away. Instead, he went still, like a cat that had decided to allow affection only under strict conditions and under protest.

“See?” I murmured, voice low. “Soothing. Like stroking the mane of a dignified Thestral who once read Nietzsche.”

Theo made a noise that might’ve been a laugh or a groan. “You’re an emotional menace.”

“You knew that when you joined the water pistol war.”

“Regrettably true.”

My fingers moved slowly, more out of ritual than style, tracing comfort into strands and scalp. The fire crackled, shadows danced across his cheekbones, and something warm settled between us—not the sharp heat of drama or heartbreak, but something gentler. Like understanding. Or peace. Or a shared truce in the middle of everything unspoken.

Neither of us said anything for a long time after that.

And that was okay.

Theo’s POV

I should’ve said no.
I meant to say no.

When Alexandra Rosier—chaotic gremlin of questionable morals and illegally sharp cheekbones—asked if she could hug me, the correct, logical response should’ve been a flat, resounding absolutely not.

And yet.

There I was. In the Slytherin common room. Draped sideways on an armchair like some moody Victorian convalescent, being cradled—cradled, Merlin help me—by a girl who once hexed a prefect for “existing too audibly.”

Her arms were warm around my shoulders, anchoring me to the soft fabric of her jumper. One hand was petting my hair like I was a mildly traumatized Kneazle, and I was—against all odds—letting her.

It wasn’t unpleasant.

It was, in fact, perilously close to… comforting.

I hadn’t been hugged in ages. Not properly. Not without strings or stiff backs or the distinct impression that it was being done out of social obligation and not because someone genuinely wanted me not to feel alone.

And Alex—Alex touched like a cat. Decisively. Casually. Like she expected you to deal with it but also, somehow, made you feel like you’d won a prize.
She was warm and still, fingers threading gently through my hair with unthinking rhythm, and I—utterly foolishly—felt something unclench in my chest.

I didn’t dare show it.
But I wanted to close my eyes. Just for a second. Maybe two.

Not because I needed it.
Because it was her.

She didn’t say sorry for my loss or ask if I wanted to talk about it or offer to file a grievance petition with the Ministry of Emotional Repression. She just… pulled me in, tucked my head under her chin like it was the most natural thing in the world, and ran her fingers through my hair like she was trying to stroke grief out of my scalp.

It was so absurdly kind I nearly forgot to be embarrassed.

Nearly.

Instead, I stayed very still. Didn’t breathe too loudly. Didn’t shift my weight. Because if someone came down from the dorms and caught us—two thirteen-year-olds, curled up like badly-behaved cats by the fire—they’d never let me live it down.

I could already hear it: Oh look, Nott’s found a girlfriend with a grooming kink and a death wish.

I’d have to transfer. Change my name. Flee to Durmstrang under the cover of night.

And yet.
I didn’t move.

She was quiet now, her breathing slow, her chin resting lightly against my hair like a punctuation mark. And I—annoyingly—felt safe.
Which was deeply inconvenient.

Friends. We were friends. My first real one, if I was being disastrously honest with myself—which I try to avoid, but she makes it infuriatingly difficult. Ever since the summer—sun-dappled grief and enchanted treehouses and her ridiculous letters that smelled like parchment and defiance—she’d carved out a space in my life and refused to politely vacate it.

She gave without asking, listened without judging, and touched like it didn’t scare her.

She should be scared. I was.

Of this. Of her. Of how easily she made me laugh and how much it hurt in places I’d carefully kept empty.

She was still carding her fingers through my hair when she murmured, “Still on for tomorrow morning?”

I made a vague, noncommittal noise into her collarbone.

She poked my side. “You have to answer with actual words, Nott. That’s how language works.”

I grumbled. “Unless I develop a sudden, fatal allergy to public humiliation, yes.”

She pulled back—tragically—and slid off the chair with her usual complete disregard for dignity. Sitting cross-legged on the rug now, she looked up at me like I was some sort of particularly complicated arithmancy puzzle she’d like to set on fire.

“I think we’d make a terrifying Chaser duo,” she declared, chin up. “The twins said they’d help, remember? Even though they’re Beaters and fundamentally untrustworthy.”

“Fred and George Weasley,” I said flatly. “Living proof that physics is negotiable and chaos is hereditary.”

“They offered on the train yesterday,” she said, nudging my ankle. “Said they’d love to see two Slytherins crash tryouts in style.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s purely for the sport and not at all because they want to see us fall off our brooms in synchronised shame.”

She grinned like a fox in a henhouse. “Can’t it be both?”

I sighed theatrically. “With you, it always is.”

Truth be told, she was decent with a Quaffle—quick hands, quicker mind—but her broom balance was still more tipsy duckling than airborne menace. I didn’t mention it. She already knew. And besides, I wasn’t any better.

Functional. Moody. Tragically elegant. Not exactly team material.

“We’re not going to make it,” I said, almost fondly. “We’ll be outflown by third-years with protein shakes and delusions of grandeur.”

She tilted her head at me. “And yet, here you are.”

“I blame you entirely. You and your dangerously contagious belief in things.”

“Please. I’m persuasive because I’m right,” she said smugly. Then, “Also, you want to fly beside me and pretend we’re majestic birds of prey.”

I snorted. “I want to not die in the sky. If majesty happens, I’ll consider it a bonus.”

She laughed then—something small and pure and disarmingly bright—and leaned back against the hearth with a sigh.

“Even if we don’t make it,” she said, watching the flames, “it’ll be fun, right?”

I looked at her. Really looked.
At the shadows playing across her face.
At the ghost of her hand still tangled in my hair.
At the impossible feeling of being held and not found wanting.

“Yes,” I said quietly. “It’ll be nice.”

And this—whatever this was—was already too much.
Too warm.
Too real.
Too good to last.

Because Alexandra Rosier was my friend.
And I was quietly, catastrophically, starting to need her.

Which, frankly, should’ve been against the rules.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Detention, Drama, and Other Forms of Cardio

Alex’s POV

If there’s a more chaotic way to begin a Monday than yanking screaming botanical babies out of the dirt, I’d like to hear it. Preferably while not wearing earmuffs the size of Hagrid’s tea cozies.

We were in Greenhouse Three, the Slytherins and Ravenclaws paired up for what Professor Sprout called a “collaborative educational experience” and what I called “a social experiment in who would cry first.”

Luna Lovegood was humming next to me, swaying ever so slightly as if the mandrakes were emitting a waltz only she could hear. To my left, Pansy Parkinson was eyeing her like she was a Flobberworm in a tiara—though notably without her usual sneer. Progress. Next to Pansy was Theo, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, possibly even Azkaban.

“Ready?” Sprout beamed, as if we were about to bake biscuits instead of engage in herbicidal homicide.

We all nodded and, at the count of three, plunged our hands into the soil.

The mandrake came out wailing like a banshee at a rock concert. My ears might have been protected, but my soul took damage.

As I shoved it into its new pot like a reluctant toddler into a bath, something inside me twitched. Not from the noise, but from the creeping realization that I’d forgotten something monumentally important.

Merde.

The basilisk.

The actual, literal monster slithering around in the castle’s plumbing, ready to petrify every Muggle-born with the misfortune of making eye contact.

How could I forget a giant murder snake? That’s like forgetting the Dark Lord at a dinner party.

I tried to breathe, to reason with myself. Surely my presence here—fading adult logic trapped in a thirteen-year-old hurricane of hormones—had changed things. Surely the timeline was warped just enough to derail the second book of this very cursed series.

Except… so far, not a single butterfly wing had flapped. Harry was still alive. Ron was still catastrophically uncool. Hermione was still the brightest witch of her age and still underappreciated. They’d defeated Quirrell, flown a car, received a howler. All painfully canon.

Which meant...

The basilisk was probably still chilling in the plumbing like the world’s most homicidal water snake.

“Draco, what in Merlin’s name are you doing?” Pansy suddenly asked, her voice that special brand of drawl that meant she was seconds from laughter.

I turned to see Malfoy attempting to look casual while wiping dirt off his robes with a peacock-feather handkerchief. He looked like he was trying to seduce the mandrakes into potting themselves.

Theo made a noise that was definitely a snort. “You courting that mandrake, mate?”

Draco gave us all a withering look that barely covered his embarrassment. “It’s called style. Not that any of you would recognize it.”

“Your mandrake looks unimpressed,” I said sweetly. “Must be the feather.”

Malfoy huffed and turned his attention to repotting with all the dignity of a flobberworm in formalwear.

“I hope you’re feeling better today,” Luna said quietly, turning to me with that soft, dreamy gaze of hers. “You didn’t look well yesterday. Sort of like a Nargle had bitten your aura.”

Pansy didn’t laugh. She just blinked at Luna, then—miraculously—nodded slightly, like that was a perfectly valid medical diagnosis. I nearly dropped my mandrake.

“Thanks, Luna,” I said, genuinely touched. “I’m fine. Just… teenage existentialism. It’s chronic.”

I looked around at my odd little quadrant of classmates and had a strange thought. Luna, whose mother was gone. Theo, who’d just lost his. Me… who’d never met my father. Any of them.

“We should start a club,” I said aloud before I could stop myself. “Children of the Parental Void. Weekly meetings. We serve tea and cry into biscuits.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Can we enchant the biscuits to insult us?”

Pansy actually smiled. "Therapeutic."

Luna just beamed. “We could have mood-colour teacups.”

I grinned, something warm sparking in my chest despite the lingering dread about serpents and stone victims.

Maybe I couldn’t change the story. But maybe, just maybe, I could make mine a little brighter along the way.

Draco’s POV

There are few things more ghastly than a Gryffindor with a camera.

Crabbe and I were loitering in the corridor outside Charms, the very picture of languid, pureblooded disdain, when that walking exclamation mark—Colin Creevey—came bounding up to Potter like a Crup on caffeine.

"Harry! Harry! Can I get a picture? Please? With your signature? Maybe pointing your wand or smiling—no, frowning—heroically?"

Crabbe made a noise like a congested troll, which I took to mean agreement. I sneered. "Careful, Potter, he might frame it and sleep with it under his pillow."

Potter flushed. Weasley looked like he was about to bite someone. Possibly me. I arched a brow with all the gravitas of a seventeen-century portrait. "Honestly, do they hand out delusions of grandeur with the Gryffindor welcome scrolls, or is it just a house special?"

Before Weasley could retort (and let’s be honest, it would’ve involved something tragically undignified, like flailing), the corridor was swallowed by a blast of fragrance and ego: Gilderoy Lockhart.

Teeth, cloak, and voice all gleamed in equal measure. "Harry! My boy! Signing autographs already, are we? Splendid, splendid! You’ll be needing tips, I expect. Flourish on the 'H', little lightning bolt under the name—"

Alexandra Rosier—because of course she appeared at that exact moment like some fashionable stormcloud—materialized beside us, all polished sarcasm and faintly judgmental perfume. "I’ll take the picture," she said sweetly, plucking the camera from Creevey like it offended her. "We wouldn’t want to miss posterity’s chance to capture such genius."

Lockhart beamed, entirely missing the poison dripping from her voice. "Ah, Miss Rosier! Knew I could count on a Slytherin’s efficiency."

"Mm," she said, tilting the camera. "Could you both lean in? Just a smidge? Yes, perfect—Potter, maybe squint like you're worried about your taxes. Professor, look as though you’ve just caught your reflection unexpectedly."

Lockhart preened.

I nearly choked.

Weasley snorted so hard he startled a suit of armor. Potter looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Typical.

She snapped the photo, handed the camera back to Creevey with a wink, then turned to me. "Walk with me, Malfoy. Before I start shouting comparisons to inflated peacocks and can’t stop."

Crabbe blinked at me like I’d just been knighted. I rolled my eyes, adjusted my collar with impeccable precision, and followed her.

We walked through the halls in a silence that was almost companionable, save for the flick of her braid and the way she kept adjusting her gloves like she was suppressing the urge to hex a gargoyle.

"You need to get a hobby," she said at last.

"Excuse me?"

"You’re obsessed with Potter. It’s exhausting. For all of us. Even the portraits are rolling their eyes."

I sniffed. "I’m not obsessed. I’m observant. There’s a difference."

"You make faces every time someone says his name."

"Do not."

"You once muttered 'golden git' into your pumpkin juice."

I scowled. "He gets everything handed to him. The fame, the attention..."

"The trauma, the mortal peril, the troll-related head injuries. Yes, such riches."

I didn’t answer. Because, well. She had a point. And I hated when she had a point. Which was often. Stupid Rosier brain.

"Is that what this is really about?" she said, tilting her head, eyes glinting. "Your father comparing you?"

I froze. Just a second. Barely a blink. But she saw it. Of course she saw it.

"You’re unnerving," I muttered.

She smiled like a cat who’d found the secret stash of Kneazle treats. "Thank you. And you’re not nearly as insufferable when you’re honest."

We were halfway to Lockhart’s dungeon of delusion when I noticed something unsettling: Alexandra Rosier didn’t strut, didn’t flounce, didn’t even sway. She walked like she owned the flagstones. Like the castle ought to curtsy to her every step. Infuriating.

She was still smirking, of course, the sort of smirk that suggested she’d read your diary, annotated it in red ink, and passed it to the Weird Sisters for lyrical adaptation.

“I’m not obsessed with Potter,” I muttered as we turned the corner. I don’t know why I said it. I wasn’t. Obviously.

She glanced at me sideways, eyes gleaming like cursed silver. “Of course you’re not,” she said sweetly. “You just follow him around like a Victorian ghost with abandonment issues.”

I nearly tripped over my own shoes.

We stepped into the Defense classroom, already decked out like a love letter to mediocrity. Lavender drapery. Gold-framed portraits of Lockhart grinning like a toothpaste advert. His hair—gods, his hair—was everywhere. Portrait-Lockhart winking. Portrait-Lockhart flipping his hair. Portrait-Lockhart brandishing a toothbrush at a banshee.

“Oh, brilliant,” Theo drawled behind us, voice dry as a bone-dry mermaid. “It’s like walking into a shrine for a particularly useless demigod.”

Rosier snorted. “No, no. That would imply he has worshippers with taste.”

I caught Pansy and Daphne twirling strands of hair around their fingers like they’d swallowed a love potion. Millicent was blushing like someone had hexed her with rose-tinted cheeks. Every girl looked halfway ready to toss a rose at Lockhart’s feet.

Except Alex.

She was sitting on her desk like it was a throne, twiddling her quill and mouthing something that looked suspiciously like “who gave this man a teaching license?”

Theo leaned toward me and muttered, “She’s the only girl not swooning.”

I glanced at her.

She caught my eye and whispered, “If he recites one more fake adventure, I’m going to enchant my inkwell to drown me.”

I huffed. “You do realise most girls are here for his smile?”

“Yes, and I’m here for the impending disaster,” she replied brightly. “We all need a hobby.”

Before I could answer, Lockhart pranced in like a peacock on parade, wearing robes so turquoise they made my eyes itch.

“Witches and wizards!” he trilled. “Today, we begin a thrilling year of defence, excitement, and—yes!—celebrity insight!”

Rosier murmured to Theo, “I wonder if ‘defence’ includes defending myself from a migraine.”

Lockhart passed out the tests—no spells, no hexes, just fifty questions about himself. Favourite colour. Ideal shampoo. Whether he preferred kissing banshees or beheading them.

Theo turned to me. “Should we prank this?”

I hesitated.

Then Alexandra tapped her quill against the parchment and grinned. “I’ll switch the questions. Let’s see if he notices when his favourite colour changes to Desperate Lavender.”

I couldn’t help it—I snorted.

God help us, but she made even Lockhart bearable.

*

Lockhart was halfway through describing his narrow escape from a “feral vampire horde in a Transylvanian wine cellar” when he paused mid-flounce, nostrils twitching.

“Now, hold on,” he said, peering down at the parchment Alex had handed in. “Question twelve—favourite flower: the Dying Narcissus of Vanity?”

Theo coughed violently. I pretended to examine a suspicious speck on my sleeve.

“And what’s this?” Lockhart’s voice rose an octave. “‘What part of your own autobiography moved you to tears?’ Answer: the part where you confused a banshee with your own reflection?”

Alex was lounging in her chair, legs crossed at the ankle like she had all the time in the world and none of the guilt.

“Well,” she said brightly, “I felt it was an emotionally revealing moment.”

Lockhart blinked at her. Twice. “Miss Rosier…”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she continued, all wide-eyed innocence and buttery tones. “I was under the impression this was a test of comprehension. I comprehended that the subject of the material—namely, you—possesses a flair for dramatics rivalled only by Ancient Greek theatre and certain breeds of tropical bird.”

The class tittered. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep a straight face.

Lockhart’s face twitched. “Miss Rosier, this is highly inappropriate.”

“Is it?” she said, folding her hands neatly atop her desk. “Because I’m certain that under the Hogwarts Academic Code, a test should reflect measurable knowledge. There were no defensive theory questions. No spellwork analysis. Just… aesthetic preferences and speculative autobiography. So technically, our reinterpretation was a practical application of improvisational magic—creativity under pressure. Which, I dare say, is an essential part of Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

There was a beat of silence.

Even I was impressed.

Lockhart looked vaguely seasick. “That may be… however…”

Alex tilted her head like an elegant predator. “Surely, sir, a man of your brilliance wouldn’t be threatened by a few second-year quips?”

Oh, she was good. Theo was quietly mouthing what is happening, and for once, I had no snide answer. Lockhart looked like someone had just tried to hex his ego with a hair-thinning curse.

For a fleeting, shining moment, I thought we might escape punishment entirely.

And then—

“Well,” he said, puffing his chest and clutching his peacock-feather quill like a wand substitute, “this cheek—however articulate—must not go unchallenged. Ten points from Slytherin. And a detention. Tonight. All three of you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course.”

Alex gave Lockhart a dazzling smile. “You know, Professor, that shade of righteous indignation really brings out the falseness of your tan.”

He flinched.

Theo leaned over and whispered, “I think I just fell in love.”

I snorted. “You’ll have to get in line.”

We filed out of the classroom with an impressive lack of remorse, trailing behind Alex like she was leading a particularly well-dressed mutiny.

And I couldn’t help thinking: she should have been in charge of something. A courtroom. A revolution. Or possibly the Ministry itself.

Instead, she’d just out-debated a celebrity with nothing but sarcasm and a rogue quill.

Typical Rosier.

Typical chaos.

And I wouldn’t miss detention for the world.

*

Alex’s POV

The stone corridors of Hogwarts had never felt longer, or more dramatically unjust, than they did on the evening I was being marched toward Lockhart's lair of egotistical absurdity. Detention. For creative answers. Where, I ask, is the justice? Oh, right—tied up in Lockhart’s favorite color (lilac, in case you’ve been lucky enough to avoid his trivia).

Theo walked beside me, smirking in that way that meant he was entirely enjoying my theatrical outrage. Draco trailed just behind us, arms crossed, his expression a pure potion of disdain and bemusement.

"You know," Draco drawled, his voice echoing lightly off the dungeon walls, "you might be the only person I know who can get detention for not swooning."

"I take that as a compliment," I replied with a dignified sniff. "I refuse to pander to a man whose autobiography cover features more teeth than any known magical creature."

Theo snorted. "You did call him 'a sentient hair commercial' in your quiz."

"In my defense," I said, lifting my chin, "he is."

We reached the stairs leading up from the dungeons, and the draft shifted, fluttering the hem of my robes like a dramatic cue. Honestly, if my life had a soundtrack, now was the moment for the violins.

"I still don’t understand why you're so chummy with the Weasley twins," Draco said, as we climbed. "They’re blood traitors."

Ah, there it was. The Pureblood Whine, vintage edition.

"Because," I said, spinning on the step to face him with a beatific smile, "they are chaos personified. Walking, talking, prank-brewing, authority-poking entropy in human form. It’s irresistible."

Theo chuckled. Draco rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the ghost of a grin.

"You have no house loyalty."

"Incorrect," I said. "I am deeply loyal to the Quidditch Cup and my own amusement."

We turned the corner, arriving at Lockhart’s office. The door gleamed with polished brass and bad decisions.

Snape, to his credit, had tried to get us out of this ridiculous punishment. He'd loomed impressively in the staff room and muttered something about 'educational malpractice.' But Lockhart had waved him off with a smile bright enough to sterilize cauldrons.

The moment we entered, Lockhart spun from his desk like a stage actor making his fifth entrance.

"Ah! My little troublemakers!" he said, arms wide as if greeting an adoring crowd rather than three deeply unimpressed Slytherins.

"Your little creative consultants," I corrected under my breath.

"You’ll be organizing my fan mail," he declared, gesturing to three piles that could probably qualify as minor architectural structures. "You can begin by sorting them alphabetically and removing any letters with perfume. Some of them cause sneezing fits."

Theo eyed the piles like they might sprout legs and run. Draco looked ready to set them all on fire.

"How exciting," I said brightly, slipping into the seat nearest the largest pile. "Manual labor and olfactory danger. Truly, the essence of magical education."

Lockhart blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," I sang. "Just thrilled to be part of the dream."

Theo covered a laugh with a cough. Draco settled next to me, arms crossed so tightly it looked like he was attempting self-apparition.

We worked in silence for approximately three minutes before I started reading excerpts aloud.

"Dear Gilderoy, your hair is a poem to the gods—"

"Skip," Draco muttered.

"Dear Professor Lockhart, do you offer private tutoring in… defensive techniques?"

Theo snorted. "Subtle."

I grinned. "Dear Lockhart, I named my Crup after you."

"That poor Crup," Draco said dryly.

Lockhart, who had been rearranging portraits of himself into a pyramid of narcissism behind us, turned with a glittering smile. "Isn’t it marvelous? The devotion one inspires when one lives authentically."

"Yes," I said. "Authenticity. That’s definitely what this is."

Theo nudged me. "He’s buying it."

"Please," I whispered. "I’ve had courtroom opponents with more spine."

That slipped out. I froze.

Draco glanced at me. "Courtroom?"

I coughed. "Just a saying. Family thing."

Smooth. Subtle. Not at all suspicious.

Lockhart clapped his hands. "New task! Let’s get creative. I want each of you to write an ode. A poem, in my honor. Something heartfelt. Rhyming encouraged."

Theo looked like he might bite him. Draco muttered something about 'cruel and unusual punishment.'

I picked up a quill, twirled it, and began:

Oh, Gilderoy, with teeth so bright, Your smile outshines a lumos light.

Theo leaned over. "Are you actually—"

Your ego vast, your brain less so, Like powdered wigs and peacocks’ glow.

Draco snorted into his sleeve.

"Done," I said sweetly, passing it to Lockhart.

He read the first two lines and beamed. He read the last two and faltered.

"This… this has a tone, doesn’t it?"

"Poetic nuance," I said. "Symbolism."

Theo handed his in next. It was three lines long and one of them rhymed 'plume' with 'doom.'

Draco submitted a haiku that, in seventeen syllables, managed to insult Lockhart’s intellect, wardrobe, and wand technique.

Lockhart blinked at us, cheeks twitching. "Right. Yes. I see. Very funny. But you’ll each copy lines from my autobiography, chapter three, fifty times. That’ll teach you respect."

"Respect is earned," I murmured.

He heard me.

"Miss Rosier, perhaps you’d prefer to polish my trophies for the next week."

"Would I get a badge?" I asked brightly. "‘Official Ego Buffer’?"

Theo audibly choked. Draco muttered something that sounded like merlin's garters. Lockhart, flustered, waved his hands.

"Enough! Just write! No more talking!"

We wrote.

Or pretended to. My lines slowly devolved into increasingly elaborate insults disguised as compliments. My favorite was:

The way you bravely faced a Wagga Wagga Werewolf—despite the clear evidence it was actually a sheepdog with mange—is a lesson to us all.

Theo, beside me, drew tiny bats in the margins. Draco carved Lockhart's initials into the desk… with a dungbomb outline around it.

We were model students.

By the end of the evening, Lockhart’s eye twitched whenever I so much as cleared my throat.

When he finally dismissed us, it was with a harried, "Out, out! Go study. Or… whatever it is you do."

We didn’t need to be told twice.

Back in the corridor, I let out a breath that might’ve been laughter. "I think I broke him."

"You broke him, set him on fire, and danced on the ashes," Theo said admiringly.

"He deserves it," Draco muttered. "Doesn’t even know how to hold a wand properly."

"Well," I said, linking my arms with theirs, "at least detention was educational."

Theo raised a brow. "In what universe?"

"In the universe where I learn how far I can push before a professor starts twitching."

Draco smirked. "You’re terrifying."

I grinned. "Thank you. I try."

We walked back to the dungeons, three little Slytherins in the dim corridors of absurdity and minor rebellion.

I couldn't help but hum under my breath. A small tune. Rihanna, of course. Something to remind me who I was.

Even if the world around me had absolutely no clue.

*

George’s POV

There are only a few constants in life: Filch will always smell like moldy parchment, Snape will always loom like a bat with chronic disappointment, and Alexandra Rosier will always find a way to derail the natural laws of social decorum—preferably while covered in glitter or legalese.

Fred, Lee, and I had claimed our usual spot under the bronze-winged statue in the courtyard, basking in the afterglow of a detention-free evening. The sun filtered through the archways like it was trying to apologize for existing in Scotland. Fred was juggling two Exploding Snap cards and one half-eaten pear. Lee was sketching designs for a prank he insisted would revolutionize stink pellets. I was debating whether the pigeon glaring at me from the statue’s beak was planning a targeted attack.

Then came the sound of doom—or rather, the unholy clack of Slytherin boots against stone.

"Survived," Alexandra declared, flopping onto the bench beside us like she’d just returned from battle, her satchel thumping against the cobblestones with dramatic finality. "Lockhart didn’t implode from exposure to sarcasm. A miracle."

"You live," Fred said, mock solemn. "And with all your limbs. I owe Lee a Sickle."

"How was detention with Malfoy?" Lee asked, half-interested, half-hoping she’d say they turned Lockhart’s wig into a puffskein.

"He wasn’t that bad," Alex said, picking imaginary lint off her robe. "I mean, still an entitled peacock in silk socks, but surprisingly tolerable when forced to alphabetize Lockhart’s memoirs by most delusional claim."

I blinked. "Malfoy? Tolerable?"

"I know. It rattled me too. But I maintain he just needs better influences."

"Better influences like you?" I raised an eyebrow. "Rosier, are you planning a Slytherin reformation or just recruiting minions?"

"Yes," she said sweetly, batting her lashes. "And Theo is my second-in-command."

Fred laughed. "Wait, back up. You pranked Lockhart’s quiz?"

Alex leaned back, smug as a cat that had eaten a Ministry memo. "I might’ve replaced the ‘What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favorite color?’ question with ‘How many gnomes does it take to inflate an ego this size?’"

Lee choked on his pumpkin juice.

Fred was wheezing. "Did he notice?"

"Eventually. But only after Theo wrote ‘ego measurements must be in imperial units’ and Draco replaced three of the questions with actual Latin phrases from legal textbooks."

"I didn’t know Malfoy knew Latin," I muttered.

"He doesn’t. He copied them from my notes."

Fred was now banging his fist against the bench. "This is incredible."

"You know what’s incredible?" I said. "The fact that Malfoy didn’t hex you into next week."

Alex shrugged. "I told him he needs a life that doesn’t revolve around Potter. He sulked, but he didn’t argue."

"Honestly?" Lee said, eyebrows high. "That’s the most shocking thing I’ve heard all week."

"Boys are surprisingly pliable when you speak to them like clients on the verge of a lawsuit."

Before we could fully recover from the mental image of Alex cross-examining Draco Malfoy, Cedric Diggory strolled into view like the sun had commissioned him personally. Hufflepuff’s golden boy. The kind of bloke who could charm a hippogriff into doing his taxes.

"Oh great," Fred muttered. "Here comes the poster boy for Perfect Posture Weekly—not a prefect yet, mind you, but well on his way to sainthood by Hufflepuff standards."

Alex stood up, smoothing her robes with purpose. "Cedric!"

He slowed, offering a warm smile. "Alexandra. Fancy seeing you."

"You offered to help me with Slytherin Quidditch tryouts," she said, straight to the point as ever. "Was that real or were you just being polite on the train?"

Diggory chuckled. "I was being polite and real. You want to try out?"

"Chaser," she said firmly. "I’m not coordinated enough for Keeper and not violent enough for Beater."

"You’re pretty violent in argument," I muttered.

She ignored me.

"I’ve never played properly," she added, “but I have enthusiasm and childhood trauma—so I’m halfway to professional already."

Cedric’s smile widened. "I can help you train. We’re running drills this weekend."

"Perfect," Fred cut in smoothly before Alex could say anything. "We’ll join in. Give her the Beater’s perspective."

"Yeah," I added, forcing a grin. "Wouldn’t want her training without proper supervision."

Alex lit up. "Oh, that’s brilliant! I wanted Theo to join too—he’s trying out. We can all train together."

Theo appeared then, as if summoned by the Slytherin Bat-Signal. He was clutching a book and a mild look of dread. "Did you just volunteer us for joint training with a Hufflepuff?"

"Yes," Alex beamed. "We’re revolutionizing inter-house relations."

Theo looked like he’d swallowed a particularly smug flobberworm. "Slytherin training is for Slytherins."

"You want to make the team, right?" she asked innocently.

Theo frowned. "Yes, but—"

"Then this is cross-house reconnaissance. You’ll gain insight into your future enemies. It’s very Slytherin."

Cedric lifted his hands. "I’m not spying, just helping."

Theo exhaled sharply. "Fine. But if anyone asks, I’m being blackmailed."

"Of course," Alex said graciously. "We’ll forge the documents later."

Fred grinned. "Alright, I’m in. But only if we get to teach you how to dodge a Bludger using Lee’s umbrella technique."

"I don’t even know what that means," Cedric admitted.

"It involves screaming and rotational flailing," I explained. "Very effective."

Alex clapped her hands. "This is brilliant. We’ll meet Saturday at the pitch. Bring your broomsticks and your unresolved emotional issues."

Lee raised a hand. "Do those need to be in writing?"

"Optional," she grinned.

I watched as she beamed at everyone—Diggory, Theo, us—and something tightened in my chest. She really could waltz into any circle and rearrange the social furniture like it was all made of licorice. Slytherins, Hufflepuffs, pranksters, perfectionists—she didn’t seem to care.

She just... fit.

Even when she didn’t.

Fred nudged me. "You’re thinking too hard."

"I’m not," I muttered.

"You are. You get that look. Like a Niffler eyeing a bank vault."

I rolled my eyes. "She’s just weird."

Fred smirked. "And weird’s not your type, obviously."

I threw a crumb at him. It missed.

Cedric had turned to Alex again. "I’ll bring a few training routines. See what works."

"Perfect," she said. "Just don’t go easy on me."

Theo coughed. "He’s a Hufflepuff. He doesn’t know how to go hard."

"We’ll see," Cedric said, smiling like someone who very much did know how to.

The tension in the air was subtle but present—like the castle itself was watching, waiting. And as we all stood in that little stone courtyard, surrounded by ancient arches and adolescent awkwardness, I had a strange thought:

Maybe this year really was going to be different.

And maybe—just maybe—that wasn’t such a terrible thing.

Because Alexandra Rosier, chaos incarnate, had just roped a bunch of teenagers from rival houses into a training session built on nothing but charm, chutzpah, and a little quidditch-fueled hope.

And if that wasn’t magic, I didn’t know what was.

***

Cedric’s POV

The sun was barely up, but Alexandra Rosier was already buzzing like she’d downed a dozen Pepperup Potions. I’d arrived early to prep a few basic drills, expecting to have to wake half the group with a well-placed charm, but she was there first, sitting cross-legged on the pitch with her broom beside her like an overeager pixie waiting for mischief.

She grinned when she saw me. “Cedric! Morning! Did you bring the physical and emotional pain you promised?”

“Just the physical,” I said with a laugh. “Emotional's extra.”

Fred, George, and Theo arrived not long after, trailed by two giggling girls I recognized instantly—Petra Bellamy, a fellow Hufflepuff in my year, and her best friend Calla, a sharp-eyed Ravenclaw. If I wasn’t mistaken, they were the twins’ girlfriends. Petra was braiding Calla’s hair, whispering something with a conspiratorial smirk—barely bothering to hide their laughter whenever they glanced toward Alexandra Rosier.

Alex waved at everyone like she was hosting a garden party rather than a half-serious Quidditch session.
“Right! Chaos crew assembled. Let’s embarrass ourselves in the name of athletic growth.”

We started slow—broom-handling basics, a bit of passing, easy laps around the pitch to warm up. Alex wasn’t terrible. Actually, she was kind of impressive. Her form was mostly instinct and too much elbow, but she had fast hands and a knack for catching passes I would’ve bet against. Twice, she snagged the Quaffle mid-spin—once while flying backwards and yelling something extremely French and probably extremely rude.

“Did she just insult my grandmother in French?” Fred asked, mock-offended.

“No,” Theo replied, grinning. “She insulted gravity’s parentage.”

Alex zipped past, hair flying wildly, and shouted over her shoulder, “It’s not my fault I swear in French when I panic! Blame my dramatic upbringing!”

She caught a pass from Theo and banked left into a loop—not textbook perfect, but surprisingly elegant—until the tail end, when her broom wobbled dangerously and she nearly somersaulted off the stirrups.

“Getting better,” I called. “But maybe try staying on the broom next time?”

“They’re stirrups, Cedric!” she shouted back. “This is Quidditch, not the Tour de France!”

The thing was—she was getting better. Her balance needed serious work, but her aim was sharp and her passes were confident. More than that, she had guts. Stupid, fearless, Slytherin guts. She didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, even when she probably should’ve. She played like she thought falling was someone else’s problem.

I found myself watching her more closely than I meant to. Not as a captain would, or even as a friendly upperclassman evaluating potential. I just… watched.

She was tenacious. Funny in that offbeat, slightly wicked way that made you pay attention. She muttered under her breath when she missed and swore when she nailed a shot—both times equally dramatic. At one point, she lunged for a loose Quaffle and swerved right into my path. I caught her by the waist before she could tumble headlong into my broomstick—reflex, nothing more—but my hands lingered longer than they probably should’ve.

She smelled like jasmine and sugar.
She didn’t seem to notice.
Fred did.
So did George.
Theo raised an eyebrow and smirked like he’d just tripped over a particularly juicy secret. Fred edged his broom closer to hers after that. George started calling for the ball a bit louder, a bit more pointedly. And suddenly, I realized I was in a competition I hadn’t signed up for.

“Let’s try passing drills,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “Alex, pair with Theo.”

Theo drifted toward her like he’d been expecting it. He passed with relaxed precision, flying just close enough to make her laugh at whatever sarcastic nonsense he muttered. They had a rhythm—rough but natural. She missed a catch, cursed in French again.

“Merde! I had it!”

“Language, Rosier,” George teased. “This is a family-friendly sport.”

“Says the boy who threatened to hex someone’s eyebrows off last week,” she shot back.

Fred chimed in, “We have standards, Alex. Low ones, but they exist.”

We ran more drills—Theo proving himself a steady Chaser, Alex still rough on balance but weirdly magnetic in the air. She wasn’t afraid of speed or height or injury, which made her thrilling to watch and mildly terrifying to fly near. If she had even a fraction more stability, she could’ve given our House team’s starting Chasers a scare.

“Break time,” I called eventually.

Everyone landed, flushed and sweaty. Someone conjured a jug of pumpkin juice, and we passed it around while Alex flopped dramatically onto the grass like she’d been felled in battle.

“Brilliant idea,” she groaned. “Quidditch training before breakfast. Next time, let’s duel trolls before tea.”

Fred and George’s girlfriends sauntered over, each armed with a towel, a drink, and a suspiciously tight smile.

“Oh là là,” Alex said, sitting up and squinting dramatically. “The royal consorts have arrived. Tell me, Fred, George—are these the girlfriends you so coyly neglected to mention during our last thrilling courtyard confession?”

Fred blinked. “They just showed up—”

“They heard we were training,” George added, a little too quickly, scratching the back of his neck.

“Convenient,” Alex drawled, stretching like a cat in the sun. “And do these mysterious young ladies know you both snore like trolls and once prank-called your own grandmother with a howler?”

Fred’s girlfriend gave a high-pitched laugh, though her eyes didn’t quite match. “Only makes them more charming.”

Alex tilted her head, smiling like a Sphinx with a secret. “Clearly love is blind. And hard of hearing.”

George’s girlfriend stepped closer to him and gave Alex a smile that was technically polite, but only if you weren’t fluent in girl-code. “We’ve heard all about you,” she said.

Theo, lounging like a sun-drenched lizard, flopped down beside Alex and elbowed her. “You jealous, Rosier?”

Alex raised a brow. “Hardly. I have far too many opinions to date.”

George smirked. “And not nearly enough patience to tolerate anyone else’s.”

“Exactly.”

Laughter rippled through the group—some lighter than others—and I watched her. Really watched her. As she leaned back on her elbows, eyes on the sky, the breeze teasing her hair, I realized she didn’t just fit into this group.

She defined it.

She fit. Too well. Like she’d always been one of us.

And I was in trouble.

I liked her. Not in the harmless way you like a clever teammate or a talented flyer. Not even in the way you admire someone who dives at the Quaffle like she doesn’t believe in mortality.

I liked her in the sort of way that made me want to memorize the exact cadence of her laugh. To understand every insult she hurled in French. To convince her to keep flying with us even if she never made a House team.

Which was… inconvenient.

She was a Slytherin. A second-year. A menace.

And still, as the sun crept higher and everyone stood to start again, I couldn’t shake the thought:
If she didn’t make the team this year, fine.

But if she kept flying like that—fearless, unbothered, full of gallows wit and reckless grace—she was going to be a hell of a Chaser.

And possibly the end of my peace of mind.

Lee’s POV

I had barely taken three steps into the dorm when Fred all but tackled me like a Snitch-sniffing Bludger. George followed, moving with the slightly haunted air of a man who had just witnessed a crime—or worse, feelings.

“You missed it,” Fred said, breathless with the kind of drama usually reserved for end-of-year exams or Mum finding your secret dungbomb stash.

“I always miss it,” I replied, peeling off my cloak and tossing it on the pile of laundry we’d all decided, by unspoken Gryffindor decree, to ignore until it started growing its own limbs.

“No,” George said, sinking onto his bed like a Victorian widow overcome by emotion. “You really missed it.”

“Oh Merlin, who died? Wait—don’t tell me Rosier finally crashed into a hoop.”

“Worse,” Fred said. “Cedric caught her.”

I blinked. “Caught her doing what? Crimes? Potions? Feelings?”

“In midair,” George said, enunciating like a man delivering last rites. “She was about to eat turf, and he just—swooped in—like a noble, shampoo-commercial hippogriff and grabbed her by the waist.”

“And—AND—” Fred added, jabbing a finger in the air so hard I feared it would achieve orbit, “his hands lingered. Not just a casual ‘oopsy, saved your spine’—no no. A linger. A waist linger.”

“Oh bloody hell,” I said, collapsing dramatically onto my bed. “That’s it. The apocalypse is here. Love is in the air and I am entirely unarmed.”

Fred pointed at me. “This is serious, Lee.”

“It’s Cedric,” George said. “He’s too noble. Too… Cedric. He shouldn’t be lingering. He should be offering gallant platitudes and singlehandedly knitting blankets for orphaned hippogriffs while reciting poetry to the wind.”

“You’re both mad,” I said, grinning. “Look, I love Ced as much as the next bloke who’s been relentlessly outclassed in every sport since the age of eleven and emotionally overshadowed by his cheekbones—but maybe, just maybe, Alex has a teeny-tiny flutter for the golden boy. And honestly? Good for her. He’s got heroic jawlines and woodland creature energy. She’s got chaos and a possible criminal record. It balances.”

Fred gagged like he’d swallowed a Blast-Ended Skrewt. “No. Absolutely not. She’d die of boredom. He probably alphabetizes his socks and thanks them for their service.”

“He’s not even funny,” George chimed in, scandalized. “You think Alex could survive five minutes without verbally body-slamming someone? She’d explode. Just spontaneously combust from lack of banter.”

“Right, right,” I said, flapping a hand like a referee at a particularly emotional Hippogriff match. “But let the official transcript reflect that I, Lee Jordan, in full possession of my mental faculties, attempted to inject truth into this swirling pit of twin-born denial.”

They both groaned like I’d hexed them with an honesty curse.

“So… riddle me this,” I said, folding my arms like I was about to deduct House Points and their allowance. “Why does the mere idea of Alexandra Rosier having a tiny, minuscule, barely-a-whiff-of-a-crush on Cedric Diggory make you both twitch like someone just hexed your kneecaps with the Tango Jinx? I mean—be honest—it’s not like either of you are single. You’ve got girlfriends. Theoretically.”

Fred scoffed. “We’re just being protective.”

“She’s a second year,” George added, sounding like he was citing a sacred law. “We’re fourth-years.”

“Ah, yes,” I nodded gravely. “The classic ‘We’re not jealous, we’re just noble older brothers who definitely haven’t noticed she’s turning into a knock-out with the comedic timing of Peeves and the fashion sense of a war goddess’ defense. Very moving. Unfortunately, I’ve known you both since the Pixie Stix incident of ‘89, and you can’t lie to me. I still have glitter in my socks.”

“We’re not lying!” Fred said, looking genuinely offended. “We’re—look, someone’s got to keep an eye out. She’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” I snorted. “She’s a Rosier with a wand and an agenda. Of course she’s dangerous. But she doesn’t need protection.” I leaned in. “If anyone needs a bodyguard, it’s Cedric. If Alex’s got her sights on him, poor bloke’s got maybe two days before he’s muttering her name in his sleep and writing accidental love haikus on his Ancient Runes homework.”

George flinched. “She better not—”

“Oh, and by the way,” I added, with deliberate nonchalance, “I’ve heard other boys talking about her.”

Both their heads snapped toward me so fast, a Ravenclaw on the Astronomy Tower probably felt the disturbance in the force.

“Who?” they demanded in unison.

“Relax,” I said. “Just a few third-years. One Hufflepuff called her a ‘mysterious swan with eyes like curses and eyeliner made of vengeance.’”

Fred looked personally victimized. George looked like he was calculating murder logistics with a breakfast spoon.

We sat in silence for about four seconds—maybe five, if you count George clenching his jaw—before Fred sighed like the world was ending.

“You think Petra looked annoyed?”

“About Cedric?” I asked.

“No. About Alex being… Alex.”

Ah. That.

“Petra always looks vaguely concerned when Rosier enters a ten-meter radius of George,” I said. “Not that I blame her. That girl’s like a sentient Quidditch foul—fascinating, chaotic, and possibly banned in three countries.”

“She tries, though,” George muttered. “She’s nice to her.”

“She over-tries,” I said. “It’s like watching a Puffskein try to befriend a Hungarian Horntail. But Petra’s sweet. Very sweet. Bit of a blushy thing. Totally in love with you, by the way.”

George went a bit pink and stared at his shoes, which were, frankly, a crime against footwear and should be set on fire humanely.

“And Calla?” I turned to Fred with the enthusiasm of a Howler about to be opened in a library. “Still pretending to understand your jokes?”

“She laughed at the broomstick pun yesterday.”

“She snorted at the word shaft,” I said. “Then got distracted by her own reflection in the window.”

Fred beamed. “Progress.”

Calla Whitcombe was 20% brilliance, 40% legs, and 100% main-character syndrome. She loved being seen with Fred the way some people love chocolate frogs, mirror selfies, and applause. She’d latched onto him like a seasonal Hogwarts trend, and in true Ravenclaw fashion, tried to turn every interaction into a competition—mostly with Alex. Which, frankly, was like challenging a boggart to a sarcastic spelling bee during a thunderstorm.

“Anyway,” I said, hands behind my head like the smug oracle I am, “this is all going to end in flames. Possibly actual ones. You lot are too protective of Rosier to be objective, Cedric’s too golden-boy noble to realize he’s being stalked by a flirtatious gremlin in couture, Petra’s going to implode like a shaken bottle of Butterbeer, and Calla’s going to challenge someone to a magical catwalk duel and declare herself Queen of the Corridor.”

They were quiet for a beat.

Then Fred asked the fatal question. “What do we do?”

I grinned. “Absolutely nothing. I’m the commentator, boys. I thrive on the chaos. All I need now is the right title. Something like…”

George groaned. “Please don’t say ‘Rosierpocalypse.’”

“Too late!” I chirped. “There’s already a chart. With glitter. And scented ink. I’ve assigned point values to spontaneous hexes, hair flips, and smirks.”

Fred buried his face in a pillow. “We’re doomed.”

“Doomed and dramatic,” I said brightly. “My favorite kind of Gryffindor.”

They groaned in stereo.

I leaned back, twirling my quill like I was about to sign a peace treaty or a very stylish ceasefire. “You know, I might just ask Alex if she’s got a little thing for Diggory. Casually. Subtly. As a concerned confidant and chaos connoisseur.”

Fred and George sat bolt upright like I’d announced I’d signed her up for the Triwizard Tournament.

“You what?” Fred said, voice climbing an octave.

“She wouldn’t tell you,” George said, scoffing. “We’re her best friends.”

“She tells us everything,” Fred added, a bit too fast to be credible.

I raised a brow. “Does she though? Because lately I’ve been getting the impression she’s sharing a bit more with me. You know, private thoughts. Vague dramatic monologues. Hair product tips. The usual.”

“That’s ridiculous,” George said, folding his arms. “If Alex was going to confess something like a crush, she’d tell us. Not you.”

“Bold of you to assume she owes you a press release,” I said, grinning. “Besides, maybe she would have told you—back when she was still petting your hair like you were her emotional support Puffskeins. But alas—” I made a grand gesture, “—you both now have girlfriends. Girlfriends with eyes. And in Calla’s case, a jealousy radius of approximately twenty meters.”

Fred looked stricken. “She hasn’t stopped petting my hair, has she?”

“She hasn’t touched mine in weeks,” George muttered.

“Oh, you poor souls,” I said. “Must be tragic, going cold-turkey from Rosier’s gentle talon-massages. Meanwhile, Luna and I are still in the friend-zone hair-stroking rotation. It’s honestly luxurious. Like being blessed by a mildly unhinged snow nymph.”

Fred made a face that suggested he was weighing the merits of spontaneous girlfriend-breakups. George looked like he might actually cry.

Calla, for the record, had already tried to claim ownership over Fred’s arm in the corridor last week with the subtlety of a territorial Niffler. She caught Alex laughing at something he said—something harmless, probably about cauldron bottoms—and her expression went full Ice Queen With a New Wand. Girl had drama in her blood and competition in her soul.

And Fred? Fred didn’t do long-term. Not really. He loved the game too much. The flirtation, the chase, the delighted chaos of making someone blush or banter back. He was brilliant at it—charming, infuriating, infatuating—and not even remotely built for the type of girlfriend who wanted exclusive rights to his jokes and arm-space.

He was going to implode from emotional constipation before fifth year if he didn’t sort himself out.

“Well,” I said breezily, standing up and giving them both a dramatic bow, “if you two would like to continue living in the cavernous echo chamber of your own denial, be my guest. But don’t get mad when I start charging people to watch Rosierpocalypse: The Slow Burn Chronicles. Front row seats for anyone who’s ever been hexed and emotionally confused.”

Fred groaned into the pillow again. George muttered something that may have been a swear word in Troll.

I paused at the door. “Just so we’re clear—if she does tell me about Cedric, I’ll let you know.”

“You better,” George said.

Fred lifted his head just enough to glare at me. “And if she doesn’t, we’ll know you made it up just to mess with us.”

“Fair,” I said. “But honestly? I won’t need to make anything up. This whole situation writes itself.”

And with that, I strolled off to find my favorite tiny hurricane in human form. Possibly with snacks.

I had investigating to do. And scented ink to update.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Who Needs Tryouts When You Have Daddy's Gold?

Lee’s POV

In the great, echoing arena of Hogwarts Library—a place where parchment dreams come to be crushed under footnotes and citation requirements—I spotted her. The chaos gremlin herself. Alexandra Rosier, resident Slytherin menace, artist of the sarcastic arts, and most recently, the girl Cedric Diggory caught like a Quaffle mid-freefall.

She was hunched over a sketchbook, quill dancing like a Chaser on Firewhisky. Beside her, Luna Lovegood was entirely immersed in a Transfiguration tome that looked like it could double as a blunt weapon. Her tongue poked out in concentration. A picture of focus. Or possibly mild possession.

Alex, on the other hand, perked up the second she clocked me—like a Beater spotting a Bludger aimed at someone they sort-of-like-but-wouldn’t-mind-if-it-clipped-them-just-a-little. She didn’t wave. Oh no. She made The Gesture.

Now, let me explain: “The Gesture” is not so much a signal as it is a performance. A wildly complicated hand sign we invented one Thursday night after three hours of Sugar Quills and an argument over which Hogwarts professor secretly owns a pet ferret named Lord Doomspice. It involved a sort of squiggle-jazz-finger combo followed by a pretend wand twirl and—if I was feeling theatrical—a double eyebrow raise.

She mirrored it back with a smirk that could curdle milk and mouthed, Come on. Gossip break.

I bowed in exaggerated reverence. “My liege,” I whispered, “your chamber of secrets awaits.”

Luna didn’t look up. “If you find a bezoar in the shape of a teacup, bring it back.”
“Will do,” I said, entirely unsure if that was metaphorical.

Alex slumped against the stone wall like she’d just escaped a particularly grim hostage negotiation with Transfiguration. Her sketchbook remained in hand, half-filled with absurdly detailed dragons and what looked suspiciously like a caricature of Snape wearing eyeliner and heels.

“Tell me you brought the good sweets,” she said.

I unveiled a pouch like it was the Holy Grail. “Exploding Bonbons and a very illegal stash of raspberry fizz crumbles.”

Her eyes lit up. “My knight. Let the debrief commence.”

We crunched into sugar and chaos like seasoned professionals.

“I heard,” she said, already grinning like Peeves with a box of itching powder, “that our noble Slytherin Prefect has a very specific kink.”

I raised both eyebrows. “Specific as in ‘likes being called Professor’ or specific as in—”

“Specific as in he whispers Latin incantations during dates and once made a girl wear an enchanted goblet on her head for ambience.”

I snorted. “He’s turning his romantic life into an O.W.L. practical.”

We spent a solid ten minutes building out increasingly ludicrous theories:

• McGonagall secretly writes wizard romance novels under the pseudonym Kitten Animorph.
• Flitwick moonlights as a Gobstones influencer.
• Hooch’s goggles aren’t prescription—just aesthetic intimidation.

“All right,” I said, once we’d exhausted Trelawney’s possible collection of sentient scarves. “Enough about the staff. Tell me: love life update.”

She sighed dramatically. “Rien de croustillant à te raconter.”

“Oh, French. It’s serious.”

“I’m in a romantic desert, Lee. Tumbleweeds. Ghost towns. Occasional mirage.”

I tossed a Bonbon into my mouth like I was staving off grief. “What about Diggory?”

She blinked. “Cedric?”

“Mid-air waist grab. I’d say that’s first-base-adjacent.”

“He is very cute,” she admitted, chewing the corner of her sketchbook page. “But I don’t think he’s looking at me like that.”

“Why not?”

“I mean—look at me. I’m a Rosier. Slytherin. Bit prone to fire and unsolicited opinions. He’s the golden boy with dimples and a moral compass. If someone were to fancy me, they’d have to be into flammable things and moral ambiguity.”

I blinked, mock-stern. “You’ve just described 80% of your appeal.”

She grinned. “I do think he’s cute, though.”

“Would you snog him?” I asked, purely for scientific purposes—and maybe a little for the chaos.

Alex paused. And I mean paused. Like someone hit the inner buffering wheel on her brain.

“I mean…” she said slowly, “I wouldn’t duel anyone for it, but I also wouldn’t run away screaming. Probably.”

Then she blinked and added, far too fast, “Not that I’ve ever snogged anyone. So technically if it ever did happen, he’d just be the statistical first. Which doesn’t mean anything. Obviously.”

Uh-huh.

She nodded to herself like a therapist confirming a diagnosis only she understood. “Noted,” she muttered.

I stared at her. She stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed her.

Merlin’s left sock—she fancied him. Not a full-blown crush, maybe, but Cedric Diggory had apparently activated something in the Rosier mainframe. And judging by how hard she was pretending to be chill, it was deeply uncool of her own brain to allow it.

I decided to spare her further questioning. For now.

But I did mentally write it down on my Internal Mischief Ledger—right between “Fred might combust” and “George definitely suspects.”

“And why the sudden interest in my love life, Mr. Jordan?”

“Pure journalistic curiosity,” I said, with the tone of someone who definitely had a quill tucked behind their ear. “What if he was interested?”

She shrugged. “Then he’d better learn to appreciate sarcasm, chaos, and snacks. Non-negotiable. Also, emotional repression—I offer that free with purchase.”

I wiggled my eyebrows. “And the twins?”

That made her pause.

Just for a breath. But I caught it.

Then she gave me a look so sparkly and evasive it should’ve come with a warning label: Contains Glitter, Deflection, and Unresolved Feelings.

“They’re like highly unstable potions,” she said smoothly. “Fun, explosive, and best admired at a safe distance. Preferably behind a blast shield.”

“That’s not a no.”

She smiled, maddeningly sphinx-like. “That’s a carefully curated response.”

“You didn’t deny it.”

“I didn’t confirm it either.”

“Rosier…” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you already halfway in crush territory and just pretending to be emotionally unavailable?”

She tossed a raspberry fizz crumble into my mouth and winked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

We fell into companionable silence, lobbing sweets at each other like philosophers engaged in a sugar-fuelled duel of denial.

“You know,” I said after a beat, “you’ve got the twins all twisted up.”

“Please,” she said, eyes twinkling with just a hint too much awareness, “they were already pre-scrambled. I just add seasoning.”

“Rosier,” I said solemnly, “you are chaos in eyeliner. Hogwarts doesn’t deserve you.”

She beamed. “Correct.”

And with that, we wandered back toward the library—where Luna had apparently built a miniature shrine to her Transfiguration homework and was now whispering encouraging things to her inkwell.

Just another day in the Rosierpocalypse.

We turned the corner past a particularly judgmental suit of armor, and I let Alex chatter on about the structural inconsistencies in a recent Daily Prophet article—something about magical tax reform and a gnome uprising—while my brain very inconveniently refused to let go of that look.

That pause. That wink.
That cryptic sparkle girls deploy when they know something you don’t and plan to weaponize it at peak dramatic timing—usually in a common room, at full volume, with at least three witnesses and one spilled drink.

Last year, I’d been convinced Alex had a thing for Fred. The way she hexed his shoelaces together mid-sentence? Classic Hogwarts flirtation. The prank war that mysteriously escalated into a duel-turned-dance-off? Practically foreplay, magical edition. But then she’d played it cool. Too cool. Like none of it had meant anything. Just chaos for chaos’ sake.

I figured I’d misread it.

Then George started getting weird. Quieter. Moodier. He’d stare at her like she was a riddle someone dared him to solve with explosives and mild emotional repression.

And the thing is—Fred noticed. Oh, Fred noticed.
He doubled down on the charm, which for Fred meant: louder jokes, bigger grins, and strategically timed hair ruffles.
I swear, one time last term he “accidentally” dropped his quill just to make her pick it up—and blushed when she tossed it back and called him a daft romantic pancake. A blush, from Fred Weasley. I nearly wrote to Skeeter.

Now? They’re both dating other girls. Petra and Calla. Perfectly lovely. Perfectly not Alex. And I’d bet three Galleons and my limited-edition Merlin holographic card that if Alex even hinted she wanted one of them, those boys would break up with their girlfriends so fast it’d cause a magical whiplash event felt in twelve counties.

But she wouldn’t.
She won’t.
Because Alex Rosier, for all her smoke and mirrors, is loyal where it counts.
And also slightly terrified of her own feelings. Not that I’d ever say that to her face unless I fancied being hexed into a singing teaspoon.

And anyway, there’s Cedric.

Merlin, Cedric.

Even last year he was waving at her from across courtyards like he’d just spotted a unicorn in a leather jacket. And now this year? Mid-air waist-catches. Actual flirting. Alex might pretend she’s all logic and sarcasm, but I saw her face. There was a blush. It tried to escape but didn’t make it past the cheekbone border patrol.

To be fair, Alex was becoming… well, pretty. Not in a fluttery, lace-and-lip-gloss sort of way. More like: dangerously sharp with a side of “touch my cape and die.” The kind of girl you didn’t ask out unless you were emotionally prepared to be roasted, duelled, and then oddly complimented in Latin.

And boys were definitely noticing.

Including the twins.

Fred got this dazed, half-strangled expression whenever she laughed too hard—like he’d been cursed with Feelings but refused to admit it. George was worse. He’d go suspiciously quiet, which for George meant he was either inventing a joke with emotional depth or considering exile to Antarctica just to avoid having a crush.

But nothing would happen. Not yet. Because we were still in the safe zone: pre-Yule Ball, pre-puberty explosion, pre-awkward declarations of love in the Owlery.

For now, Alex would keep pretending the twins were just chaos goblins she occasionally tolerated. And the twins would keep pretending they weren’t in mutual slow-burn emotional crisis. And I? I’d be there to document the whole soap opera with snacks.

Give it a year or two though—when Hogsmeade trips started including hand-holding, and dates became actual dates, and teenage feelings put on fancier shoes—then it’d get messy.

Still. As long as Angelina hadn’t realized she could do way better than me, and Alex hadn’t made Fred or George combust with a single well-timed wink… everything was just fine.

Probably.

Maybe.

I popped another raspberry fizz crumble into my mouth and nodded solemnly at the corridor ahead like it had just given me life advice.

Let the emotional storm clouds wait.

Today we had gossip, sugar, and chaos.

Tomorrow? Probably heartbreak and hexes.

But that’s Future Lee’s problem.

*

Fred’s POV

The Gryffindor common room still stank of slug trauma.

Ron had stormed off toward Hagrid’s hut clutching his stomach, Harry stalking beside him like he wanted to duel the next blond he saw, and Hermione practically vibrating with fury. Understandable, given that Malfoy had dropped that word loud enough for the whole pitch to hear.

George and I had stayed behind. Not because we weren’t furious—we were—but because something about it didn’t sit right. And we needed time to think.

“Unbelievable,” George muttered, pacing like a caged dragon. “Right in front of everyone.”

“I know,” I said. “That slimy little troll opens his mouth and—”

“Boom. Instant vomit slugs,” George said, wincing slightly. “Honestly impressive. If Ron hadn’t been actively dying, I’d have applauded.”

“He’ll survive,” I muttered. “But Hermione—did you see her face? I thought she was going to hex Flint into next week. And honestly? He deserved it too.”

The portrait hole creaked open, and Petra slipped in—George’s girlfriend, all dramatic earrings and that smug little smile she saved for when she thought she knew something we didn’t.

She raised an eyebrow as she crossed to us. “Talking about Malfoy’s slimeball moment, I assume?”

“Of course we are,” George said. “Hard to ignore your little brother emptying his stomach into the Herbology beds.”

Petra dropped onto the couch beside George and tucked her legs beneath her, her hand brushing his knee like a territorial kneazle. “You know… Alex did defend Malfoy last week. Said it wasn’t so terrible having detention with him and Nott.”

I turned to her, brow lifting. “Did she?”

George paused. “Yeah… she said he wasn’t that bad when you got him away from the others. That he mostly just postured.”

Petra twisted a curl of her hair around one finger, watching George a bit too closely. “Maybe she’s got a bit of a thing for him. I mean—same House. Both blond. Both old pureblood families. Makes you wonder.”

George choked on his own spit. “Absolutely not.”

I sat up straighter. “No way.”

Petra held up her hands in mock innocence, but there was a flicker of something sharper in her voice. “Just saying. Could explain a few things.”

George frowned. “Petra—”

“She does spend a lot of time with Theo too,” Petra continued, eyes flicking to me like she was trying to measure our reactions. “Not exactly a Gryffindor-friendly crowd.”

“First of all,” I said, “Alex once hexed a suit of armor for mocking her outfit. You think she’s going to swoon over Malfoy just because he has a jawline?”

“She calls him a shampoo ad with teeth,” George added flatly.

“Exactly,” I said. “And she’d rather kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt than date a clone of her worst traits.”

Lee Jordan wandered in just in time to catch the tail end of the conversation and flopped into an armchair. “Who’s kissing Skrewts now?”

“Petra thinks Alex might fancy Malfoy,” George said grimly.

Lee snorted so hard he nearly fell off the chair. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard since Ron tried to cast a Slug-Vomiting Hex with a wand held together by hope and Spellotape.”

Petra arched a brow. “Then explain why she defended him.”

“Because she’s Alex,” I said, leaning forward. “She overthinks things. She’s always looking for the angle no one else sees. Doesn’t mean she likes the guy.”

George nodded. “She’s not like the others, Petra. Not like the Malfoy sort.”

“Neither’s Theo,” Lee chimed in. “He’s smug, yeah, but there’s a brain behind it. He’s not Flint. He’s not Crabbe or Goyle.”

“They’re… Slytherin-lite,” I said. “Ethically confusing, but entertaining.”

Petra tilted her head. “You three do talk about her a lot.”

That line dropped like a galleon in a quiet vault.

I glanced at George, whose mouth twitched like he was thinking of an answer and deciding not to say it.

“She’s our friend,” I said finally. A beat too firm. A little too quick.

Petra's smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Right. Just your friend.”

George looked down at the couch arm like it had betrayed him.

“She’s not Malfoy’s,” I muttered. “That’s the point.”

The fire popped behind us, warm and crackling. In my head, I could already see Alex getting the news—shoulders tensing, jaw set, sarcasm dialed to ‘devastate.’ She’d play it cool. She always did. But the disappointment would be there.

“She’s going to be furious,” I said quietly.

“She’s going to pretend not to be,” George corrected. “Probably by setting Flint’s quill collection on fire.”

Petra swirled her pumpkin juice with a slow, deliberate motion. “Well, when she does, I’ll bring the marshmallows.”

Lee raised his cup. “To Slytherins who don’t suck.”

We clinked in unison.
Even Petra. Though hers sounded just a bit more hollow than the rest.

And then Lee gave me a look—one of those subtle eyebrow-flicks that meant private time, now—so we both got up and claimed the hallway just beyond the portrait hole.

He waited till the Fat Lady swung shut behind us, then said under his breath, “She told me something earlier.”

“Alex?”

“Obviously. After practice. Said she doesn’t think Cedric’s actually interested in her. Not really.”

I felt a weird heat rise to my ears. “Right. Because clearly the bloke’s just been waving at her across every courtyard and catching her midair out of sheer Quidditch courtesy.”

Lee tilted his head. “That’s what I said. But she looked serious. Said she thinks he’s just… being nice. And yeah, she admitted she finds him cute, but—‘not in a crush way.’”

My jaw clenched. George, beside me, said nothing, but I could feel the tension coming off him like one of Mum’s tea kettles about to boil. Probably picturing Cedric’s hair doing that swishy thing. Probably also picturing Alex blushing.

Because Lee hadn’t mentioned that part.

But I knew he clocked it. Lee clocked everything.

And he was watching me now, sideways. Like he was waiting to see if I’d flinch.

Cute. She found Diggory cute. And sure, that should’ve been fine. Harmless. Except it wasn’t.

Because suddenly, everything Calla had done lately—snapping when I mentioned Alex, sulking after Alex beat her at that Charms jinx drill, cursing her own bloody hairbrush when I laughed too hard at Alex’s soup ladle story—felt sharper. Louder.

Calla and I had already broken up once this term over an Alex-related argument that started with broom polish and ended with storming out of Potions. Got back together the next day because she cried, I panicked, and George said I’d be an idiot to let it end like that.

But now? The jealousy was tiring. The drama even more so.

And I was starting to think maybe the problem wasn’t Alex.

Maybe it was Calla trying to win a game Alex hadn’t even agreed to play.

Lee gave me a look. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” I said, voice tight. “Just peachy.”

He let that hang for a beat. Then added, “She also said Cedric looks like an overgrown butter ad. Blushed when she said it, but still.”

I snorted despite myself. “Well. He is shiny.”

Lee clapped me on the back and steered us toward the common room. “Mate, as long as Angelina stays single and none of you lot start confessing anything under moonlight, we’ll survive.”

But I didn’t answer.

Because George’s silence was saying too much.

And mine?

Mine wasn’t saying anything at all.

***

George’s POV

There were worse places to be on a Tuesday night than wedged behind a mothball-scented tapestry with Petra’s arms wrapped around my neck.

She tasted like pumpkin fizz and mischief, her hands tucked into the collar of my jumper as if she were trying to claim it like territory.

Not that I minded. Having a girlfriend was new. Novel. Surprisingly good for morale. And Petra had a way of kissing that made you forget your homework and your last name in quick succession.

She pulled back just enough to catch her breath, her fingers trailing down my chest. “You know,” she murmured, “Calla said something today that I’ve been thinking about.”

That didn’t sound promising.

“Oh?” I asked, because I’m clever like that when someone’s nibbling my jaw.

“Mmhmm.” Petra tilted her head. “She thinks it’s a bit weird. The way Alexandra touches you and Fred all the time.”

There it was. The inevitable subject shift from snogging to her.

I blinked. “Alex?”

“Yes, Alex.” She dropped the name like a Dungbomb into a quiet corridor. “She’s always hugging you, kissing your cheeks, running her hands through your hair like you're her favourite pets. I mean, you're not French, George.”

“She is,” I said weakly. “It’s a cultural thing.”

Petra narrowed her eyes. “You two aren’t cultural artifacts, you’re my boyfriend and Fred’s not-single, and—look, Calla feels the same. It's not jealousy, exactly. It’s just… boundaries.”

Boundaries. Right. The word tasted like parchment and Prefect meetings.

I shifted back a bit, knocking my head lightly against the stone wall. “She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Petra’s voice went quieter, but it didn’t lose its edge. “But you like it.”

That made me pause.

Did I?

I liked Alex. Obviously. She was funny and chaotic and kissed our cheeks like we were heroes after every prank. She could be terrifying and brilliant, sometimes in the same sentence. And last year, when things were weird and Fred was off chasing Alicia and Alex was just... there, laughing at my terrible jokes and hexing anyone who called me “the other twin”... I’d thought—

Well.

I’d thought maybe there was something else there.

But then we’d become friends. Proper friends. And now I had Petra, and Fred and Alex were being... whatever they were being.

“It’s just how she is,” I said finally. “She’s like that with Theo too. And Luna. Even Lee, sometimes.”

Petra snorted. “She doesn’t kiss Lee.”

“Alright, maybe not Lee.”

“Calla says it looks like she owns you two.”

That stung in a way I didn’t expect. I sat up straighter. “She doesn’t.”

Petra leaned in again, lips brushing my ear. “Then maybe you should tell her that.”

I didn’t answer. Not because I agreed—but because I didn’t want to lie. Because deep down, some part of me liked being one of Alexandra Rosier’s people. One of the chosen ones she pounced on in the corridor for cheek kisses and hair ruffles. It was absurd and affectionate and felt like… being seen.

And maybe I liked that too much.

I didn’t tell Petra that Alex sometimes played with our hair absentmindedly when we were all crammed together, her fingers twirling through the curls like we were dolls in a dress-up game she hadn’t finished scripting yet. Or that I never asked her to stop, because it felt oddly comforting.

I especially didn’t tell her that sometimes, when Alex hugged me from behind or looped her arm through mine without asking, something fluttered traitorously in my ribcage.

Because I liked Petra. I really did.

But I didn’t want to ask Alex to stop being Alex.

Even if maybe I’d have to.

Eventually.

“Just think about it,” Petra said, voice softening as she leaned her head on my shoulder. “I don’t want to make this a thing.”

Too late.

But I nodded anyway, because that’s what you do when someone’s asking you to choose without quite saying it.

Behind the tapestry, the castle was quiet. But in my head, Alex was laughing again—throwing her arms around me after some disaster or another, leaving glitter in my hair and a headache in her wake.

And the truth was: I didn’t want that to change.

I just didn’t know how long I could keep both worlds from colliding.

***

Alex’s POV

The Slytherin common room, despite its emerald glow and elegant arches, felt about as warm as a Basilisk's glare.

Pansy had taken up dramatic pacing before the fire, her footsteps echoing like a metronome of rage. "No tryouts. No list. Not even a whisper about open spots!"

"Just a team of broomsticks and a Malfoy," Theo added, flopping dramatically into the green velvet armchair beside me. He looked like a fainted Victorian lady minus the smelling salts. "Flint really outdid himself this year."

I stretched languidly across the couch, flipping through a Quidditch playbook not out of ambition, but out of sheer spite. "I told you," I said, tone light as fairy dust, "Flint thinks tryouts are for peasants."

"You knew?" Pansy whipped around, hair flying. "You knew this would happen?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Darling, have you met Lucius Malfoy? Subtlety isn’t exactly his style. He probably handed Flint the brooms in a velvet-lined box labeled 'Favoritism – Deluxe Edition.'"

Theo snorted. "You could've warned us."

I set the book down and sat up, giving them both my most diplomatic smile. The kind that got me out of detention and into trouble in equal measure. "I didn’t know know. I just... remembered."

Because I did. Not from any school bulletin, of course. From the pages of canon. Draco was made Seeker in his second year because his daddy dearest funded the team. That scene had been etched in my head long before I'd ever worn green robes. Sometimes being reincarnated into a fictional world was less fun and more aggressively ironic.

"We’re in second year," I continued. "Theo, you and I have literally just stopped being tackled by Bludgers for sport. Give it a year. We’ll get our turn."

"I don’t want a turn next year!" Pansy huffed. "I wanted to hex Flint and fly circles around Draco this year."

"Oh, I absolutely support the hexing part," I said sweetly.

Theo groaned, rubbing his face. "Do you think Draco even wants to be Seeker? He told me last week he was aiming for Keeper. Keeper!"

"He’s not a Seeker," I muttered, voice low with amused disdain. "That role needs someone fast, focused, and not distracted by his own reflection."

Pansy smirked. "You going to tell him that?"

"Oh, I intend to."

Sure enough, as if summoned by sheer narrative inevitability, Draco Malfoy sauntered into the common room like he’d just won the Triwizard Tournament and was about to sue Hogwarts for not making a statue of him.

"Ah, the golden snitch himself," I said, standing and intercepting him before Pansy could throw a decorative pillow at his head. "Walk with me, Seeker boy."

He blinked, suspicious. "Why?"

"Because I’m trying to prevent arson."

I dragged him out into the hall, past a tapestry of a mermaid slapping a knight with a seaweed bouquet. Once we were out of earshot, I stopped and folded my arms.

"Are you an idiot, Draco? Or just deeply committed to the role?"

He bristled. "Excuse me?"

I gestured vaguely toward the direction of the common room. "Buying the team new brooms and swooping into a position without tryouts? You do realize you just painted a target on your platinum head, right?"

Draco scoffed. "They needed new brooms. The old ones were slow."

"They needed tryouts, not a Quidditch-themed monarchy."

He sniffed. "I am talented."

"I believe you," I said, which made him blink. "You're a decent flier. But you're not a Seeker, Draco. Not like Potter."

His jaw clenched.

"And that's what annoys you most, isn’t it?" I leaned in slightly, voice lowered, playful and sharp as a sugar quill dipped in vinegar. "You wanted to be better than him, but you copied his position like a jealous ex."

Draco looked thunderous.

I patted his arm. "You would've made an excellent Chaser. Maybe even a good Captain someday. But right now? You look like a knockoff hero with expensive accessories."

He glared, then... sulked. Not hissed, not snapped. Sulked. Which was a tiny miracle in itself.

"Next year," I added gently, "I plan to make that team. So does Theo. You better be good, Draco. Or we’re coming for your spot."

He muttered something under his breath and stalked off. Not angry. Just annoyed.

Which, coming from a Malfoy, was practically affection.

I turned and made my way back to the common room, where Pansy was plotting, Theo was sketching new Chaser strategies with the venom of a jilted lover, and I was already mentally drawing up my prank list for Marcus Flint.

Slytherin didn’t need a new Seeker.

It needed a revolution.

And I had just the broomstick to ride it in on.

***

Operation Icy Retribution commenced at precisely 6:37 p.m.—the witching hour, if the witch in question was petty, vengeful, and armed with a limited-edition lip gloss called Moral Decay #27 (Frozen Heart Edition).

“I still say we should’ve gone with the cursed shampoo,” I muttered, crouched behind the stone statue of Salazar Slytherin like a morally ambiguous gargoyle who'd been kicked out of a K-pop group for ‘excessive eyebrow use.’

“That’s amateur hour,” Pansy sniffed, dabbing her eyeliner with a wand so tiny it could double as a Death Eater toothpick. Her entire face was enchanted to radiate mild disapproval at all times—sort of like McGonagall, but with lip filler and a perfume called Doom. “This is art. Revenge art. Think... Cirque du Petty.”

Theo, cool as ever, unspooled a silver ribbon so elegant it looked like it belonged in the Department of Mysteries' wedding registry. The enchanted end slithered under the door to the Quidditch changing rooms like a high-fashion basilisk with a grudge.

“It’s not sabotage,” he said dreamily. “It’s glaciercore performance activism.”

I snorted. “We’re freezing the Slytherin showers because Flint cancelled tryouts like some sweaty Dark-Lord-cosplaying Kardashian afraid of being dethroned by people with cartilage and morals. This is not a gallery installation.”

“It is if you believe,” Pansy said, sipping from a thermos labeled Liquid Loathing in curly pink cursive. “We’re the avant-garde Avengers of emotional warfare.”

And okay, fine—I did have to respect the plan.

Flint and Malfoy had jointly declared that tryouts were “a waste of time,” which roughly translated to “we’re scared someone younger and hotter might out-fly us, and also I don’t trust people who hydrate.”

Thus: The Cold-Blooded Coup. Codename courtesy of Theo. Mission: replace their post-practice smugness with the emotional equivalent of Hoth from Star Wars. Preferably while shirtless. For accountability purposes.

Theo tapped the ribbon. A satisfying shoomp echoed. Somewhere inside the pipes, ancient magic stirred. Ice formed. The plumbing whimpered.

“You know,” Theo said, eyes gleaming, “Malfoy always moisturizes after his shower. This’ll ruin his entire routine.”

“Oh no,” I deadpanned. “Not his twelve-step pureblood skincare saga. Quick, summon a house-elf therapist and a tub of enchanted aloe.”

Pansy checked her pocketwatch, which only told time in dramatic countdowns. “Showtime in three… two…”

From inside the changing room came the sound of running water.

Then: “AAAAAAAARGHHH!”

A shriek, high and unholy, like Lucius Malfoy discovering his heir had joined a Muggle boy band.

“WHAT THE BLOODY MERLIN IS THIS?!” Flint bellowed, his voice somewhere between a dying hippogriff and a blender full of raw steak.

“Oh nooo!” Malfoy screeched, falsetto cracking like a cursed mirror. “I’M FREEZING! MY ABS—THEY’RE RETRACTING—THEY’RE ACTUALLY RETRACTING!”

“I THINK MY LEFT NIPPLE JUST CURSED ME,” Flint howled.

“I LOOK LIKE A FROSTED CRUMPET!” Malfoy sobbed. “I’M TOO PRETTY FOR THIS!”

Theo leaned against the wall like a bored prince in a tragic anime. “Do you think now’s the time to send in the commemorative ice sculpture?”

“Too soon,” Pansy said. “Wait until the icicles form on his hair. Malfoy’ll think he’s evolving into a Water-type Pokémon.”

“I gave him Cloyster energy anyway,” I added.

“Absolutely,” Theo nodded. “Spiky. Fragile. Moisturized.”

Another shriek erupted, this one featuring the unmistakable wet slap of someone slipping on permafrost. Possibly Flint’s dignity.

“WHO DID THIS?! WHOEVER DID THIS IS DEAD! DEAD, I TELL YOU!”

“I love it when he quotes Shakespeare,” Pansy whispered dreamily.

“They’re going to blame Peeves,” I grinned.

“Oh, they have to,” Theo smirked. “I left his signature. A floating middle finger made of icicles. Minimalist, menacing. Like a Banksy if Banksy hated showers.”

We high-fived. Pansy gave us a single slow clap—the kind usually reserved for war criminals or runway finales. Highest praise.

“Think we’ll get caught?” Theo asked, as another wail echoed—this one suspiciously Draco-shaped.

“I hope so,” I said. “I have an entire courtroom monologue ready. It ends with a wand drop and the phrase ‘Exhibit A: Your ego.’”

“I’ll represent you,” Pansy said, eyes glittering. “For a fee.”

We turned and walked away, robes (read: semi-dramatic cloaks purchased in Knockturn Alley’s off-brand villain section) swirling behind us like we were the dysfunctional cast of a very stylish spin-off. Probably called Heistwarts.

Justice had been served.
Ice cold.
Super effective.

George’s POV

We were lounging at the back of the library—well, "lounging" in the Weasley sense, meaning we were quietly defacing a copy of Hogwarts: A History with illustrations of tap-dancing trolls—when the heavy doors creaked open and in strode Alex, windswept and wide-eyed, like she'd just emerged from a duel with an encyclopedia.

She had that glint in her eye—the one that usually preceded explosions, detentions, or sudden outbreaks of polka-dancing suits of armor.

“Gentlemen,” she said, dropping into a chair like she’d just won a duel and a lawsuit in the same afternoon. “You missed it. It was beautiful. Flint screamed like a banshee in a cold shower. Because, funnily enough, he was.”

Fred blinked. “Wait—you already did it?”

Alex smirked like a Dark wizard halfway through a dramatic monologue, just before the trapdoor opens under your feet. “Pansy, Theo, and I—Operation Cold-Blooded Coup. Target: the Slytherin Quidditch showers. Outcome: approximately seven minutes of high-pitched screeching and a very slippery Malfoy.”

Fred gave a low whistle. “And you didn’t invite us?”

“I needed stealth. Poise. People who wouldn’t try to set the plumbing on fire for dramatic flair,” she said, flashing Fred a look.

He clutched his heart in mock betrayal. “Rude. I only did that once.”

I didn’t say anything. Not at first. Because the mental image of Malfoy getting doused in magically-enhanced glacier water while moisturized was, frankly, art. But there was a hollow, slow-burning twinge in my ribs.

Theo and Pansy had been there.

And I hadn’t.

I shouldn’t have cared. She was allowed other co-conspirators. Other…people. But the back of my throat had that dry, scratchy feeling I usually associated with owl feather allergies or watching her laugh with someone else.

“Brilliant job,” I said finally, keeping my voice even. “Wish I could’ve seen it.”

She looked at me—really looked, just for a beat—and I wondered if she’d caught the thing under my voice. That soft, stupid ache that hadn’t been there last year.

“Next time,” she said. “We’ve got more plans.”

Fred perked up. “Tell me the brooms really sing Les Misérables.”

“Not yet,” she said, rifling through her satchel like a vengeful Mary Poppins armed with a glitter quill and a suitcase full of hexes. “But Malfoy’s broom’s been humming I’m Too Sexy every time he mounts it—only it sounds like a banshee with a sore throat trying to hit the high notes.”

Fred and I both burst out laughing. I might’ve snorted.

She leaned back, pleased, tie askew, hair wild, looking like the poster girl for chaotic excellence.

And then, without ceremony, she extended her hand. “I need the map.”

I blinked.

Fred raised a brow. “The Marauder’s Map? Why?”

Alex smiled sweetly, which meant chaos was, once again, boarding the express train to Hogwarts.

“I want to sneak into the kitchens. Midnight snack run. Pansy’s been moaning about treacle tart since lunch. I figured I’d bring some back to the dorm.”

Fred and I exchanged a look. That was a lie. She liked treacle tart, sure—but she never lied this obviously unless she was hiding something much bigger. Or more illegal.

“And you need the most powerful magical surveillance map in Hogwarts just for a snack run?” I asked.

She flopped dramatically into the armchair across from us, sighing like a ghost who’d just learned taxes were still a thing in the afterlife. “Fine. I also want to scout a new passage out of the dungeons. The stairs smell like mildew and regret.”

Fred chuckled. “Seriously, though. What’s going on?”

She hesitated. Just a breath. Then: “I’m… still annoyed. About the tryouts.”

We both sat up straighter.

“I knew I wouldn’t make the team," she said, voice lighter than it should’ve been. "But Theo and I were training hard. Pansy too. And Flint didn’t even host tryouts. It was all just handed to Malfoy like a shiny Christmas gift from Mummy dearest.”

Fred frowned. “I’m sorry, Alex. You deserved a shot.”

“You really did,” I added. “We saw you flying. You’ve got better reflexes than Charlie did in third year.”

She smiled faintly. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

There was still a spark behind her eyes though—less hurt now, more the focused glimmer of a girl halfway to her next chaotic masterpiece.

“But I’m not just moping,” she added. “Like I said—shower sabotage was just the opening number. I’m not done.”

Fred leaned forward eagerly. “You’ll let us help this time?”

“I’ll think about it,” she said with mock-seriousness, like a queen distributing favors to her favorite jesters.

And then, softer: “Also… I heard about what Malfoy said to Hermione. I’m sorry. He’s a cretin in couture. But Hermione’s brilliant enough to know that.”

“Still,” I muttered, fingers tightening around my quill, “he shouldn’t get away with it.”

Alex’s voice went lower. Velvet steel. “He won’t. Trust me.”

We handed her the map. Fred still looked skeptical. “You sure this is about treacle tart?”

She gave us a wink and a grin that could've toppled empires. “Positive. Definitely not anything involving self-writing jinxes, vanishing ink, or brooms that do interpretive dance. Pinkie swear.”

As she disappeared through the stacks, map tucked under her arm, Fred turned to me.

“She’s lying.”

“Absolutely.”

“And we’re going to help anyway, aren’t we?”

Fred grinned. “Obviously.”

I didn’t say it out loud—but next time, I was going to be there.

Not just for the prank.

But for her.

Fred’s POV

There’s a particular kind of silence that settles after Alexandra Rosier leaves a room. It’s not peaceful or soothing. It’s more like the echo of a firecracker in an empty corridor—half chaos, half confusion, and a vague urge to check if your eyebrows are still intact.

George sat there for a moment, staring blankly at the tapestry she'd just disappeared behind, like he expected her to pop back out, hair on fire and holding a smoking cauldron of treacle tart vengeance.

“She took that a bit… quietly, didn’t she?” I said.

George shrugged. “Did she?”

I gave him the patented Weasley Twin Look. “Don’t make me hit you with the Flobberworm of Emotional Awareness. She didn’t even call you a tyrant or an overgrown ginger poodle. That’s her version of a silent scream.”

He ran a hand through his hair—his freshly un-ruffled hair, poor thing—and made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a grunt. “Petra doesn’t like it. You know, Alex being all… physically affectionate.”

Ah. The Girlfriend Situation. The eternal thorn in the side of any platonic soulmate triangle.

“And by ‘it,’ you mean the casual cheek-kisses and, of course, the deeply scandalous head pats?” I deadpanned. “The horror.”

George shot me a look. “You know what I mean. Calla’s been saying the same thing to you.”

I held up my hands innocently. “Calla also thinks Dumbledore is secretly a Virgo, so I try not to let her opinions ruin my day.”

George didn’t laugh. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyebrows drawing together like he was trying to do arithmetic without magic. “It’s not that I mind Petra feeling weird about it. I just didn’t think about how it looked, I guess. But it’s not like that. Alex is just—”

He paused.

I filled in the blank. “Like a sister?”

He nodded. Too fast. Too forcefully.

I smirked. “Right. A sister. The kind who shows up uninvited to your table, steals your last Chocolate Frog, knows your favorite soup, and wins every game of Exploding Snap like she’s got cards up her sleeve—which she probably does. Total sibling energy.”

He scowled. “It’s not like that, Fred.”

“No,” I agreed, suddenly feeling a bit itchy in my collar. “It’s not.”

And it wasn’t. Because Alexandra Rosier was about as sisterly as a fire-breathing Veela with a prank addiction. She wasn’t the kind of girl you put in a neat box labeled friend or crush or co-conspirator. She was all of it, and none of it, and far too much in every direction.

“She looked hurt,” George muttered.

“Yeah,” I said. “But she played it off.”

“She always does.”

“And we let her.”

George suddenly sat up straighter. “Should we follow her?”

I blinked. “Follow her?”

“Yeah,” he said, with the air of someone proposing something very logical. “Just casually. Subtly. Not in a creepy way. Just in case she needs assistance.”

I snorted. “George, we’re not secret agents. You’re not going to burst out from behind a suit of armor yelling ‘EMOTIONAL SUPPORT ACTIVATED!’”

“She could be up to something.”

“She’s always up to something.”

He looked unconvinced. “I’m just saying, we could take shifts.”

“Oh good, a surveillance rota. Shall we use the Marauder’s Map or your crippling inability to whisper?”

George flopped back against the couch, groaning. “Fine. But if she gets herself hexed, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

“Only if you do it dramatically and while bleeding from the eyebrow.”

We sat in silence for a moment, which for us is like a thunderstorm taking a break to admire its handiwork.

George finally said, “I don’t think I just like her.”

My throat went tight.

I didn’t look at him. “Yeah. Me neither.”

It wasn’t a confession, not really. Just a simple truth, too heavy to deny and too sharp to handle properly. Like she'd become this necessary, gravitational presence—we didn’t orbit her, exactly, but we definitely tilted a bit when she wasn’t around.

George picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “It was two months last summer.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Worst two months of my life. I had to talk to Percy for entertainment.”

He snorted.

I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “We should write to her mum.”

George raised a brow. “Vespera Rosier?”

“Why not? A very respectful letter. Old-fashioned. Maybe sealed in blood.”

“She’ll frame it and use it to blackmail us.”

“Perfect. Then we’ll at least get her over for a week or two. I don't care if she shows up just to rob us blind. I’m not doing another summer without her.”

George nodded slowly. “Yeah. Let’s write the letter.”

We stood in tandem, twin reflexes kicking in.

“You know this is going to end terribly, right?” he said.

“Of course,” I said. “But if we’re going to crash and burn…”

“…we might as well do it in matching scarves.”

And maybe we were idiots. And maybe we were liars. But one thing was certain:

Alexandra Rosier was not just our friend.
She was ours, in that terrifying, unspoken, irreversible sort of way.

And Merlin help us—we liked it that way.

***

Alex’s POV

Halloween night, and Hogwarts was dressed to kill—like a Tim Burton fever dream on a pumpkin-spice bender. Ghosts drifted through walls like moody helium balloons at a haunted prom. Jack-o’-lanterns leered from every high beam like disapproving aunties at a wedding. Somewhere beneath my feet, Sir Nicholas’s deathday party was in full swing—wailing violins, mournful bagpipes, and enough translucent sausage rolls to give a poltergeist heartburn.

But I wasn’t in the mood for spectral snacks or undead small talk. I had more pressing concerns—like locating a magical room that only appeared when you needed it most, but was apparently as emotionally unavailable as a brooding Byronic vampire with commitment issues.

The Marauder’s Map, currently disguised as a perfectly boring bookmark, lay tucked in my robe pocket like a snarky co-conspirator who'd definitely ghost you after a prank war. It was helping me dodge Filch, Peeves, and the occasional snogging couple like a stealth mission in a badly coded video game. But even its legendary sass couldn’t help me find the Room of Requirement. That part? That part was up to me and my Swiss cheese memory.

Was it on the sixth floor? The seventh? Was I supposed to walk past a tapestry of trolls in tutus or one of Barnabas the Barmy teaching interpretive ballet to emotionally repressed jellyfish? The details were smudging like eyeliner in a soap opera duel.

“Come on,” I muttered, pacing in front of a suspiciously blank stretch of wall, “you’re a magical castle. Channel your inner rom-com side character and give me something.”

My boots clicked against the flagstones, far too loud, like I was being followed by a passive-aggressive metronome. I tried walking past the wall again. Slowly. Dramatically. Thinking very hard: I need a place to become an Animagus. I need books. Potions. Privacy. Possibly a magical crash helmet and a therapist.

Nothing.

I stopped and pressed my forehead to the stone. It was cold. Unlike my rising panic, which was currently staging a Broadway revival of Les Misérables in my chest cavity.

I was forgetting. More and more.

It had started small—wand movements, the names of lesser-known portraits, Peeves’ limericks (a tragedy, truly, some of them were filthy works of art). But now? Whole facts. Whole reasons. I knew I had to become an Animagus. I felt the urgency in my spine like a cursed Tamagotchi demanding constant attention. But why? What had I been planning? Who was I planning it for?

All I had were fragments. A shadow of a plan. And the creeping horror that my brain was springing leaks like a Muggle umbrella in a thunderstorm of secrets.

If I didn’t fix this—fast—I wasn’t just going to lose my edge. I was going to lose myself. And possibly turn into a magical taxidermy project halfway through.

Worst part? I couldn’t tell anyone. Not Theo, not the twins, and definitely not Pansy—who’d sooner stab me with a jeweled hairpin than admit she had feelings.

And absolutely not Harry bloody Potter.

Speak of the Chosen One…

I turned a corner and—of course—there he was. Standing like a badly-timed plot twist beside the rigid form of Mrs. Norris. The cat was frozen mid-hiss, tail skyward like she'd just read a spoiler from Game of Thrones and needed a moment.

We locked eyes. Both of us froze. Two deer in a cursed lantern’s glow. Or, more accurately, two unpaid extras caught in a very confusing sequel.

I opened my mouth to deny whatever this looked like.

But then—

“WHAT’S GOIN’ ON ‘ERE?!”

Enter Argus Filch, part-time janitor and full-time medieval torture enthusiast.

His eyes bulged at the sight of his beloved cat, then bugged out further when they landed on me. And Harry.

“You! You two did this!” he barked, jabbing a finger so violently it could’ve been used as a divining rod for drama.

“With what?” I said sweetly. “My devastating charm?”

“Don’t play games with me, Rosier! I know trouble when I see it!”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly astral projected. “I was just walking,” I said, already stuffing the map deeper into my cloak like it owed me money.

Harry opened his mouth like he might defend me—but then promptly decided against it. Smart boy. This was out of his genre.

He looked at me like he was trying to decide if I was a threat or just aggressively weird. It stung more than I wanted to admit.

This was the boy I used to know everything about. His hopes. His arc. His painfully obvious savior complex. But now… it was splinters and fog. I didn’t know how he got from point A to point B anymore. I didn’t know if he was still the hero—or just a plot device in a very cursed fanfic.

And worst of all—I didn’t know who I was supposed to be in his story anymore. Best friend? Foil? Side quest?

Within moments, we were swarmed—students gathering like nosy meerkats, teachers storming in with fluttering robes and suspicious expressions. Someone shrieked, someone tripped over a ghost. I briefly considered pretending to faint for dramatic effect, but it felt too Season 2.

As we were marched down the corridor under suspicion, I threw one last glance back at the tapestry I’d been pacing in front of.

Had it twitched?

Maybe.

Too late.

“Next time,” I muttered, more to myself than Harry, “I’ll just go to the ghost party. At least they don’t judge you for having a breakdown in front of cursed masonry.”

And maybe—just maybe—the dead were better company than the living.

Especially when the living included Harry Potter. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Blood and Broken Trust

Alex’s POV

If there’s one thing Draco Malfoy excels at—aside from dramatic swooshing and weaponizing his cheekbones—it’s timing.

The message was still dripping. Literally. Blood, because apparently Hogwarts was going through its gothic theatre phase. Very 'haunted castle chic.' ‘The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware’ — oh, we’re doing murder poetry now? Dramatic much. Someone give the wall a diary and a quill so it can journal properlyNice, subtle. A casual Tuesday at Hogwarts.

And then Draco—my favorite peacock in pureblood clothing—stepped forward, his lips curling into the kind of smile you see on portraits of Dark wizards mid-massacre, and said with the glee of a child unwrapping a Howler, “Soon it’ll be the Mudbloods’ turn.”

Shit, Draco. You really know how to make friends.

I opened my mouth, half-tempted to say something scathing, possibly involving a cactus and his dueling ego, but then—

“Rosier. Potter. Weasley. Granger. With me.”

Lockhart. Of course. Because nothing says crisis like dragging the school’s four biggest magnets for disaster into one room and tossing in a peacock with a wand complex.

Good job, Alexandra. You had one goal: stay away from the Golden Trio. Brilliant execution.

We were herded like mischievous pixies into Lockhart’s office — a space that looked like Buffy met Queer Eye and then got cursed by bad taste. Think velvet drapes, aggressive lighting, and enough framed photos to summon a narcissist poltergeist. Dumbledore was already there, crouched beside the poor feline centrepiece of the night: Mrs. Norris. She was stiff as a board and shiny enough to pass for a taxidermied prop from a Scooby-Doo villain’s lair. Her eyes were wide with horror — like she’d just walked in on Lockhart moisturising in front of a mirror while whispering his own name.

McGonagall stood beside him, looking grim. Snape, of course, was lurking in the corner like a particularly judgmental shadow.

And Lockhart—oh, Lockhart—was strutting around, robes flapping like an over-caffeinated stage magician.

“I must say,” Lockhart said, beaming like this was his birthday party and the cake had just walked in, “this reminds me of the time I encountered a banshee whose scream turned a man’s hair completely white. I soothed her with a lute ballad. Quite moving, if I say so—”

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” Dumbledore said calmly, like he was talking down a rampaging Erumpent. “But she is not dead. Merely petrified.”

Oh. Well. That’s fine then. Just a stiff cat. No big deal. Everything’s totally normal and not alarming at all.

And that’s when Filch lost what little was left of his sanity.

“I knew it!” he bellowed, face blotching into something that belonged in a potions mishap. “It was them! It’s her! She’s always hated Mrs. Norris—threatened her last week, she did! Or him—he knows I’m a Squib!”

He pointed wildly between Harry and me like he couldn’t quite decide who was more criminal.

Honestly? It was flattering. Being mistaken for someone competent enough to commit advanced dark magic was new. Incorrect, but new.

Dumbledore, thankfully, raised a hand.

“No second-year student could have accomplished this,” he said calmly.

“But she hates my cat!” Filch insisted, jabbing a gnarled finger at me like I was a sentient sack of dungbombs. “She’s always got a look—”

“I do not have a look,” I said with dignity. “I have a face. It’s not my fault your cat finds it threatening.”

Snape cleared his throat. Loudly. Like a basilisk with laryngitis.

“If I may,” he said silkily, “Miss Rosier was not roaming the corridors unaccounted for. She was… in detention. With me.”

I blinked. Once. Twice.

I was what now?

“She was copying the entire Magical Drafts and Potions by hand as punishment for—” he glanced at me “—her usual mouth.”

A pause.

He was lying for me.

And for the first time in my life, I was completely and utterly speechless. Which, for a barrister and professional verbal duelist, was... not ideal.

I just nodded dumbly. Because that’s what you do when your Head of House lies to a headmaster and a cat-obsessed custodian to keep you from being expelled for something you technically didn’t do. Technically.

Lockhart started babbling again—something about seeing this sort of thing before, and how perhaps his book Voyages with Vampires held the key. McGonagall ignored him like a pro. Snape tried to redirect the blame to Harry and hinted he should be banned from Quidditch. Dumbledore, unflappable as always, shut that down with the polite efficiency of a guillotine.

We were dismissed.

Snape kept me back.

We walked toward the dungeons in silence, our footsteps echoing like awkward punctuation. I waited. Tried to find a way to phrase it casually, like it wasn’t the biggest shock of my evening.

“…Why did you lie for me?”

He didn’t look at me. His eyes were fixed forward, like the stone corridors held answers he didn’t care to explain.

“Because I knew you were innocent,” he said, flatly. “And while you shouldn’t have been wandering the castle alone, I didn’t find it necessary to punish you for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I stopped walking. He didn’t.

Was he… liking me?

He paused, turned slightly, and added dryly, “And seeing you without a sarcastic retort is deeply unsettling. I needed the moment preserved.”

There it was. The snark. I exhaled.

“Oh don’t worry, Professor,” I said, catching up. “Give me ten seconds and I’ll insult your robes.”

He didn’t smile. But I think—I think—he was pleased.

And for once, I didn’t mind being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Just… maybe I’d skip the petrified cat corridors from now on.

Theo’s POV

The common room felt colder than usual, the fire crackling like it was trying too hard to be comforting. Pansy sat curled on one of the emerald armchairs, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the door like she was willing Alexandra to appear through sheer force of will. Draco was pacing, of course—because dramatic flair ran in pureblood veins like caffeine in Muggle teenagers.

I sat on the edge of the sofa, foot tapping against the green carpet. The second the portrait hole creaked, all three of us looked up like we’d been caught plotting. And in some twisted way, maybe we had been.

Alex stepped in. Still in her cloak, cheeks wind-bitten and pale, lips pressed so tightly together it looked painful.

“You okay?” I stood, not even bothering with subtlety.

She nodded. The kind of nod that meant no, not at all, but I don’t want to talk about it because if I do, I’ll either cry or explode.

Pansy got up too, slower. “We heard what happened. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Alex looked away.

Pansy hesitated. “You were there. When they found Filch’s cat. And the wall… the message. It’s saying the Chamber’s been opened. That the Heir of Slytherin is back.”

Alex’s jaw clenched. She didn’t speak.

“I just…” Pansy took a step forward, not cruel, not accusing—curious. Uncertain. “I didn’t think you were that kind of Rosier. You’ve got Hufflepuff friends. You talk to the Weasleys. You—”

Alex’s shoulders snapped back like someone had cast a silent Stinging Hex.

“I’m not,” she said quietly. And then, sharper, “And if you think I am, you don’t know me at all.”

She turned on her heel and disappeared up the girls’ dormitory stairs before anyone could say another word. The sound of her feet slamming on the steps echoed behind her like punctuation.

Draco whistled low. “That’s clever, isn’t it? Pretend to be friendly with the blood traitors. Makes her look innocent. Gain their trust. Classic infiltration.”

“Shut up, Draco,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Shut up, for once.”

Because Alex wasn’t like that. She was many things—sarcastic, unpredictable, brilliant—but she wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t a monster creeping through corridors at night turning cats to stone. She was the girl who gave Pansy cauldron cakes when she was sad, who helped first-years with their potion instructions even when they didn’t ask. She was too good to be the Heir.

And it made my blood boil that anyone, even for a second, thought otherwise.

Pansy sat back down in silence.

And I stayed standing, staring at the dormitory stairs.

Because I didn’t care what the walls said in blood. I knew who she was.

And she needed us to remember that.

Alex’s POV

The days passed like molasses brewed in a cursed cauldron — slow, sticky, and bubbling with the acrid flavor of social doom.

Hogwarts, in its infinite teenage wisdom, had collectively decided that I, Alexandra Rosier, was either a misunderstood prodigy or the snake-charming spawn of Salazar Slytherin himself. Spoiler: the whisper campaign was leaning hard into Option B, now with less subtlety and more public gawking.

The stares weren’t just curious anymore — they were clinical. Dissecting. Like people were trying to spot the forked tongue they were sure I kept tucked behind my teeth. Students parted around me like I was lugging a cursed tiara and a bad attitude. Hufflepuffs ducked into alcoves as if I might breathe hexes in their general direction. A second-year Ravenclaw dropped her entire cauldron upon sighting me and stage-whispered, “She looks like she hexes daisies.” Which — rude. And inaccurate. I like daisies. Especially the weaponized kind.

Even Gryffindors, who usually run headfirst into danger for sport, had gone twitchy. Lavender Brown, who once begged me for my hair-glossing spell, now looked at me like I was seconds from transfiguring her into a cursed tea set. (Which, okay, I technically could. But wouldn’t. Probably. Unless deeply provoked.)

And the worst part? The whispers weren’t even behind my back anymore. They were in plain sight. In corridors. At meals. I could hear my name tossed between teeth like a dare. “Rosier.” “Heir.” “Dark magic.” “She always seemed a bit off, didn’t she?” Like I was less of a person and more of a cautionary tale in motion.

I’d started walking the long way to class. Avoiding corners. Avoiding people. Avoiding them.

But fate, that overdramatic, meddling troll, had other plans.

I was headed toward the Gryffindor corridor (because clearly I hate myself) when I heard voices drifting from behind a tapestry near the top of the stairs. Not just any voices.

Fred. George. Petra. Calla.

My spine went cold. I flattened myself against the wall like a guilty wallpaper pattern and listened.

Calla's voice rang out first—crisp, sugar-dipped, and sharpened to a passive-aggressive point. “Honestly, I’ve never trusted Alex. All that mystery and drama? She’s like a stylish Dementor with better hair.”

I blinked. Stylish Dementor? …Okay, rude, but also: trademark that.

Petra chimed in, hesitant. “She’s a Slytherin. I’m just saying—it’s not smart to be too close to her right now. What if it is her?”

Fred snorted. “Oh, come on. If it is her, then Hogwarts is doomed. She’d never stop at petrifying people. She’d start a monarchy. With glitter taxes.”

Laughter.

George added cheerfully, “Yeah, she’d write a manifesto in eyeliner and demand everyone wear capes on Tuesdays. That’s not the Heir of Slytherin, that’s... fashion-forward tyranny.”

More laughter.

“She is terrifying, though,” Fred went on, the grin audible in his voice. “Remember when she hexed that mirror to say 'Nice try' every time Calla looked into it?”