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Chapter Text

"That's quite a bit of sugar, Ron."

Ron gives Hermione a lopsided grin, a smudge of flour on his nose. "Shh, not everyone turns eleven everyday. Besides, there's bananas in it."

"I'm not worried about their health, I'm worried about the consistency of that batter. Surely that's too much." Ron just waves her away, levitating dollops of abnormally thick pancake batter onto a sizzling griddle while her kids yammer away at the dining table. Morning sunlight and a lazy, warm breeze filter in through the open window. Hermione's eyes find the birthday girl and she gives her eldest a smile.

"Happy birthday! I think you've already grown a few centimeters since I saw you last night." Hermione sits across from her at the lacquered table, sipping at a hot mug of coffee. Rose grins at her, showing a set of crooked teeth. Rose is a pretty girl but still is as awkward as her mother used to be. Well, Hermione thinks, as awkward as I still am. Rose has long auburn hair, a bit darker than Hugo's ginger, and while he has his father's light blue eyes and long nose, Rose definitely takes after her mother. Serious dark brown eyes with straight slashes of eyebrows and delicate freckles that dust her nose bridge.

Hermione admires her as she sips her coffee, still in awed disbelief that her daughter is the big eleven. Hogwarts, soon. She'll have to bid her daughter a tearful goodbye as she waits with bated breath for her to come home at Christmastime. Hermione will keep busy, of course, but the thought that she won't be able to see her little girl everyday still pains her. Ron bustles in, levitating full plates of steaming chocolate-banana pancakes. Rose and Hugo's smiles broaden as a world wind of plates zoom around to find their place at the table.

"There's my birthday girl!" Ron envelops Rose in a big hug, kissing the crown of her head. "You're growing like a weed, soon you'll be taller than Hagrid. You'll have to sleep out in the broom cupboard." Rose giggles and pulls out of father's grasp. "Dad, c'mon, I'll only stop once I'm taller than you." Hugo, only seven years old, smiles between muffled bites of pancake. "I'll be taller than all of you!" After a few minutes of the frantic gasps of maple syrup bottles and scratching forks, Rose asks the question she's been asking for the last two months.

"So, when can I get my wand?" It's been the only thing on her mind, along with questions about everything related to Hogwarts. Practically the whole roster of questions that plagued Hermione when she first received her letter as a little girl. While Ron eased her fears with increasingly dramatized accounts of his own Hogwarts years, Hermione gave her a book that answered them all; Hogwarts: A History. But even after all that, Rose was still brimming with nervous excitement.

Hermione smiles at Rose. "Patience is still persistence. We'll get you your wand after you receive your letter, just like everyone else. No need to rush it." Rose slumps back in her chair, now picking at the rest of her pancakes. Ron ruffles her fiery hair, receiving only a muted glance in response.

"Don't worry, kiddo. The wand chooses the witch, it won't go into the wrong hands."

☆ ☆ ☆

The letter is a tad late. Well of course, it's the magical world, things are a bit quirky; owls take rests, magically induced quills are shot out of ink, letters take their time. It's nothing to be immensely concerned about. Hermione straightens her neat blouse and skirt and takes only one glance at the heap of curls threatening to spill out of her clip before stepping into the green flames, her cozy living room dissipating into the magnificent Ministry of Magic. Another full day of work to immerse herself in. Today's topic: a continuation of yesterdays, and the day before that, and the day before that… She was currently stuck on one of the greatest questions to have ever plagued the Wizarding World— where did magic come from? Hermione had hoped it would have taken her a month of intensive study for the pieces to fall together but of course, she had a bit of an ego problem to attend to. Of course it'd take longer than a month. Three months, tops. Hermione grins to herself.

☆ ☆ ☆

Now Hermione was worried. It was late August and still no letter arrived for Rose. Maybe, she absently thought while sharpening her blade, it’s a new practice Hogwarts implemented, a new way of sending acceptance letters and supply lists. Maybe, Hermione thought wryly as she finely minced Lily of the Valley, they've finally begun to decipher the internet and use emails. But Hermione, a seasoned witch, knew the answer; the Hogwarts owl was simply indisposed. Occam's razor and all that. It simply couldn't have completed its rounds with their letter— it was an unseasonably warm summer after all, perhaps the bird fainted in the London streets. Hermione frowned, looking up from her cauldron, curly hair stuck to her sweaty face from the intense steam. She needed to write to Harry.

Very casually, Hermione wrote to ask Harry if little Albus had received his letter and was weak in the knees once she read that yes, he had, and yes, he too was nervous about Hogwarts but it's a good thing that Rose, one of his best friends, will be able to attend Hogwarts alongside him, right? Right. Now Hermione was very, very worried. No letter in nearly two months. Something was amiss, perhaps greater than she had ever dared to question aloud. She asked Ron and he too was concerned. He had seen the Hogwarts letter process enough with his five older brothers to know that Rose's letter was unreasonably late. The more they talked, the more their pondering turned into an icy fear.

Rose didn't display a lot of signs of magic at a young age. She didn't propel toys into her crib as a toddler, didn't tempt animals like her brother did. Hermione noticed but understood that she could be a late bloomer. It was normal and wasn't to be taken as a premonition of her magical skills later in life. Look at Neville, a rather weak wizard in his younger years who would grow up to become a Hogwarts professor with tenure. Hermione wasn't worried. But… It was little things. Hermione would let Rose stir a potion for her and once it was finished, it didn't turn out quite right. Either too thick or too thin, a different shade, a shimmer rather than a glow. Rose couldn't ride a toy broom, it would never rise for her. Hermione surmised that she was afraid of heights and the broom, even though it was only a toy, picked up on that and remained stubbornly in place. Hermione thought it was cute at the time, another trait of hers that she found in her daughter…

The most worrying thing of all, Hermione now realized, was when Rose would play with her or Ron's wand. A bright spark would shoot out, sure, but only ever one and then it'd dissipate in the air, like embers from a dying fire. Rose would bring the wand over her head, swish with it, point the wand at anything, but no other telltale signs of magic would burst out. Hermione and Ron had shared a smile: “Rosie's wand must be completely different than ours,” they had agreed as they watched their daughter play. “Maybe even Ollivander won’t be able to supply it.” That was it. Hermione and Ron whisked Rose off to St. Mungo's Hospital while Hugo stayed with Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny. Rose picked at her nails, the tension thick as they all sat in ruminative silence in the bustling waiting room.

☆ ☆ ☆

Hermione rhythmically taps her modestly heeled foot while Ron stands with his arms crossed, noticeably rigid. The consulting room is warmly lit and comfortable but that does little to displace the family’s collective unease, heavy like humid air. Dr. Laine has been the Grangers’ family doctor for over a decade; Hermione chose him for his well-decorated status in magical pediatric healthcare while Ron, still agreeing with Hermione, was reasonably won over by his accent. Dr. Lane flicks his wand all around Rose with precise motions; her temperature, blood pressure, and reflexes are all measured and recorded on a floating piece of parchment, the quill writing in stylized cursive.

Hermione was the first to speak. "Well?"

Dr. Laine glances at her before canceling his spells. "She is in great health. Not deficient in any vitamins although she could use more sun." Rose smiles sheepishly— she wasn't much for the outdoors when hot, but the news makes her feel a bit better— until she sees that her parents’ mood hasn't changed. Hermione's face is pinched but Ron takes the lead.

"She… hasn't received her Hogwarts Letter yet." Rose glances at her father, a nervous stomach ache bumbling up in her at the very mention of Hogwarts. Of course it was the letter. It seems as though everyone she knew had already received the acceptance letter, with its beautifully anachronistic wax seal, shimmering emerald green ink, and rich parchment. Rose wants nothing more in the world than to see that damn letter addressed to her, Rose Granger-Weasley. Dr. Laine's easy smile turns into pursed lips as he swivels to view Rose with new eyes. He mutters an incantation and a shaky red light fills the room, its luminance momentarily jarring. Rose edges her head to try and view the ribbons of light but they elude her in meaning.

Dr. Laine cancels the spell abruptly and turns back to her parents. "May I speak to you two outside for a moment. We'll be back shortly." He shuffles her parents out of the door and shuts it softly behind them. Rose jumps up and sets her ear against the scruffy door, so eager to get a crumb of information that she gracelessly bumps her head against the wood. She doesn’t mind, just hoping to get a smidge of information that could answer all these questions that were swirling inside her. She, however, cannot hear anything and the hurricane of her thoughts continues on.

☆ ☆ ☆

In the quiet hallways of the hospital, broken only by the squeaking of a passing healers shoes, Hermione and Ron both gape in shock at Dr. Lane’s final prognosis. Rose wasn't a late bloomer, nor a weaker witch. She simply didn't have any magic within her at all. Dr. Lane takes off his glasses, looking them both in the eyes. Normally he'd be cautious about results so serious, but the fact that Rose hadn't received any letter was evidence enough; the worn book and quill had noticed not an iota of magic within their daughter and had not written her name down. Rose Granger-Weasley was not a witch.

Hermione's eyes water and she covers her mouth. "Was it something… I did?" Dr. Laine profusely reassures her that no, most likely not.

"Magical genetics is a tricky subject and frankly, the topic of non-magical children being born from two magical parents is taboo. There's simply no known cause of these ailments." Hermione hangs her head as tears fall. Ron wraps a strong arm around her.

Dr. Laine goes on, delicately. "While my expertise isn't in child psychology, I would recommend that you send her away from London to a muggle secondary school. Have her immerse herself in their world. It's the best thing to do, in this situation." He awkwardly looks down at his parchment. "Be thankful you have a healthy, smart daughter. With time and persistence, she'll be okay." With that, he leaves them to dwell.

Hermione loves her daughter with all her heart, but she weeps for the world Rose will never come to fully inhabit. Hermione remembers her own lonely childhood, one full of books and rather absent parents, and an aching drive for a place to belong. She found that among magic, and with her magic came her sense of purpose, her fire. The Wizarding World wasn’t perfect and it had tried to keep her out because of what she couldn’t change, but in her youth she fought for her place in it. She cannot imagine what Rose will feel, never having even received the chance to fight for her rightful place in the world. Her daughter will forever be on the sidelines, watching the world go by and not be able to take part in it. Hermione and Ron glance back to the door where Rose was waiting for them. They walk back, both with wet eyes and shaky hands, each trying to formulate a speech that wouldn't leave their perfect daughter too heartbroken.

Chapter Text

Rose tumbles into her bedroom, sobbing as she slams the door behind her. 

Not a witch. 

With unnecessarily violent, jerking movements, Rose rips each crimson and gold tassel that hangs from her tall bed posts. She tears her treasured Gryffindor tapestry clean off the wall, ripping it to shreds with her bare hands. Her heart stings as she cries. 

Her parents, her whole family, are capable of some of the most extraordinary, beautiful magic she has ever seen. Flashes of memories pass through her: her mother tempting vibrant roses from the wet soil, her father igniting lumos to make shadow animals when she had a nightmare, Uncle Harry producing a brilliant array of pink sparkles every birthday just for her… She’ll never… She’ll always… It was too much. 

Rose continues to break what cannot be, nor never could be, mended by her illusory wand’s tip as she mourns every version of the future that she’ll never get to experience. Every useless toy wand she has ever owned she snaps in half, throwing the splintered shards at her wall. Finally, after much pointless, empty destruction, Rose slumps against her bed, cheeks drenched with hot tears. 

Just this morning, Rose was herself— a young witch preparing for her first year away from home at Hogwarts— she was magic. Rose closes her eyes and just like when she first woke up that morning, she daydreams about her future; rather than feeling hope, Rose feels nothing but a melancholic dread.  

Beautifully poised and enigmatic, I whisper secret plots in the warm Gryffindor common room to my fellow miscreants, the shafts of moonlight high  I’ll explore the haunting castle with the many friends I’ve made, a few gathered from each house (none from Slytherin, naturally.) I’m incredible at arithmancy, a natural at DADA, terrific in ancient runes, and only halfway decent in divination, because one must have a fatal flaw. Regardless, academics is not what I’m best at— it’s on my trusty broomstick where I truly excel. Cold autumn air burns my skin as I pull up into the bright blue of the sky, the people cheering me on in the stands mere pinpricks of color, the cacophony of cheers lost in the rush of wind. Only one thing is important to me right now, and it’s that impish golden snitch. I scan the skies, careening and teetering dangerously while performing maneuvers that make everyone’s head spin. While the Bludgers the opposing teams’ Beaters send my way are quick, I will always be quicker. There! The snitch, spastically hovering just a few feet away. I make a mad dash, quicker than light and lighter than air, and with mere minutes to spare I-

“Rose? Sweetheart, I’d like to have a talk with you… just for a minute.” Her mother’s voice rings clear, splicing her daydream. Rose, with herculean effort, pushes herself up from the carpeted floor and pinches her nose bridge with a lifted head, willing her tears to stop and eyes to stop burning. As composed as she’ll ever be, she opens her door a crack so that her mother’s pale face is only a sliver through the doorway. 

“Mum, I’m really tired. I just want to go to bed right now.”

Her mum pinches on a strong smile but her red-rimmed eyes and weak posture show just how much the diagnosis has affected her, too. “Okay… Okay, we’ll do that. I just wanted to tell you, Rose, that this changes absolutely nothing for us. You’ll go to a lovely school, anywhere you’d like, and… and we’ll figure this out together.” 

Rose manages a weak smile that matches her mother’s own attempt. “I know. I just…” Rose cannot finish the sentence but she doesn’t have to. She knows her mum understands— it’s a mourning period. 

Once the door is softly shut again, Hermione blearily makes her way back to her own bedroom, eyes itchy and heart aching, knowing that she won’t be able to sleep a wink.

Not a witch. 

Rose doesn’t finish her daydream, only glances blankly around at her desecrated room, looking at all the broken things she once held so dear. Laying on her bed in the dark, staring at her pale hands, Rose tries to summon some deep reservoir of magic within her. She painfully concentrates on the lumos charm, imagining in her mind's eye her room suddenly lighting with the brightness of her own personal sun, drawing upon the magical well that has remained latent within her all this time. For long minutes she imagines, dreams, prays…
She opens her eyes to find that nothing has changed in her dim bedroom. Not even a spark.

☆ ☆ ☆

September second dawns bright and sunny, blatantly ignoring the Granger-Weasley’s mourning period. A week hadn’t yet passed after receiving Rose’s diagnosis before the press swooped in like a hungry carrion, eager to feed upon the most eye-catching headline the Magical World had seen since the war. Hermione crumbles up that morning’s Daily Prophet with a simmering rage she hasn't felt in years. Her hands shake as her eyes flit across the page, raking in the black blocks of text. Ron, having seen this look before during their school days, slides a hot mug of tea slowly across the counter, trying not to make any sudden movements.

"Here love, I'll make it better." Ron gently guides the Daily Prophet out of her hands and sets it ablaze with a concentrated flick of the wrist. It crumbles into an ash heap on their marble countertop. 

"Much more enjoyable, that." Ron leans over the counter so he's eye level with Hermione as she curls against the breakfast bar. “Tell me what you’re thinking of, please?”

Hermione slowly lifts her head from her arms, her tumble of curls pulled into a haphazard ponytail. She examines Ron’s light blue eyes in the begrudging morning sunlight, absently admiring their green flecks.

"You really don't want to know what I'm thinking about doing to that whistleblower, Ron." She says, her own dark brown eyes wet with angry, indignant tears. Ron sighs deeply, clapping his hands to Hermione's shoulders and rubbing them absentmindedly.

"Believe me, I do too. But it won't help her. It'll only give them more material to work with. Besides, we can't trap them all in a jar. Be too obvious. We'll sacrifice them to the scorpions."
"...and King Kobras?" Hermione mumbles.
Ron smiles. "Anything for you."

There’s a quick succession of knocks at the door.
"Oi, keys under the porcelain frog!" Ron yells, giving his wand a lazy wave as he dismantles the wards that surround their home. After a moment of clinking, a frazzled Harry Potter comes in with a grumpy young girl and a happy Hugo in tow. Hugo flings himself to Ron and stays by his leg, Ron ruffling up his hair.
"Hey, kiddo. Didn't cause you too much trouble, yeah?"

Harry shakes his head, directing his attention to Hermione who watches from the sidelines, nursing a cup of graciously hot tea.

"Where's Rosie? I tried to find you all at Kings Cross but I couldn't see you. Al already sent me an owl telling me that she wasn't at the sorting?"
Hermione raises her hand, silently asking for the questions to cease. Resting her head on her hands as she ruminatively sits cross legged on the bar stool, she simply says; "Rose... she isn't a witch."

Confusion flashes on Harry's face but soon morphs into grim understanding. Ron picks up where Hermione stops.
"She wants to be left alone. I can safely say that she's broken a good half of her room by now." Ron rubs his eyes sleepily.
"Oh, wow. Wow…” Harry runs a hand through his messy hair, a tick from their school days that makes Hermione ache with a momentary nostalgia. 

“I'm… I’m sorry. But other than that, she's healthy, right?"
Ron waves a hand. "She's perfectly healthy. The doctor couldn't tell us anything."
Hermione juts in. "I didn't even think that this was in the realm of possibility. I would’ve worried about her contracting the plague before I contemplated this . I mean, my God, Ron's lineage is so strong and magic, even just a hint, can make a witch. She just has… none. We were already worried once her Hogwarts letter was late, but I wanted to believe it was just an issue with bureaucracy, or magical detection, or maybe even her blood status, of all things. But we started with the most important thing and so we went to the doctors first and well… he confirmed it for us rather quickly.” Hermione surreptitiously blots her eyes with a handkerchief. 

Hugo looks up at his parents with his face full of confusion, sensing but not quite understanding the complex grief that shimmers around the room. Harry's eyes drift down to him and he wears a soft smile. 

"Well, she's healthy. That's all that really matters. She can, uh, go to university. She can go play an instrument— music is magic, really, the finest one there is."
Ron smiles at Harry. "She can work with uh, what do they call it? Electricity?" Ron barks out a laugh. "My dad, oh, he's gonna be chuffed."

Hermione wasn't exactly a part of the conversation at that point. She was somewhere else entirely, flipping through her encyclopedic mind of facts and figures to dwell on magic. Since they had gotten home her mind spun with hypotheses and perfected experiments to try at her beautifully secretive desk at work. She could see, in perfect clarity in her mind's eye, the arithmancy sequences that made up dozens of complex spells. If she could break down spells into their minute qualities, then she could break down the minutiae of magic, a quandary that had always evaded the brightest before her time.

Of course it could be done— Hermione had no doubt in her mind. Anything is possible. That was proven to her the day Professor McGonagall had knocked on her family's clean-cut suburban door and switched her mother's ornate ottoman into a porcupine right before her eyes. Her understanding of the world that day was swept away in favor of something even more difficult to cultivate; a consistently open mind. Rules need not apply to Hermione— she'll find the answers and she'll give her daughter what she rightfully deserves— pure magic and the opportunity to be a part of her rightful world. She will never have to grasp at water to stay afloat in a world that was closed off to her, like she did.
No, she won't , Hermione promises to herself.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice floods her thoughts and she snaps back up to face him, her house keys still jingling in his hands with a rather impatient Lily by his side. Just like in her school days, his comforting presence draws her back down to Earth.
"I have to get going, quite a caseload at the Ministry. Besides—" he smiles "—it's 'bring your daughter to work' day at the office." Lily is practically hanging off his arm at this point. "Rose will be okay. She has you guys for parents, she couldn't have more support. Albus will write to her soon, I promise." With that, Harry leaves with his daughter, shutting the door softly behind them.

Ron rumbles and swings up Hugo with a grin, earning a squeal of delight from him.
"Who's hungry? I think today calls for bacon sandwiches, yeah? Hermione?"
Hermione sighs, rubbing her eyes. Ron falters and sets Hugo down with a frown, distracting his son with the promise of letting him flip the bacon. Hugo rushes into the kitchen to find the elusive spatula.

Ron moves over to Hermione, sitting beside her and draping a lazy arm around her. 

"Hermione… I uh, know what you're thinking of. I wanted to let you know that you shouldn't go messing about." Hermione glances at him with a withering gaze but he doesn't back down, staring at her squarely in the eyes. 

"I know. It's not fair. Mum, oh she'll be a nightmare." He mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But don't cause a disruption for her benefit. People will talk and they'll be as brutal as they were to you in the papers… But Rose, she's like you, she can push through anything." He smiles fondly, tucking a loose curl behind Hermione's ear. Hermione's eyes water but she nods, clearing her throat.
"Okay."
Ron nods, satisfied, and kisses her on the cheek, gently drifting down so that he can kiss her softly on the lips. For a minute they stay together, listening to the sounds of Hugo ruthlessly searching through the cupboards. Ron breaks the silence. 

"I'll let Rosie sleep in but I'm sure she'll wake up for the bacon. She is my daughter, after all."

☆Four Years Later☆

September first. Rose wakes up to the sound of distant thumping up and down the hallways. She glances blearily at the hands on her clock as they move as sluggishly as she feels. 7 o'clock in the morning. She sighs.

Her bedroom looks much different than when she was a kid. Now muggle pop artists dominate the wall, all wearing some variety of smudged eyeliner and defeated poses. A very withered Golden Snitch twitches on the surface of her side drawer, the magically charmwork having atrophied over the years. Books litter the creaky floors, a vast array of colorful genres and languages. Odd pieces of magical artifacts take up a bookshelf, all presents from her dad, all chosen with care to make sure that she, a Squib, could actually use them. 

Her desk, however, is the most busy and disordered mess out of everything else in her room. Tiny tools for a tiny solar powered calculator litter the surface. Rose had found out years ago how much she enjoyed tinkering with doohickeys and whatchamacallits, much to her parents' encouragement. Once she realized that technology really would be the closest thing to magic that she'll ever have, she delved into mathematical equations and physics mysteries with fascination.

Once she was old enough to develop a begrudging appreciation for her situation, she understood that she had an edge above her muggle classmates when it came to having context about the world. A lot of historical miscommunications and scientific fumblings, it turns out, can be explained quite easily with well-placed dragons.

A chemistry set looms above everything else, clearly the pride and joy for Rose, beautifully polished. It's how the old saying goes— if you can't brew glory, make firecrackers instead— it'll work just as well in your little brother's eyes. 

Even though she has the ‘muggle’ equivalent to potions, Rose’s heart still aches whenever she watches her mother in the attic, brewing potions with the silly hat on, her clever hands deftly mincing and stirring.
Rose would never be able to help her, lest she ruins her mum's hard work.

Rose opens up her second-story window to greet the cool air, watching the people of London go about their lives, hustling and bustling. Rose can just make out the London Eye peeking out in the distance through the morning mist. She clutches the windows ledge, melancholic.

Today is a big day. September 1st, her eleven-year-old brother's Hogwarts life just about to begin. He, thankfully, wasn't like her. She watched from the sidelines a few months ago as he swished wands at Ollivander's, grinning from ear to ear when the fourth one he handled shot forth a brilliant haze of bright red sparks. It was English oak, 10 and a quarter inch with a unicorn hair core. It was an unflinchingly loyal wand to have, according to Ollivander, smiling as he wrapped the wand into its velvet canopy. Ollivander’s eyes would sometimes dip down to stare at Rose, the most famous squib of the twenty-first century, and there would be no pity in his gaze— only fresh disappointment. The great daughter of Britain's most courageous war heroes , Rose thought bitterly as her parents clapped for her brother, come throw peanuts at the main event, Stick Maker. 

The longing, she learnt, never really stopped. No matter how often her parents knocked on her door in the evenings to tell her how proud they were, how far she's come, she still wished it all could have been different. No matter how many times her father washed dishes the muggle way in front of her— even though the sentiment was sweet— she knew, deep down, that she'll always be fundamentally different from them.

☆☆☆

"Rose! Hey!" Albus, or Al as he prefers it, bumps his shoulders into Rose as they fall into step together across Platform 9¾. The air fizzed with magic and excitement as witches and wizards of all ages bustled about. Rose watches idly as a young girl shows off her rather exotic horned toad to her laughing friends. 

They had a sort of tradition every September first between them, both complaining about Hogwarts for very different reasons. Albus was about to start his fifth year at Hogwarts and he detested it, so much so that Rose felt pangs of sympathy even though she would've gladly taken being subpar over being uncompromisingly broken. 

She knew he was bullied severely all because he couldn't quite get out of his father's looming shadow. He defiled every trait a Potter was expected to have— being a cheeky Slytherin, a klutz on the broom, and mediocre at best at DADA, the scales weren't exactly tipped in his favor. Worst of all, there was no evil presence to battle against like his father had had, no way to redeem himself in the public's brutal eyes. This wasn't just the light teasing that greeted Rose at her posh private school in Wales, this was the equivalent of magical warfare. While Rose's heart aches for her cousin, she's still a little relieved that she has someone she can relate to.

"Hey. So, what are you most excited for this year?" Rose says, trying to stay chipper.
"Hah, well I’m always glad to put another blasted year behind me. I suppose I'm excited to see Scorpius again, always prancing about Europe during the summer.” 

“Where is Scorpius, anyway?” Rose asks, glancing around.

“Ah, he’s been arranged to floo into Hogwarts in time for the Sorting rather than take the Express. He was pretty terse with his letter but I gather that it has something to do with his mum and her treatment in Germany.” Al frowns. “From the letter, I assume that the consultation didn’t go exactly… well.” 

Rose sighs heavily, struggling to form a response that properly sums up her feelings. “I can’t imagine” she says simply, to which Al agrees with a hum. Her meager friendship to Scorpius had always been… stilted, to tell the truth. The deepest interactions they had with each other was polite greetings and sporadic details on each other's days. In addition to not going to the same school, they weren’t able to spend holidays together, seeing as how the Malfoys had taken to whisking Scorpius out of the country every summer. The only link between them was Albus and while he was eager to create a lasting bond between each of them, Rose could tell that she was missing out on fundamental memories by not being able to go to Hogwarts.

It did not help that Rose was uncomfortably well read on Scorpius’s family history. It was just another irrevocable fact that made Rose feel tense and judged whenever she was around Scorpius’s artfully tousled blonde hair and elevated gaze. 

“Maybe he'll stay behind this summer, hopefully." 

Yes , Rose thinks, I’m sure that’ll make for a relaxing summer. 

Al scans the crowds of weepy parents and rowdy kids before falling on Rose's family, her mother crouching in front of Hugo to deliver some last minute advice. Hugo looks positively green by now.
"So, what house do you think your brother will take after?" Al asks.
"Definitely not Ravenclaw." Rose grins, watching as Hugo nervously fumbles with his hands. Her face softens. "Honestly, I hope he's in Gryffindor. Just to make it easier for him."
Al nods, understanding. "I'll watch out after him. People here can be such prats, I tell you." The first warning whistle sounds.
"Don't you want to say goodbye to your parents?" Rose asks. Al's face darkens and he emphatically shakes his head .
"Not really." He turns to face Rose, genuine disappointment on his face. "I wish you could come aboard with me."
Rose smiles. "You tell me that every year. You'll be fine. Listen, make sure to use that hex I found in my mum's study if anyone gives you trouble. It'll be great." Al flashes her a smile and gives a wave, jogging up to the Hogwarts Express with his trolley in tow.

Rose turns and watches as Hugo steps aboard the scarlet Hogwarts Express. She waves to him, flashing him a heart she makes with her hands, but he's too busy chatting with a few compartment buddies to notice. The train gives one final spurt of smoke before it lurches forward, steadily chugging out of the station. Rose watches it depart until she can no longer see it, feeling a cold emptiness seep inside her.
Another year to be spent watching the world go by. 

Chapter Text

What Ron loved about Hermione was immense and limitless— if he had the time to itemize each thing he admired, he would surely come back to the list on the hour, every hour, to add something new. Even though his love was endless, that didn't mean that he didn't find some of Hermione’s habits impossibly difficult to understand.

For one, she read all the time. Most times when she read, it was reasonable; by the dim glow of candlelight at night beside each other, or in a waiting room. He and his thick head could understood that. But sometimes it seemed to be a bit of an obsession with her, especially if she deemed it a "fascinating read,” which seemed to be the great majority of nonfiction. She would read while she brushed her teeth, while she forgot she had something burning in the oven, while she walked on their muggle treadmill. Ron had once caught her in the shower in the dead of night, flicking through an academic textbook while she stood unmoving underneath the hot spray, the book charmed to repel water. 

While it was baffling to him, he was always charmed by it, by her.

But now, it was getting to be uncharacteristically excessive. Sometimes during those quiet moments when the kids were asleep and they sat tangled together in their cozy living room, Ron would try to talk to her— little stories from his day, a funny moment at work— and while she’d nod along and smile at all the correct places, Ron could tell that she wasn’t truly listening. After the appropriate amount of time with her husband had passed (which seemed impossibly short to Ron) she’d always drift back into her study in the attic, not to be seen for the rest of the night. 

It hurt Ron immensely to be dismissed like that by Hermione. She was always fine with the kids, chatting serenely with them at the breakfast table before whisking them off to Diagon Alley for potion ingredients and sweets. However, when it came to others, she was curtly polite and professionally detached— now, Ron was finding himself a part of that ‘other’ group. He had only seen Hermione like this twice in his time alongside her; the months before their O.W.L.s during fifth year… and the months immediately following Rose's diagnosis.

Ron wasn't daft. He knew, knew in his heart, that this grim detachment from others and her locked study door had something to do with Rose. Ron could tell that the diagnosis crushed her, even if Hermione projected an image of strength to the rest of the world. With a brain as big as Hermione's (and an ego to match, Ron would think when especially grumpy) of course she'd try to fix things with controlled variables and sequestered lab experiments.

The first few months after Rose’s diagnosis, while a terribly difficult time, was proof that Ron needed when faced with images of their future as a family— that they would always persevere. Ron, with great pride, found that he was right— his Rosie was flourishing, achieving a strength of spirit that he was continually awed by. His daughter, Ron knew, was perfect… sometimes he wondered if Hermione felt the same. 

As soon as Hugo began his first year at Hogwarts and Rose left to attend her private school in Wales, Hermione retreated back to research in her dungeon. Ron felt as though he lived with a ghost, a haunting presence felt only through scattered tea cups and neglected pens. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt her warmth, her laugh… As the leaves decomposed on the sidewalk and snowfall powdered the streets, Ron grew increasingly agitated, and the press did not help.

Ron guessed that Hugo going off to Hogwarts might have been the catalyst for Hermione being more obsessive than usual; it was a difficult day for the Granger-Weasley family, especially as it ignited weeks of pop stories for several wizarding news outlets. Many journalists loved milking the hell out of Rose's story— it was wonderfully digestible gossip, after all.

"Rose NOT at HOGWARTS!"
"War Hero's Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley's Daughter a Secret Squib?"
"Hugo, Son of Hermione Granger-Weasley, Sorted into Gryffindor! Where is Rose Studying as a Squib?"

The press had started puzzling together the story after the Granger family wasn't seen at Platform 9¾ when Rose had first turned eleven. Now that it was Hugo's turn, the press had a field day with it, even managing to snap a few pictures of Rose looking longingly pensive as she watched the Hogwarts Express depart. If Ron had seen the prick that had snapped those pictures, he was sure he would have struck them down with the Cruciatus curse. Really, crucio would have been a mercy. 

Some especially sick newspapers even began to question the ethics of allowing muggle born spouses to tarnish the bloodline of old wizarding families. Thankfully the Daily Prophet, the most widely-read wizarding newspaper, didn't publish stories like this, but it didn't stop them from presenting Rose as a sort of tragedy, a waste of potential. Ron felt horrendous, seeing Rosie hurt like this, and Ron wished he could do more for her. 

As the weeks pass, Ron notices Hermione leaving their home in the dead of night. The Auror in him finds the missing floo powder and crumbled ash heap in the middle of the night when he’s too sick to sleep and he is struck with a sickening dread. A voice in Ron's head, the one that's been a part of him since he was an insecure teenager, immediately screams "affair!" but Ron quickly dismisses this option, especially since it scares him immensely. Hermione would never do that to him— she just wasn’t the type.

Plus, she couldn't possibly have the time for an illicit rendezvous when she barely spoke to anyone outside of work, locking herself away from the world in a flurry of manuscripts in her attic study. No, it was something else entirely and Ron knew he needed to talk to her. 

☆☆☆

Ron finds Hermione deep within her study on a bitterly cold February day, swimming in mounds of books and scrolls. Ron, quietly opening the door, remains in the doorway for a moment, staring at Hermione's back and tense shoulders as she scribbles away. She is nervous energy personified, her curls scrunched away as she pauses, mutters, sighs, and groans all while she scratches at her parchment.

"Hermione?" She’s too absorbed to even notice his voice. Ron’s heart dips. 

"Hermione." Ron says with much more force. She hums, still writing. Ron makes his way over to her, looking over her shoulder to try and eye her writing. From his brief glance, Ron sees tiny, neat runes decorating the main page, intricately complex ones he couldn't hope to translate himself. Hermione, now acutely aware of his presence, shifts minutely to the side so that Ron could not see the page anymore. 

Ron's already thin patience with her snaps and he raises his wand, transfiguring her bundle of notes into the first thing he thinks of— a red canary. It’s lopsided and an unnaturally dull red, but it accomplishes Ron’s intended purpose, soaring high and drifting among the wood beams of the attic. Hermione slams her first against the table in frustration and shoves herself upright, rounding on Ron.

"Must you do this today?!" She has to crane her neck up in order to squint at him.
"No more distractions. You're speaking to me, right now. What are you working on?" Ron barks out.
Hermione sighs and rubs her eyes tiredly.
"I can't exactly tell you, now can I? Firm rules, even for family—"
Ron cuts her off, impatient. "No, don't give me that. You know you’ve never cared for the rules." Hermione tries to shift back towards her desk but Ron gently catches her shoulders, looking her in the eyes.
"Hermione, to hell with the Unspeakable rules! You're not you, and you haven't been for months. Either they're working you to death or you've found a new project." Ron swallows, choosing his next words carefully. "If this new project, if it's about Rose… I have a right to know."
Hermione's eyes flash and she suddenly looks abashed. She glances at the floor, moving away from Ron's grasp and carefully picking up the parchment that still remains on the desk, the careful strokes of ink still shiny.

"Oh Ron…" She sighs, her back towards him as she stares at the papers in her hands. "I'm at the precipice of creating a spell that can change the world." She turns towards him, smiling broadly, a smile that Ron hadn't seen in months. "For the better, of course. Magic, as you know, is an energy seeped into the very fabric of this world. It cannot be destroyed or created, merely propelled forward by forces we, and truly every magical being, have grown to be able to manipulate. Whether through intricate mutation, divine gift, or even Pandora’s box, we have something that greatly divides us from non-magical beings—” Hermione takes a breath, continuing on a rush. “—I've been working with my hypothesis that if magical beings have a specific, heritable ability to harness and control the chaotic magic that permeates around us, then that tangible gift can be isolated and manipulated to be thrust upon someone else. I believe… I believe I've found a way to give pure magic, Ron. To hold it, to transfer it to another person. Pure magic! A gift that comes with the ability to wield it. I mean, can you believe it?" Hermione continues on, her eyes bright. She clearly has been eager to talk about all of her discoveries with someone else. 

"Magic, it turns out, is more malleable than we initially thought. It can heighten in moments of incredible emotion. It can change as we age, as we deal with grief, as we fall in love." She smiles again at Ron. "I've found a way to transfer my magic, my gift, to someone else. Even a tiny bit, really a miniscule amount, can make a witch. I can give Rose some of my magic and she'll be a witch! She'll be able to wield a wand, brew a potion, and fly on a broomstick. She’ll get the letter from Hogwarts that she’s always longed for, Ron.” Hermione's dark eyes grow glassy and Ron stares into them, feeling sick.  

He stands there, completely at a loss for words as Hermione rambles on about all the extraordinary things Rose will be able to do following the drought of magic she's had to suffer with for the last fifteen years of her life.

Ron says the first thing that comes to mind. “Hermione, have you gone mad?”
Hermione gives a harsh pause, glancing up from her desk to stare up at Ron. "What?"
"You're going to give Rose your magic."
"Well of course not all of it—"
Ron interrupts her again, his voice steadily rising in anger.
"You're gonna give Rose ‘a bit of your magic— ’” Hermione flinches at the mimicry “—in an untested, unregulated experiment that has gone through no approval process. Negating the unnecessary danger you’d be putting our daughter in, just think about the ethics for a second! Think about when, not if, your precious research gets unleashed to the public. Giving magic to any ol' person, you know what you'll open up? There's a bloody reason we keep magic separate!"

Hermione scoffs and raises her wand up sharply, the transfigured canary morphing into a bundle of parchment in an instance. With a flick of her wand, Hermione propels the air-borne papers towards her, gently tapping them against the desk to straighten the pile.

"I'm not giving just anyone magic, I'm giving it to Rose. And no, you’re wrong that my research hasn’t gone through any of the proper testings or legal proceedings— all of my research colleagues involved in this project have taken an Unbreakable Vow swearing them to permanent allegiance and secrecy to the cause. I know the risks, I have calculated and I have read and I have feared every night for the past four years that my research will be leaked before the proper precautions are put into place. This research has some of the most far reaching consequences of any spells invented in the last a hundred years or so, akin to CRISPR in the muggle world.” Hermione takes a breath, squeezing her eyelids shut with the balls of his fist. “Even knowing all of this, I am still going to proceed. This is real, Ron, and if it wasn’t for my team of Unspeakables that began this work with my lead, then it would’ve been another team following another lead ten or so years later, especially concerning the potential boon this spell could be for magical disease  treatment… How dare you assume I would not take the utmost precaution in making this spell safe for my daughter that sparked my obsession? There is not a single person in this world that deserves magic more than her!”

Ron grimaces, feeling sick. "No. No way. My daughter won't be a damn guinea pig in a trial run.” Hermione’s face morphs in indignation but Ron plows on. “No matter how good, how brilliant you or the world thinks you are, it'll never be enough to justify a spell of this caliber that she doesn't need!” 

“I’ll leave that for Rose to decide. I’ll emancipate her before I let you control a decision that will make every facet of her life better than it was before—” Hermione is cut off when Ron takes a hold of her wrist and roughly pushes the fabric of her jumper high on her elbow, turning her inner arm towards her to show the words that have long been grotesquely etched into her pale skin:

MUDBLOOD.

"THAT is what magic can do to a person. She is my daughter, before anything else. Magic isn't... it isn't everything. I thought we learned this together during the war. This… what you're planning on doing? No, it isn't right." Hermione snatches her arm back, stumbling as she twists her wand. In an instance, every journal, binder, and piece of parchment on the desk is methodically sorted and perfectly swept into her small satchel bag, which flits towards Hermione to sling upon her shoulder as she storms past Ron to the living room. Ron follows, equally angry. 

"I have the power to fix this! And don't you dare assume that I don't love her because of what she is. She is MY daughter and I'm doing this for her, regardless of any meaningless academic accolades. This spell will change lives, I promise you that.”

Hermione moves quickly through their home, stopping at the rumbling fireplace and taking much more floo power than actually needed. She turns to Ron, her face red and storming, her eyes fierce.
"I'd never hurt her. I'm giving her a chance, okay? She'll choose herself, regardless. I'm going to the Ministry and I don't know when I'll be back. By summer's time, I'll be finished and I'll give her the choice. She is old enough to decide her future on her own." She throws the powder down with force and the emerald flames burst forth, enveloping her in a ghoulish green glow.
"You cannot stop progress, Ron… I'm sorry." With that, she disappears into the flames.

Chapter Text

Using only two words to describe his mood, Harry Potter wouldn't struggle to come up with his answer: astoundingly agitated. Even though he sits comfy as the head of the Auror Office, the work never seems to end for him. Petty crime is inescapable in the magical world, along with illegal hijinks and love potion drink spiking, but they're usually tame and easily dealt with. What Harry was stressing over was a case that was slapped on his desk a week ago; a pureblood wizard murdered at the edge of London. 

Murders in the wizarding world are rather rare. The magical population of Great Britain is tiny and, as Harry likes to believe, quite polite. Strife between any wizard or witch was usually resolved amicably, without the need for any to-the-death duels like back in the day. After the Second Wizarding War, many Britons just wanted to get back to their lives, to live peacefully away from the chaos, to "let the muggles deal with any excitement for a spell."

But of course, murders happen. Just as enviable as rain is to fall, people, both muggle and wizarding alike, will always find new reasons to hurt each other.

Harry sits at his desk at the Auror Office, stilted moonlight peaking through the high windows. The moonlight was fake, of course, magically induced since the office is several hundred feet underground, but Harry is annoyed by it all the same. It reminds him of how long he's been sitting here, pouring over files, not anywhere close to finding any clues to point him in the right direction. Harry fogs up his glasses and cleans them on his shirt, sliding them on before raking a hand through his messy hair.

"Okay," Harry sighs. "One more time."

The victim: a male, 25 years old. By all accounts, he had lived an unassuming life as a young wizard; a Hogwarts alum with painfully average marks who would grow up to become the proprietor of a quaint pub in muggle London.

He was the perfect victim, really, as all of his close family wanted nothing to do with the young man— or at least that was the impression Harry got with the ensuing interviews. Sulla "Sal" Rowle was a part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, a title that guaranteed both money and status, to which he would enjoy none of in favor of living a terribly short life amongst the muggles in dingy London neighborhoods. Sulla would sling cheap beer and date a variety of muggle girls to apparently "curse his mother in the only way he really could, the dimwit,” as his aunt helpfully provided during the ensuing interviews.

While Sulla was never the favorite at family gatherings, he was loved by his peers. Harry has many known friends and past girlfriends’ of Sulla's on file from the muggle authorities and he feels vaguely sick as his eyes wander down the list. At the crime scene, Sulla’s wand had been snapped clean in half and left upon his chest, his eyes left open, both blank and bloodshot. 

Avada Kedavra had been used. 

The murder itself was very clean. A killing curse shot straight into the chest, Sulla’s heart stopping within a millisecond. No signs of torture nor struggle, not even any clear trampling of the field where his body was lain. Not even the most handy of detective spells could scrounge up anything useful. The scene was promptly cleaned up, the body moved carefully, and the evidence sealed away.

Harry takes his glasses off again (an annoying habit that gave him migraines) and squeezes his eyes shut firmly with his fists, sighing deeply.

It was Harry's first true murder case and all eyes were on him. A true test of aptitude from a Hogwarts dropout. It was time for Harry to prove himself worthy to his team after the long winded honeymoon phase of "Savior of the World" had ceased.

The accurate aim of the curse, the lack of evidence and witnesses… that implied intelligence and cunning. The choice of victim, a pureblood muggle-lover, well… that implied a vendetta, a philosophy the killer wished to express. Harry takes his glasses off yet again and squeezes his eyes shut with his fists, sighing deeply. He hopes desperately that he won’t be dealing with a serial killer. 

Suddenly, warm light flickers on across the office, startling him. An equally frazzled Hermione Granger stares at him, tired surprise painting her face.
"Oh hello. I didn't expect to see anyone at the office at this hour."
Harry smiles. "What are you doing here?"
Hermione looks a bit abashed and looks past Harry, to the old-fashioned clocks that decorate the high marble walls.
"Well, Unspeakables aren't exactly allowed to bring any food down with them. And everyone knows the Department of Magical Law Enforcement keeps only the best chocolates."
Harry leans back on his chair casually, pulling his wand out.
"Can't argue there." With a quick Accio, a box of toffees come tumbling through the vacant office. He slashes the velvet ribbon and takes a piece as sharp as glass, handing the box to Hermione. Hermione sits across from him and they chew quietly, both ruminating.
After a few minutes, Harry speaks.
"But what I meant was, what are you doing here?"
Hermione sighs, the toffee leaving a harsh sugary film in her mouth.
"Ron and I, well, we had a row. I'd rather stay the night at my office finishing up some things than continue to irritate him at home."

Harry chews, contemplating. He knew Hermione and Ron weren't a very easy going couple. Both had a passion for arguments and, coincidentally, a passion for pissing the other off. But he never took Hermione as the type to flee at the dead of night to cool things off.

"You left the stove on again?"
Hermione rolls her eyes. "Oh hah-hah, that only happened once, you know." She sighs. "No, I suppose it's just work. The secrecy I have to uphold, I think it gets to him. Maybe it gets to me a bit, too. And with the kids due back from school soon, it's busy days ahead."
Harry puts his head in his hands, groaning. "Oh don't remind me about kids right now."
Hermione's face falls with sympathy.
"Oh Harry, I can't even begin to compare to what you're going through. That awful murder and how difficult Albus is being. Is he still giving you the silent treatment?"
Harry nods, rubbing his eyes. "Won't answer any owl I leave him. Didn't even say goodbye to me at the Platform this year. He's trying to punish me, I swear."
Hermione squeezes his arm comfortingly. "He's a teenager, it's what they do. I'll admit, it can't be easy to attend the same school where your father became the most famous wizard of this generation."
"Don't remind me." Harry says darkly. "This scar I have, it really is the only thing people ever see."
Hermione gives him a small smile. "Hey, I'm a bit jealous. You're the only one of us with a Chocolate Frog card, you know."
Harry gives a loud groan, covering his face, smiling into his hands.
"It was for charity, okay?" He soon drops his hands and loses his brief smile. "I would do anything for Albus to just talk to me again. I think, maybe, it was wrong for the kids to go to Hogwarts. Maybe we should have gone to New York, like Ginny was talking about before I proposed. But I couldn't…" he trails off and Hermione gives him a sad smile.
"You couldn't leave your family, I know. Ron fought for you to stay, remember? Wrote entire essays in his letters, even. There's no use in contemplating what could have been, what is done is done. Al will come back to you in time… Rose did, for me."

Harry sighs. “I suppose I’ll always be a bit selfish as a parent, y’know? I want them to have what I had and I think I keep expecting them to. I just want Albus to be happy, I don’t want him to be like me or his brother.”

Hermione abruptly stands up, popping another toffee chunk in her mouth. "I need to finish up in the lab. You, Harry, need to get a proper meal and some rest. And, well, hopefully a shower soon. Continue your work in the morning and go back home to Ginny, try to enjoy the silence before it evaporates." She eyes the heaps of scrolls on Harry's desk and taps at it. "All in time, the pieces click together but you must look at it from a different angle. If you need a fresh pair of eyes, send me a note." With that, she walks briskly away, carrying a few extra pieces of toffee in hand.
Harry smiles, standing and stretching languidly. His back aches from sitting so long. It's very quiet now, in the office. Maybe he will come home to his lovely wife, and fall asleep for longer than an hour.

☆☆☆

Hermione comes back to her workstation deep underground, which is in complete pandemonium. Vials of a variety of serums litter a shelf, books of all different varieties are shoved haphazardly on a careening bookcase. The desk, however, is relatively orderly; a stack of parchment sits in a neat pile and the glass ink well beside it is empty. 

Hermione lays a hand on the parchment, breathing in deep and letting out a long breath. She was finished. For four years, she researched and she tested and she failed and she had to start anew but now, it was all okay.
Hermione glances down at her left arm, the familiar white slashes of letters shakily spelling out:
MUDBLOOD.

Who would have thought that this scar would be the key to perfecting a spell that allows the magical transfer between two beings— a discovery of the century. 

The months after the war had ended, Hermione finally had the time to get used to the new scar on herself. The slur permanently etched in a scar, a mocking reminder of her status in the magical world. She used to think idly about getting a tattoo to cover it up; a watercolor of flowers, a literary quote she liked, anything to cover up what was history. But, in the end, it was her scar. It was a reminder of what she had faced and won. If Harry could proudly wear his lightning bolt as a permanent reminder of his parents’ sacrifice, then she could, too. So that was that. She forgot about it. She fell in love, became an adult, and had kids. 

Often her scar would send vicious waves of pain through her, but they were brief and manageable. Hermione went to healers a few times, sure, but their prognosis was always that her scar was nothing more than a few deep, ugly scratches.

Hermione wished she could have seen their faces when she discovered for herself, late one night about two years ago, that her scar was actually a complex curse, masquerading as a simple superficial slur. She had to hand it to Bellatrix Lestrange— she knew how to make a girl suffer for the long hall. The curse was designed to pool magic away from her, to keep it locked along the letters in her arm, almost like a blood clot formed in response to an injury. 

She would be left weaker and have permanent searing pain, but after carefully studying a myriad of complex diagnostic spells, Hermione was sure she'd be fine in the long run.

The curse was weak, seemingly unfinished. Hermione shivered to think of what could have been accomplished if only Bellatrix had more time. She was a horrendously creative witch with dark magic; she could have left her permanently disfigured, could have disintegrated her arms into a pile of ash, could have killed her. But Bellatrix didn't. The only thing she had accomplished was giving her this scar and, incidentally, an incredible idea.

If this curse could pool magic away from the user, who's to say it couldn't be modified to siphon it completely, to drain it away from the host's body and propel it somewhere else entirely?

It took Hermione two long, drawn out years to craft a spell that would make it possible. It took countless, draining nights held up in her study, rereading high-level Unspeakable documents just for her theories to be disproven time and time again. Still, she persisted. She worked so much that her coworkers, the ones not involved in the project, were a bit disturbed by her behavior, only ever seeing her big hair bounce past while she slurped down coffee, a bundle of aged manuscripts in her arms. 

Everything will be okay now that she is finished. She and her team will be known worldwide for her contributions to magical theory, a nice plus, but first, Hermione has to have a very important talk with Rose. The ritual, if Rose agreed (which Hermione instinctively knew she would without much debate), had already been scheduled for the early summer so Rose could heal and adapt before school began in the autumn. Hermione would do anything for her daughter's happiness, even if that means going against Ron's wishes in the pursuit of excellence.

Really, she's sorry that he'll never understand.

☆ First Day of Summer ☆

Rose pushes open the heavy front doors as people stream past her. She closes her eyes and enjoys the sun warming her face for a moment, taking in a deep, fortifying breath. Another year of school has come to an end. 

The grassy field beyond the school's entrance is buzzing with energy, rowdy teens celebrating the beginning of summer by weeping, passing around phone numbers, and throwing papers into the air. Rose smiles at all the commotion, glancing down again at her final year reports: all As, of course. She’s proud of herself, mostly because it didn't come easy. A lot of late nights spent in the quiet of the school's library, days bleeding into each other as Rose revised in an anxious world-wind. Some of these heavy study sessions would leave her in a tired, weepy heap, worried sick as she stressed over her final examinations and practicals, but it was all worth it. Rose wondered sometimes if Hogwarts was this tough, or if learning magic was easier and more intuitive than advanced calculus. 

Even with how stressed she was during the year, Rose was very grateful for the distraction her Welsh private school gave her, it being respite from everything magical. It was nice to have her mundane classmates know her as ‘Rose, the swotty ginger,’ rather than ‘Rose Granger-Weasley, the squib.’ She didn’t feel at home, exactly, in this painfully posh boarding school, but she felt more like herself. She could forget some of her insurmountable shortcomings here, her deficits, whereas at home there would always be painful reminders. 

Her stomach twists painfully at the thought of home— Al, always one to keep his word, wrote very frequently to her and his last letter informed her of something she had been unconsciously dreading the whole year. Scorpius Malfoy, the terrifically rich pureblood with the great cheekbones, would be spending the whole summer in England. 

Usually he was whisked off all over Europe with his family, but with his mum’s degenerative magical illness leaving her suddenly bedbound, his father had decided to keep everyone home and aid his wife at their beautiful manor. Scorpius's mother's prognosis, Al had mentioned in his letter, was grim, and Rose was struck with sadness for Scorpius, which made her feel guilty for dreading the upcoming summer in which she would have to share Al with him. 

She had to continually remind herself that no, the world did not revolve around her and her problems, even if it felt that way. She was determined to enjoy the summer— Al had vouched for Scorpius on numerous occasions and Rose wasn't about to let some rumors and family history color her perceptions against another person. She'd give him a shot, even though his surname, Malfoy, carried quite a lot of weight in the Granger-Weasley household, especially after all the stories her father had told her about their time together in Hogwarts…

Rose clears her head and walks into the sunshine. No more dwelling on her problems or her future for these three months, she decides. Even if Scorpius is a complete and utter tosser in every way, she won’t let it ruin her whole summer— maybe only a quarter of it, but that’s it, she decides. 

Chapter Text

Something is going on and Rose can feel it, like how the scent of rain often comes before it starts. 

It begins as Rose sits on the swept brick steps of her private school, chatting aimlessly with a few acquaintances as the late afternoon sun glows through the thick tree line. It’s the last day of the school year and Rose feels more relaxed than she had in months. Through the boisterous clambering of students on the lawn, Rose spots a familiar cherry red sedan driving the school’s winding road in the distance. Rose grins, wishes the students surrounding her a happy summer, and walks towards the pickup lane. 

Her dad is already outside, leaning on the family’s sedan and twirling his keys absentmindedly. Once he finally spots her, his tired face breaks into a smile and he gathers her into a hug, squeezing tight. “Rosie! Another year down for the records. Let me get a good look at the Honors students.” He theatrically squints, moving her face every odd angle before Rose giggles and swats him away. 

“Alright, alright, who's ready for the worst fish and chips in Wales?” 

“I was born ready.” 

Ron ruffles her fiery auburn hair. 

Once Ron heaves Rose’s worn suitcase into the sedan’s tiny boot, they set out on the winding country road with the windows down, a cool breeze rushing in. An old The Clash album strums in the background and Rose watches the rush of the landscape whizz by her, pushing her splayed hand against the endless wind. They sit in companionable silence. After a quiet hour-long drive, Ron steers off the road into the tall grass, both of them bumping and tousling in their seats from the difficult terrain. 

“Thank Merlin it’s never rained out here when I’ve come to pick you up from your school— I’d just leave the car in the mud if it did.”

“Dad, you say that every year. Do you ever think of anything new to say?”

“No, never. Besides, I’m a sucker for traditions.” 

Rose just rolls her eyes and smiles. 

Finally, the two of them come upon a dilapidated little shack. The tiny sedan gives a low groan and rumbles to a park. Ron and Rose stretch their legs, squinting in the bright afternoon sun. 

“It always looks a bit rougher each year, doesn’t it?” Rose says, glancing around. 

“Seems like it. Now I don’t want to hear any stories about you and your school gang coming to rough it up even more, yeah?” 

Rose rolls her eyes, following her dad as they trudge up to the entrance. “Yeah, you have no idea what I got up to at school, dad, with all my honor-student accomplices. Drugs I can’t even pronounce.” 

Ron winces. “Y’know, that doesn’t narrow it down for me. The words those people come up with for their medicines, you wonder how anyone is healed.” 

Rose frowns. “Those people,” her dad meant, being muggles. Or really, her people. She feels a pang of loneliness but brushes it away immediately, intent on having another nice last-day-of-private-school evening with her magical, jokey father. 

With a flourish, Ron pulls out his dark willow wand and taps at the entrance five times in a complicated little pattern. 

“Ready?” 

“How many times do I have to tell you that I was specifically born for this exact moment?” 

Ron smiles down at her and, without further ado, they push open the shack door together. The first step into a magical environment is always overwhelming for Rose after only a few months of being completely deprived, like a rush of heavy perfume on a passing stranger. 

While any wandering muggle would see a tiny “shack” on the confines of the Welsh woods, every person with a bit of magic in their blood could simply feel the wizarding pub’s welcoming and warm atmosphere through the tree line. Tiny sprouts of magical civilization were common in overwhelmingly muggle territories, a respite for any wary witch or wizard looking for a quick drink, nap, or floo travel amongst their own people. The pub itself is beautiful, with gleaming floors and ornate, flourishing wood details on every available surface. A fireplace roars in the hearth on the far wall and the chattering of a dozen or so people fills the air. It’s happy hour, like it is every year Ron and Rose make their way together on the first official day of summer vacation. 

They sit at the bar together and the same barkeep, a rather big witch with lovely dark hair, greets them and takes their lunch order, which is the same as last year: an order of greasy fish and chips “only for the tradition rather than the taste” and a pretty decent hunter’s pie “better than mum’s but much worse than Grandma’s,” they both agree. Once the food arrives rather uncomfortably quick, Ron and Rose chow down on the halves of each dish.

They talk about the year they’ve had and Rose, the bright girl that she is, can immediately sense a tension within her dad every time she mentions her mum. It’s the way he struggles to swallow a bite of food after Rose asks about her mum and the quick backtracking of subjects that always leads away from her. Rose doesn't comment on it but she feels uncomfortable, mostly because she cannot remember a time when her parents, especially her father, acted in such a way. Of course, her parents argued, quite dramatically in her opinion, but it always ended in eventual resolution— it was never left to simmer. 

Rose still feels troubled as her father settles the bill. She watches out the large window that doesn’t exist from the outside of the shack as her father, waving his wand in an intricate pattern, shrinks the cherry red sedan into the size of a matchbox in an instant. The casual display of such complex magic still makes Rose’s mind alight with scientific applications and childlike wonder. 

Ron casually pockets the now toy-sized sedan and jogs back into the pub. 

“Alright, love?” 

Rose nods and smiles, hopping off the bar stool and together they make their way to the fireplace. Since Rose is a Squib and cannot operate a floo network safely by herself, she must firmly hold onto her father’s hand as any accidental movement could prove deadly to her. A witch making the same mistake, meanwhile, would simply be a funny story, whose only real danger is being sent to a wildly wrong address. Rose squeezes her eyes shut and braces for the terrifically unpleasant feeling of magical travel. 

Once Rose opens her watering eyes, she’s standing in her cozy living room. She coughs up a bit of ash and Ron bumps her back. Hugo, a bright-eyed boy in ripped blue jeans, comes barreling in to talk up a storm, practically bursting to tell Rose all about his first year at Hogwarts. While Rose absently nods along while her father laughs with Hugo on their squishy couch, she still feels a bit strange. She glances around the living room and is surprised to see how tidy it is.

Her mum, during the days when she worked at home (which was often), would usually leave behind a steady stream of stained teacups and sticky notes in her wake as she maneuvered from one room to the next in a research-induced haze. But everything in the house seemed fine. The usual clutter, sure, but there were no leftover papers, no dog-ear textbooks, and significantly, no real sign of her mum.

“Dad, where is mum?” Rose finally asks. Hugo trails off, too, seeing as how Ron had been the only one to pick him up that morning from the Hogwarts Express.

Ron sighs heavily but puts on a smile, ruffling Hugo’s hair. “Mum is out doing some errands with Auntie Ginny and she’ll be back in a bit. Hey, Hugo, go get your broom and get ready to go to Granny’s house, I want to see if they’re still teaching flying right back at Hogwarts.” 

At this Hugo jumps up from the couch with an ecstatic “Hell yeah! ” and jogs off towards the staircase to his bedroom. 

“Oi, language!” But Ron chuckles once they hear a faint “Sorry, dad!” resound from somewhere upstairs. Ron turns to his daughter and gives a tired smile. “Let’s go fix the car.” 

Wordlessly, they walk to the garage. A chaotic jumble of old toys, tools, and other nick-nacks are scattered about the dirty concrete but a clear space remains for the sedan. Ron fiddles with the family car in his hand, staring at it rather than at Rose. 

“Love, I’m going to be honest with you since I know that you’re old enough to understand. Your mum is at Aunt Ginny’s, but she’s been staying there for a while now, not just for some errands.” Rose is momentarily confused but understanding soon clicks, the weight of her father’s words making her heart sink unpleasantly. 

“Oh…”

“Yeah…” Ron scratches his neck absentmindedly. “But it’s nothing for you to worry about. Your mum and I will figure it out together soon, we always do.”

“Yeah, of course… But, why? What’s making you guys fight?”

Ron smiles sadly at Rose. “Sometimes your mum can go overboard with her work, she can get too… passionate for causes she thinks are important. She’s been extremely busy with an Unspeakable project this last year and she’s been…worrying me about it.” Seeing Rose’s face scrunched up in question, Ron continues unimpeded, waving his hand. “No idea what this project is about, mind. All I know is that she isn’t taking proper care of herself since she’s received it. That’s all there is to it and all there is to tell you.” 

With a casual finality, Ron bends down and places the sedan carefully onto the floor. With careful flicks of his wand, the sedan is transformed into its proper size within the blink of an eye. 

“Right! Now you are to march right to your room and unpack, young lady.” With mock authoritarian anger, Ron points dramatically to the garage door. Rose laughs despite the melancholic mood and turns towards the door. 

“And Rosie?” 

Rose turns to face her father, who looks uncharacteristically serious. 

“I just wanted to say, again, how proud I am of you. I thank Merlin everyday that I have you as a daughter.”

Rose smiles. “Thanks, dad.”

“All true, kiddo. Now march!”

Rose is still puzzling over her parents but doesn't have much time to think about it when she gets to her room; the family owl, Archimedes, is hurriedly tapping against the glass of her window. She sets down her heavy suitcase and unlocks the latch on her window. Archimedes swoops in and gives her a smattering of frustrated bites before dropping a scrap of paper into her hands. 

It reads in a messy scrawl, 

"Keep the window open, will you?

- Al "  

Before Rose can look up, a spew of multi-colored lights sparkle from the window, momentarily dazzling her. When she opens her eyes, a blue balloon is gently floating towards her, a glossy brown bottle tied at its end. She takes it, the ice cold bottle lighter than air— a clearly well executed feather light charm. Rose grins as the door to her bedroom bangs open and Al bursts in, holding a frosted bottle of Butterbeer himself.  

"Cheers! Happy summer. I nearly blinded myself multiple times while learning that firework spell this year so you better be grateful."

Rose clicks off the cap of her drink and watches as it froths and fizzes, pleased. 

"Thanks. To another year behind us!" They click their glasses together and each take a long swig. Al drops onto her desk chair and swivels casually around, staring out the window at the darkening dusk of the day. After a few moments, Rose speaks. 

"Nice sparks. It's always strange to see such theatrical magic after so many months with it gone completely." 

"Ah, I had something better planned, but there were a few muggles around. So, how was Wales?" 

"Pretty boring. You basically got the whole of it from the letters. A lot of studying. How did your O.W.L.S go?" 

Al visibly pales. "I don't even want to think about it. I would have much rather sat your maths exam, to be honest."

Rose snorts into her butterbeer. "That tells me all I need to know. But really, you shouldn't be so worried. This bottle—" she waves it "—feels like air. Your charm work is fine. Magic is mostly about confidence… or so the textbooks tell me.”

"Shame I seem to have misplaced mine." Al says dryly. "Anyways, I know I told you about Scorpius staying in London for the summer…" Al stops for a moment, seemingly collecting his thoughts. "But well, I suppose I was a little vague about the whole reason for it… That murder, have you heard about it?" 

Rose furrows her eyebrows, setting her empty butterbeer glass on the floor beside her bed. "What?"

Al nods, mostly to himself. "Right, how could you have known?" Al stands from the chair and fumbles with the small backpack he brought with him. He pulls out a crumbled Daily Prophet newspaper, smoothing it out as best he can on his knee before handing it to Rose. "This is an old one from a few months back. It's all anyone could talk about at Hogwarts. Nothing else has happened… yet."

Rose skims the article quickly. It reads:

SUSPICIOUS DEATH OF PUREBLOOD WIZARD UNDER INVESTIGATION

by Elise Kingston 

A body was found in the small muggle village of Shere in the early morning hours last Sunday. Twenty-five year old Hogwarts alum Sulla Rowle was found near the outskirts of London, lying near a ditch. His wand was reportedly found snapped cleanly in half, placed atop his chest. Rowle, the proprietor of a muggle bar in London, had no close ties to the magical world besides his family. 

Cause of death was announced to be a killing curse shot straight to the heart. 

Burke comes from a distinguished line of pure blood wizards, a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, a bloodline that has continued to remain untarnished for centuries. 

The Burke family has asked for privacy during these trying times. A funeral will be scheduled soon. 

This is a developing story.

"Wow…" Rose says after she finishes. "The use of a killing curse in Europe? That hasn't happened since, since…" 

"Since Voldemort, yeah." Al finishes for her, not flinching at the word choice. Her parents never said that name, even if the rather rare topic of the war came up in conversation. It was bad luck, her father said. Al slouches in the chair, fiddling with a pair of compasses at her desk absentmindedly. 

"Scorpius's dad is on the case now, he told me. He's a big shot curse breaker and they apparently need him along with my dad. Everything is hectic at the Ministry right now, all hands on deck. It's frustrating that they haven't caught the guy yet— I mean, there's not that many wizards or witches in Britain so how many suspects could there really be? A handful?" Al shakes his head, sighing. "I hope they catch the bastard."

Rose was taken aback by his language. It seems he was really trying with the ‘rebel’ act nowadays— Rose, not exactly caring much to seem cooler than she really was, didn’t want to seem overly prissy to her cousin either, so she didn't comment on it.

"Well, it makes sense that my dad has been acting strange lately. He just told me that my mum was staying at your house for a bit.”

Al looks confused. "Oh, really? I just thought they were together for errands. I think they’re out with Lil and James right now. He made it as a prefect this year, of course." Al scowls and crosses his arms. "Anyways, I sent Scorpius an owl to meet us here.”

Rose visibly pales. “W-What? Like, here? Like, right now?”

Al grins, punching his cousin in the shoulder. “Re-lax. It’s not like you haven’t met the guy before. He's, well, he's quiet. Don't take it too personally if he's a little… enigmatic. He's a great wizard though, best student at potions and arithmancy. Tested early into the class last year, the swot! Terrible at divination, though, so perfect for us." 

Rose gives a shaky smile and suddenly wishes she hadn’t left her posh school for home so soon. Too many things were being thrown at her!

"I’m telling you, divination is still more scientific than the astrology muggles preach about." 

“Reading tea leaves has never been so informative.”

They catch up for a few more minutes, laughing together as they fall into comfortable banter. Al seems ecstatic that Scorpius is staying for the summer, but also seems agitated about something else. His family or school, Rose couldn't tell. Probably a mix of both. But Rose is grateful for the reprieve from her own problems, even if her mind still wanders back to what her father had told her earlier. What was the Unspeakable project that had dad so worked up? And why did Rose get the feeling that her father had been lying to her about it?...

“Hey kids, ready to go to Grans?” Ron’s voice calls up the stairs. 

“Give us a few more minutes, we’re waiting for Scorpius!” Al shouts back. 

“He’s down here already, come down!”

Rose’s heart skips a beat in nervous dread.

Oh bullocks. 

Chapter Text

The months after the war were grueling for the Weasley family.

Ron remembers how quiet the service was for his fallen brother, Fred, and he remembers the feeling of Hermione’s dry hand clenched in his. The backyard of the Burrow after the funeral was filled with the same folks who had attended Bill’s wedding not a year prior.

Ron also remembers the night back at the Burrow after the final battle of Hogwarts. How his hands shook as he tried in vain to grasp a glass of water, sitting at the table as his whole body pulsed with pain, and glancing at the dark corner where the Weasley’s family magical grandfather clock stood— the needle with Fred’s name would forever be stuck at “Mortal Peril.”
He remembers laughing inanely when he saw it.

Everyone handles loss differently. The Weasley-clan threw themselves into work the months following the defeat of Lord Voldemort.
Ron’s mum singlehandedly kept the muggle self-help book industry afloat. His dad got quieter, maybe more reflective, and spent much of the day bent over his tools and little muggle contraptions. Ginny threw herself into the dazzling limelight of professional Quidditch whilst Percy kept to himself and his traditional family unit. Charlie went abroad soon after the war and Bill attended to his new wife, his new family, and Ron was left, like most of his childhood, feeling adrift.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to sit alone with his thoughts for very long. Just a week after the war Ron received an offer to work as an Auror for the Ministry due to his valiant ‘veteran’ status (Ron still couldn’t label himself that way without feeling strange.)
The best part of the offer was that he didn’t have to return to Hogwarts to finish up his seventh year (thankfully, since the thought of going back made his stomach churn.) Seeing Harry’s eager acceptance of his own similar offer squashed any remaining doubt and so he took the leap alongside him.

With both of their steady girlfriends’ finishing their education (Ron still couldn’t believe his luck with Hermione— Harry, confiding in him during one of their many late nights in, would say the same thing about Ginny), Ron moved in with Harry to Twelve Grimmauld Place. Together after work, through many sleepless nights and shared bottles of Firewhiskey, they made the Blacks’ ancestral home light and airy, beautifully furnished with cozy, rustic accents. Ron remembers these days very fondly, a year of repetitive labor, drunken late-night stories, and peace after the war with his best mate.

In the middle of this very year, with the Blacks home in the throes of amateur construction, Ron wakes up to a pounding knock at his door. Having fallen asleep on the stiff living room couch after a grueling Auror shift, Ron shoots up, clenching his wand as he carefully makes his way to the dark oak doors. Cold, dry air blows in as the yellow of the streetlamps cast ghoulish shadows on his older brother’s sunken face. Ron's mouth feels dry as he stares at George, having not seen him in months.
Without waiting for Ron to stumble out a greeting, George begins without preamble, hands jittering in his hoodie pockets. “Listen Ron, I need a favor.”
Ron, amazed at seeing George again, nods without any other prodding. “Whatever you need.”

George stares at Ron before he slides his wand out of his back pocket, not even giving it a glance before holding it out to Ron, handle up.

“I want you to hold on to this for me. I don’t care where you put it, I just don’t want to know where it is, alright?”

At these words, Ron feels a rush of confusion. “What do you mean, hide it for you? It’s your wand, why in Merlin would you even want me to touch it?” George gives a heavy sigh, glancing lazily up at the stars for a few moments before locking his bloodshot eyes with his brother.

“I need a break, Ron.”

Ron shakes his head, still uncomprehending.

“Listen to me, please.” George draws a hand through his messy hair, taking a deep breath, visibly shifty.
“I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I can’t even look in the mirror without—” George stops and takes another shaky breath, staring Ron in the eyes once more. “I need to just… get away from England for a while. Take a trip. I’m going to go meet Charlie in Scandinavia, help with his dragons, maybe get some perspective on things.” George sighs. “Look, I thought I’d feel better if I just kept waking up, working, taking things day by day… but it isn’t working. I’m so tired— like, a thousand-year nap couldn’t fix how tired I am. And this wand…”
He clutches the warped piece of honeyed dogwood, gazing upon it with hard, cold eyes.
“looks a whole hell of a lot like his. I just need to get away from magic, from Hogwarts, from all the reminders.” George looks back up at Ron again. “I don’t know when I’ll be back, but when I am, I’m sure I’ll be begging at your feet for my wand again so just uh, don’t snap it in half, will you?” He gives a weak, tired smile, holding out his wand to Ron again. “Just… Please.”

Ron takes a few moments before hesitantly taking the wand, continuing to stare at George. He’s much too skinny, his skin a pale swirl of reddish blotches, hair a burnt-out tuff. "George, Charlie's work is probably more dangerous than Auror work. How the hell are you gonna get by without a wand to protect yourself?" George smiles, something that almost seems unnatural to him. 

"Come on, give me a little credit. I've been practicing my wandless magic, everything I need to do I'll be able to do with my wits and hands, just like always."

Ron chuckles. "Merlin forbid. Okay well uh, what about apparition?"

"I'll just side-along with Charlie. If we get separated well, it's a risk I'm willing to take for mental clarity, something I'll greatly need out on the field. So Ronald, whaddya say?"

If this is what George needs to heal, Ron will make sure it gets done, even if he can’t understand it himself. Ron gives a small nod and offers his own smile. “Okay. Just listen, don’t disappear on us, alright? You better write to mum loads because she’s a chronic worrier. And well, I probably am, too.”

George grins and even through the bloodshot eyes and disheveled hair, Ron can see the charismatic wiseass he once was, and it gives him a painful jolt.

“Thank you, Ron. I’ll write, I promise.” He claps Ron on the shoulders and makes a turn to leave before he suddenly halts, pats around his pockets, and fishes out a large brass keychain. “Since I’m going to be prancing about Europe for a little while, the shop still needs an owner, right?” He casually tosses the keys over to Ron, who stumbles with them.

“I figure it should be you. I thought I should give them to Harry. I mean, legally I think I should but… No, it’s yours. It should stay in our blood.” George seems to stand a little straighter, a little taller, a physical manifestation of a weight taken off his shoulders.
“Keep the store open, close it for the time I’ll be gone, it’s up to you.” Ron shakes his head, an unbelieving sort of smile on his face as he watches his brother walk out under the warm glow of the streetlights.

☆☆☆

Ron decides to keep George’s wand in an old shoebox under his bed, a clever little shield charm applied to keep prying eyes away. The most precious thing in a wizard’s life, a man’s wand, entrusted to… Ron. He didn’t tell Hermione or Harry, not immediately, just because he liked the feeling it gave him to be chosen first. Ron can admit to himself that he felt a childish sort of disbelief at being the one person in his family that George went to first for help. Of course, he still worries for him. Ron receives the sporadic, brief letter, complete with photos of a smiling Charlie and George with an everchanging backdrop of beautiful countrysides, faces blackened with ash and singed hair tips.

A few months after George gave away his wand, Ron moves out of Twelve Grimmauld Place and rent out a small flat in London alongside his girlfriend Hermione, the bright-eyed Hogwarts graduate. The summer of 1999, Ron remembers wistfully, was all the time it took to convince him that she was the woman he was always meant to marry. With Hermione’s outstanding NEWT grades and colorful history, she could have any pick of careers. While Ron was always supportive, he was a bit baffled by her choice to become an Unspeakable. While she animatedly discussed the finer, non-confidential, points of the job after her first week in the Ministry, Ron’s mind kept wandering back to his only time spent in the Department of Mysteries; that slick feeling of dread, noxious as gasoline, as he ran and ran…

He was nervous, and when he brought up his worry to Hermione, about the potential danger, she just smiled her sweet smile.
“I cannot imagine myself doing anything else, to tell you the truth.”
“What about politics?” Ron asks hopefully and Hermione has to laugh.
“I’m too much of a perfectionist… Really, there’s just too much to fix. But this, Ronald, this is research. There’s really no such thing as right answers—” she takes a dainty sip of her tea as they sit conspiratorially-close at their cramped dining table, her dark eyes bright as she smiles at him. “I’m merely looking for results, moot or not”

☆☆☆

Hermione and Ron’s marriage is idyllic. It’s what Ron always imagined what marriage ought to look like as a child— not like his parents exactly or even in the handful of fiction books he’s managed to read— but something of his own, of their own. It wasn’t always peaceful outside their marriage, though. Two years after their wedding, Ron was hit with a terrifically powerful diffendo out in the field, his protego lighting up a millisecond too late.
He gaped like an asphyxiating fish as he bled out on the pavement, clutching his wet abdomen as his vision blurred. He remembers clutching his wand, his words slurred, twitching as he tried desperately to apparate to safety. After his seventh attempt at apparition, he succeeded, appearing in the place he so desperately had his mind on as he slowly bled out— his living room, where he knew his love would be, reading a book so thick that had hurt so much when she dropped it upon his head in horrified shock.
Later, when he was recuperating at Saint Mungo's, Harry would repeatedly chastise him for picking the absolute worst mode of transportation when in such a dire condition, especially when a quick accio could have reunited him with his protean-charmed coin that he had lost in the scuffle. Ron, high on life and opioid-like potions, would just give a dreamy smile and shrug.
“The most logical option for me will always be to go to Hermione, mate, I don’t know what to tell ya.”

After that, it didn’t seem very appealing to be an Auror. With Hermione and his children, Ron didn’t feel the pressure of his youth to go along with what the world wanted to see him accomplish— he had already struck gold. So he gave in his notice and focused fully on George's shop, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, something he hadn’t really touched since George had given him the key all those years ago. It wasn’t glamorous or exciting work, especially compared to his young adult life of Auror work, but it was enough for him.
Of course, the press found it to be about the dullest, if at-least-a-bit heartwarming thing he could do at that very moment, but Ron found he didn’t particularly mind. He didn’t feel the need to always have the weight of the world on his shoulders like Harry and Hermione did. When George eventually came back to Britain after two years abroad, complete with a beautiful Muggle girlfriend, an intricate network of tattoos on the majority of his flesh, and a million stories to tell, he gave Ron the shop without a second moment of hesitation.

☆☆☆

With Hermione and Rosie and Hugo, Ron felt utterly complete. When Rose’s prognosis came, that didn’t change, not for a second. She was still his daughter and nothing could change that. Only when Hermione became adamant that she could find a cure, that she could “fix” this ailment, this cripple Rose had, Ron felt his world tilt. Ron had always thought, assumed, that Hermione would always have the same perspective as his when it came to their daughter— that Rose did not have a sickness, or a fault in her wiring; that she is as perfect as perfect can get. Healthy, kind, and so smart that Ron could only watch in baffled amazement as she soldered wires and tinkered with microchips alongside his father.

Ron felt a keen betrayal when Hermione told him about her plan, an experiment to fix this non-existent biological shortcoming of Rose through unregulated Unspeakable magic. He also felt fear, a worry so sharp and intense it made his eyes water. So he did something Ron never thought he’d have to do; he placed a new ward on their home against Hermione and drove Rosie back home for the summer, giving a stupid excuse as to why Hermione was gone.
After that, Ron didn’t know what to do. He was backed into a corner; he never thought he’d ever see the day where he needed to protect Rose from her own mother.

So he did what George had done to him; showed up unannounced at his doorstep the night before summer’s beginning, red-eyed and slouched with a problem that felt as painful as a slicing curse to his gut. George lived in a cozy flat with his longtime girlfriend, Angelina Johnson, who Ron had always liked. It was surprising when they had gotten together but George admitted that after the years of being a vagabond bachelor and traveling the world, he had the growing need to move on to something more steady, maybe even more familiar. Their cozy flat was decorated with travel (and of course, Quidditch) paraphernalia from every corner of the world and Ron glanced at all the colors while he sipped a milk-laden coffee in the kitchen whilst George washed the dishes. His lean, muscular arms were decorated with tattoos, some even made through scarification, and his hair was cut shorter, sharper than when he was a teenager.

“Alright, little brother.” George said, drying his hands on a ratty kitchen towel as he leans against the sink. “Talk.”

Ron sighs, rubbing his eyes tiredly with his hand. “It’s about Hermione.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” George moves over to the kitchen table, taking a seat next to Ron. Ron begins to talk rapidly, spilling all of his frustrations and fears. George sits quiet for a moment, almost remunerative as he traces scars on the wood grain.

“If I’m being completely honest, Ron, I never really saw you and Hermione staying together that long after the war.” This momentarily stuns Ron and he’s about to argue with him but George plows on.

“But obviously, I really wasn’t much for focusing on anyone else’s problems during that time, so I didn’t care to discuss it.” He sighs. “Hermione has a lot of determination. She sees a problem, she focuses her whole being on fixing it.” George becomes indignant, raising his voice. “And you know what I think about Rosie— she doesn’t have a problem and to hell with everyone who says that she does. Magic doesn’t mean shit. You can’t just magic love into existence, can’t create a family with it, can't cure death. Really, I thought out of everyone Hermione would be more progressive.” George shakes his head and stands up abruptly, walking over to the bright window to look out into the London skyline. “Magic, at the end of the day, gives us just another reason to kill each other.” George turns and faces Ron. "We fought like hell in that war together, all of us… You talk to her one last time and if she refuses to listen to you, you tell Shacklebolt.” Ron’s face visibly pales but George continues. “It’s just… unnatural, a spell like this. Giving away magic like it’s candy, or even being able to take it away from someone completely… ‘Magic is Might,’ huh, Ron?”

Ron leaves the flat with a heavy heart. He needs to speak to Hermione, to talk sense into her. And if she can’t see reason, then someone else will force her to. Ron tiredly rubs his eyes, feeling his heart ache with each step. Hermione, his love, will never forgive him.

☆☆☆

Rose nervously twines her fingers through her curly auburn hair, trying in vain to smooth out the many tangles at the back of her neck.
It was another tradition the Weasley clan had fallen into years before; a big feast at the Burrow with the whole family on the first official day of summer, a gathering full of laughter, expensive broomsticks, and nostalgic homecooked meals. This time, however, there will be a pale blond head sticking out from the sea of fiery red heads and muted brunettes— Scorpius Malfoy. Rose wasn't exactly sure why she felt so nervous, she had met him before, but she supposed that her prior interactions with him had never been very... extended.

“A Squib and a Malfoy walk into a bar… what will the punchline be?” Rose mumbles to herself as she washes her hands, staring into her worried light brown eyes.

As Rose walks out of the bathroom she’s surprised to find Al waiting for her as he leans against the opposing wall and she feels a bit embarrassed. “Oh come on, you didn’t have to wait for me.” She hisses. Al just rolls his eyes, already making his way down the staircase. Rose scrambles to go down alongside him. “I hope I live to see the day when I’m appreciated” he mutters as he hops down and Rose scoffs.

When they make it to the living room, Rose finds Ron eyeing Scorpius suspiciously as he stands with perfect posture by the door, a rather bored expression plain on his face.
He wears a thin, fashionable jacket overtop a basic button-down shirt, jeans, and clean trainers. Rose is a little shocked to see him dressed so “muggleish” but she supposes everyone has to acclimate to the majority eventually.

His face splits into a grin as he spots Al and they do a complicated little handshake and slap each other's backs. “Alright, Scorpius?”

Rose rather awkwardly makes her way to them as they’re already deep in chatting. Scorpius, raised to always be courteously polite to most everyone, steps away and nods at Rose rather formally.
“Rose.”
“Scorpius, it’s uh, nice to see you again.” Rose says, rather breathlessly.
Scorpius’s mouth quirks up in a charming smile. “Likewise.”
Ron, sensing impending doom, ends this discussion immediately. “Alright kids, ready?”
With that, they all disappear one at a time into the green flames of the fireplace.

Chapter Text

Rose and her father are the last to tumble out of the fireplace and into the delightfully cozy living room of her grandparents. Rose makes a rather undignified exit, stumbling as she staggers onto the plush carpet; she just catches the amused smirk Scorpius sends her way before standing tall and leveling her own practiced side-eye, dusting imaginary black soot off her coat just so she had something to do with her hands. 

Just then, Molly Weasley bustles out of the kitchen, wiping her hands off of her starch apron. 

“Oh my, my grandchildren exist! You could have fooled me, Ronald, with how much you hide them away.” She swoops in like a mother hen, pecking at Hugo first (much to his childish embarrassment) before enveloping Rose in a big hug that smells of sugared dough and mint tea. 

“You look more like Hermione every year, love.” her grandmother says when part, breathing in every detail of Rose’s abashed, smiling face. Her grandmother moves down the line, giving a similarly loving hug to Al (“Will you ever learn to tuck in your shirt, Albus?” “No ma’am, it’s a part of my charm” and they all chuckle at Molly’s exhausted tsk.”) 

What should have been an awkward reintroduction to Draco’s son was stifled by Molly’s inconceivable warmth and maternal care. 

“Hullo dear, I’m happy that you’re able to stay for the summer. How is your mother doing?” 

“She’s doing okay, better without having to worry about any travel. The healers are… optimistic.” Scorpius says simply and Molly gently places her outstretched hands on his shoulders, smiling sadly.

“I’m glad. You’re always welcomed here if you need anything.” 

Arthur, the good-natured eccentric, bustles in and another similar rush of greetings ensue. Eventually the party is ushered into the compact kitchen where Hermione and Ginny sit chatting, both sipping at tea housed in eclectic mugs. Rose hadn’t seen her mother all day but before she could fully greet her amid the cacophonous sounds of Weasley-chatter, James, George, and Teddy Lupin walk in from the backyard, all looking wind-swept and in great spirits.

Al, Scorpius, and Hugo immediately rush towards Teddy and George and engage in an animated discussion. Teddy Lupin, a twenty-two year old Auror-in-training, is about as cool as cool can get to two teenaged boys: dark blue hair in a messy flip, modest gauges in both ears, and an effortless confidence that comes from a complicated childhood. George, with all his tattoos and stories abroad, is also very popular among the youngest in the family but James, Al’s eldest brother, seems a little sidelined as he nods along with the conversation. It was no secret that Al and his brother weren’t close, having inherited a strained relationship seemingly at birth; Al, always being compared in disappointment and ridicule to either his father, his brother, and even his thirteen-year old sister occasionally at Hogwarts, carried a resentment that grew every time his brother succeeded at something, which was infuriatingly often. While this is an unfair way to look at a family member’s success, Rose knows, the handsome James Sirius Potter really did not help matters with his insatiable ego. Even now, while being snuffed by both Al and Scorpius, the seventeen-year old seemingly didn’t have a care to be included in the conversation anyways, leaning back and shooting a smile to Rose, which she hesitantly reciprocates with a little wave of her own. Apparently (according to Al’s letters) responsible Prefect James made life at Hogwarts for Al and Scorpius much harder using more illicit means than just being perfect all the time so, showing loyalty that proved her inner-Gryffindor, Rose is determined not to ever be buddy-buddy with him. 

Rose instead focuses her attention on Lily Luna Potter, who is tugging at her jacket sleeve with growing ferocity as the adults bustle forward with conversations and calls for tea spiced with bourbon. Lily is a very pretty girl, with silky-straight fiery red hair and porcelain skin that Rose definitely did not have when she was thirteen herself. While Lily was a close friend to Rose, their relationship definitely flourished when only exposed to each other through brief spots of contact. Lily, in Rose’s opinion, could be a bit absent-minded and boy-crazy while Rose, in Lily’s opinion, could be a bit of a prude and pretentious. Still, they both had an intense love of fantasy books that they could always default to when in need for a good conversation. 

“So, you finally pick up Percy Jackson like I told you to?”

 “Oh no, it sounds kind of boring. Plus, it’s way below my reading level.” Lily rolls her eyes at this.

“You have to read it, Nico di Angelo basically established my whole type when it comes to boys.” Rose, in turn, rolls her own eyes at this. 

After giving each other their best side-eye they both laugh and hug tightly. “Missed ya at Hogwarts, nerd, it’s good to be back at home.”

After a world-wind of conversations with her extended family, the reunion eventually moves into the phase which Rose always dreads: Quidditch. With so much Quidditch talent housed in one peculiar family, it wouldn’t make sense for the night to not devolve into a glorified Quidditch practice session. Thankfully her Uncle Harry wasn’t present (too much work at the Ministry to sneak away, according to Aunt Ginny), or else it would’ve been much more rambunctious. 

So Al and Rose, the resident Quidditch haters/fun police, shuffled their way out into the cool night air to begrudgingly watch a game of Quidditch, much like prisoners of war. 

Scorpius, while not a Quidditch prodigy, had quite a bit of practice with a broomstick in his privileged childhood and Al, sensing an opportunity to best his brother (if indirectly), muttered strategy with him as he readied to face James head-on. Rose, already comfy in the grass, commands a magical chess set, readying her own annual battle with Al. She watches as Lily, Hugo, Ginny, James, and Teddy talk shop out in the field, broomsticks tall at their sides. Balls of enchanted light glow like enlarged fireflies in the air above the field, making a clear view for both players and viewers alike. 

Rose sighs, briefly enjoying a warm breeze that plays on her face: I wonder what this breeze feels like when you’re going so fast, she thinks wistfully. 

“Hey uh, Rose?” She opens her eyes and smiles at Al jogging up to her. 

“Hey, man. Ready to lose again this year?”

“Actually, I think this year I’m gonna play with everyone else, since Scorpius is here and everything, it’ll just be a lot more fun. Plus, I think a victory against James would actually make my whole summer and with Hyperion here—” Scorpius rolls his eyes and juts in, “I’m surprised you know how to pronounce that word.” Al continues, pretending not to hear. “— we actually might have a fighting chance.”

Rose gives a smile, nodding. “No, yeah, go ahead. I’ll be your groupie.” 

Scorpius looks at Al with blank confusion. Rose, noticing this and not wanting to sound too muggle-ish, quickly says, “Uh, your cheering section. Anyways, go! You’re missing valuable pep talks down there.” 

With Rose’s blessing, Al and Scorpius jog down to meet their small Quidditch team, leaving Rose situated on the grass, her chess set pieces playing amongst themselves regardless of human input. Rose, feeling melancholy, hugs her knees close to her chest and watches as her family soars into the air. Thankfully, Rose doesn’t have to sit with her lonely thoughts for very long.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Rose glances up to see her mother, holding two steaming mugs. Hermione carefully sits beside her daughter in the grass, handing her the warm mug. Rose takes a sip and finds that it’s hot cocoa, resplendent with dry mini-mallows. 

“Funny choice for the beginning of summer.” Rose comments after a few minutes of watching the Quidditch game progress. 

“It’s odd, I always crave hot chocolate at the Burrow. It’s borderline Pavlovian, I see three gingers in the same room and need a cocoa fix like an addict.” They giggle together. “How was your school year?”

“Mum, you already know everything there is to know. Seriously, I can’t believe I gathered enough to tell you for a weekly phone call as is, I practically spent the year in the library.”

Hermione flashes her daughter a smile. “Goodness, that sounds familiar. I hope you found time for your friends, too, they help you keep your sanity during exam season… well, sometimes.”

“Sure, at meals.” 

Hermione turns her head back towards the game, keen eyes tracking a pale blonde blur swooping elegantly through the air.

“How do you like Scorpius? Do you two get along?”

“I mean, yeah, I suppose so. I haven’t really spoken with him one-on-one, ever.” Rose glances at her mother. “I’m a bit intimidated by him.”

Hermione nods. “That’s understandable.”

Rose, sensing an impending lecture, quickly adds, “And yes, I won’t take him talking down to me or anything like that, I know my worth, yada yada.” 

Hermione smiles, tucking a piece of hair behind Rose’s ear. “I have no doubts about that.” Hermione’s face grows serious. “Rose, I have some very important news to tell regarding your future so I want you to come find me after you’re finished here. I’ll floo you back home once we’re done discussing.” 

Rose turns sharply towards her mother, intense questions already forming in her mind. “My future? You mean college applications and the like?”

“Well, I suppose they’re related. It’s nothing bad, it’s more like a very exciting opportunity. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“Does it have to do with your work?”

“Yes.”

“Does dad know?”

“... Yes.”

“Um, alright. I’ll come find you.”

Hermione pats Rose’s knee and stands, pulling their now-empty mug towards her. 

“Whenever you’re ready.” With that, Hermione ambles back towards the warm glow of the Burrow, her sensible heels catching slightly in the long grass. Even though Rose’s eyes focus back onto the game, her mind is distracted. 

☆ ☆ ☆

The kitchen is quiet, the warm glow of magical firelight rather dim as the night reaches its darkest point. The faraway squabbles and yells of the children playing a rough game of Quidditch is faint here; Hermione focuses on the droning drip of water from the tap instead, her hands gripping the porcelain sink as she stares out the tiny square window, dressed in the frilly curtains she remembers from her childhood visits to the Burrow. Her eyes feel rather scratchy. 

“Hermione.” A deep voice resounds from the kitchen’s entrance. She turns, her posture straight. 

“Ronald.”

Despite her cold exterior, Hermione’s heart aches as the sight of her husband— she had missed him terribly during the long nights away at both her Unspeakable office and Ginny’s home. For a few long moments neither spoke. Ron breaks the silence.

“I can’t keep you away from Rose forever.”

“No, you can’t.” Hermione quietly agrees. 

“I’m asking you again…” Ron takes a breath and closes his eyes, almost like he’s in pain. “To reconsider. You can’t go through with it, with our daughter. She’s almost an adult, Hermione, and she’s already her own person.”

“Yes.” Hermione says simply, which greatly irritates Ron.

“Which is why she doesn’t need a damn operation to make her magical! She has some of the best marks in her muggle school, she has friends, she has her whole family by her side— actually, everyone is by her side except you, Hermione! The press has accepted her more than you have her whole life and I, Merlin, feel so sick about that. How… how can you keep pursuing this?”

Hermione sighs deeply. “After everything we’ve been through, I cannot imagine letting her go out into this world without magic to protect herself. If you had seen the magic I’ve seen at my work, Ron— rituals infinitely more brutal than a simple flaying curse, more unethical than the Cruciatus curse— you would understand.” She says simply, almost noncommittedly.

. 

“What?!” Ron could almost laugh at the gull of that argument. “Yes, the world is dangerous Hermione, I’m aware! So what the hell, give my little girl a plastic wand and march her out there to face Hogwarts as an incoming Sixth year, one-of-the-kind artificial witch! I’m sure that’ll go just great for her, not give her anymore complexes to wrestle with as she plows through endless sleepless nights trying to catch up to the ruthless brats of her year that’ll make school so much harder for her” Ron’s voice raises as his anger with Hermione grows. “Look, I’m not as bookish as you, I’ll give you that, but I do know that this, no matter how many human trials you’ve done, is still an experiment. A reckless, possibly deadly experiment that could leave our daughter much, much worse off than had you just bloody pissed off!” 

Hermione slams her fist upon the table, anger overtaking her just the same. 

“Yes Ron, you’re right, I’m one of the highest ranked researchers in my field and you don’t know what you’re talking about. Why must you always imply that I’m moving forward with an ill-research experiment on our daughter? This is not an experiment anymore, Ron, and it hasn’t been for years, it is a ritual that has reached the highest echelon of board approval in my field.”

“Tell that to Shacklebolt!” Ron fires back.

“He knows.” Hermione says, quite calmly. 

“What?” Ron actually staggers back, gripping the arm of a rickety dining chair for support. 

Hermione slithers forward, dark brown eyes glinting in the low meager light. 

“He has known since the beginning. Obviously the Minister of Magic would know about a ritual of this caliber. He has given his express approval for the ritual to proceed with Rose under the utmost secure conditions. I have all the documentation to prove it if you’d like— or, you could just speak with Kingsley yourself, I can arrange the meeting.”

“Hermione, please, why are you so persistent in going along with this?”

“Ron, open your eyes and think logically for just a minute! Rose is a squib, effectively a muggle, meaning that she will live a significantly shorter life span than us! I cannot watch idly knowing that I will have to bury my own daughter when I’m old and feeble!” Hermione says this last sentence in a harsh sob, her slim shoulders shaking. 

She rushes forward and grips Ron’s shoulders, looking up at him with watery eyes

“You, as the head of the household, will throw the first firstful of dirt atop her casket.”

Ron visibly cringes and rather than shrinking away, pushes Hermione carelessly away and she roughly catches herself on the sink. Ron’s expression shakes with disgust.
“W-what happened to you, Hermione? Why are you talking like this, why are you even thinking of this?” 

“I am sick of you telling me that I am doing this carelessly, without thought, because of something as silly as what the damn press thinks of me or of my daughter! This is solely for this family, Ron, what don’t you understand?!” Hermione shrieks. 

Just then, Hugo, cheeks a vivid red from the rushing wind, makes his way into the kitchen. “Mum? Are you guys okay?” His eyes are wide, flashing between Ron and Hermione’s faces with great concern. 

Hermione turns around to face the window again as her shoulders minutely shakes. 

Ron paints on a practiced smile. “Hey kiddo, done with the Quidditch game?” 

“Yeah.” He sighs. “Our team lost.”

“Too bad, you’ll get 'em next time, hey, why don’t we see what Grandpa is doing in the garage? Let’s see if he can charm the sedan to fly.” Ron doesn’t give a backwards glance at Hermione as he shuffles Hugo out of the kitchen, which is all the best for Hermione. 

☆ ☆ ☆

“That prick is just asking for it,” Al fumes as the trio make their way back to the Burrow, Al shooting daggers at James walking up ahead, chatting alongside Teddy. The boys’ hair and clothing remain wildly unkempt from a surprisingly close game of Quidditch.

“I was right on the Snitch’s tail or wings or whatever, for like the first time in my life, and George suddenly decides that this is the day he’s not gonna be an altruistic humanitarian anymore and hits me right in the face with the damn bludger.” Al, true to his story, sports a terrific black eye. 

“HOWEVER,” Al continues, “this beautiful son of a gun, sensing his dazzling heroine needs rescuing, swoops in and BAM, knocks George sidewides with some very impressive aiming. I lost the Snitch, obviously, and well, we lost, but I gained new respect for an old friend.” Al claps Scorpius on the back rather roughly, causing him to stumble. 

“And I might have gained lasting rather than new respect if he could’ve used that fancy flying FIVE MINUTES EARLIER so I could have had a chance with the Snitch!”

Rose laughs as Scorpius dusts his jacket off with cool nonchalance, glancing at himself in the ornate hallway mirror as he smoothes down his wind-swept blond hair. (much to the delight of the magical mirror.)

“Believe me, Rose, any chance he had with the Snitch was lost the moment his ass stumbled its way onto a broomstick.” 

“Rose, if you laugh you forfeit your right as my cousin.”

“Hah! I didn’t like you much, anyways.” and Rose feels a flit of pride as Scorpius laughs alongside her. 

The teens make their way up to the guest bedroom, one of the newer extensions of the Burrow. Rose sits on the narrow bed whilst Scorpius lounges on the wooden desk chair, Al taking to pacing the tiny room, the chipped wooden floors creaking. The warm glow cast from an oil lamp creates a comfortable, conspiratorial atmosphere that Rose smiles at, having missed the simple anachronisms of the wizarding world greatly over the last year while at school. 

“Just once I’d like to win a game against the cocky bastard.” Al stops his pacing to check his now unbruised eye with Rose’s girlish compact (Molly having magically mended it while giving the boys a firm lecture), roughly prodding at it with his finger. 

“Well, if you’re not an athlete—” “Clearly,” Scorpius drawls, lazily flicking through an advanced alchemy textbook and Rose smiles, continuing. “—then you can always go the scholar route, best your brother in academics.”

“Now that,” Scorpius says, squinting at a particular page. “Would be the day.”

“Oi, shut up!” Al flops on the bed, dragging his hands down his face. “Following you into arithmancy was the worst mistake of my life. You have no idea the amount of homework they loaded us with in preparation for Sixth year.” Rose pats his arm, somewhat mockingly. 

“There, there, stop your whinging. Want me to take a look at some of the problem sets for you?”

Before Al can respond, Scorpius glances up from his book with great interest, not even trying to conceal the bemused smirk that flits across his face as he directs his attention towards Rose. “You want to help with Al’s arithmancy homework?”

Indigency burns in Rose’s chest at the slight. “Yes I do, Malfoy, it’s actually why I offered.” She says evenly. 

Al looks between them with a nervous kind of tension. He says hesitantly, “Scorpius, come on,” 

but Scorpius placatingly holds up his hands. “

I merely meant that there’s so much fun to be had elsewhere rather than sitting in a stuffy room finishing fifth year coursework for arithmancy, of all things, but please, this will be fun.” Scorpius lifts himself up and rummages around in Al’s backpack by the door, irritation growing as he riffles though the crumbled parchments. “Merlin Albus, binders cannot cost more than 50 pence.” 

Rose is rather surprised that pureblood Scorpius can casually throw around a muggle term like pence so easily but she keeps her expression neutral. 

After several minutes of fumbling, Scorpius locates the desired piece of parchment, scanning it quickly before nodding once. “Perfect.” Without any fanfare, he casually hands the parchment over to Rose before leaning back in his chair, eyeing the messy equations over her shoulder. 

“By all means.”
Rose, her eagerness to prove herself veering on desperation, quickly scans the parchment and, trying to handle the unfamiliar quill on the desk with elegance, gets to work. 

What Scorpius fails to connect with Rose is that while yes, she is a squib, that has nothing to do with her prowess with numbers, especially seeing that she is at the top of her class for mathematics at her muggle school. Math, it turns out, cannot easily be changed, regardless of the world it’s practiced in. 

Rose blows through the intermediate calculus problems with ease. Scorpius, his face morphing from mild interest to outright intrigue, whistles low as he glances at Rose with a new view of her. After only about ten minutes, Rose pushes the piece of parchment back towards Scorpius and leans forward, chin resting on her folded hands. 

Scorpius, scanning the page just as Rose did, shakes his head after a few minutes of quiet inspection. “If I have to be honest,” Something about the way Scorpius begins, fighting with the words like he’d just tasted something bitter, tells Rose that he isn’t used to being challenged (and defeated) so explicitly. At that thought, she surreptitiously hides her smile. 

“... this set would have taken me twice as long to complete. And you didn’t even need to use a slide-rule. Where do you go to school again?”

“A muggle school, of course, the name wouldn’t mean much to you.”

“I didn’t expect…” Scorpius trails off, inspecting Rose’s arched, cursive-like script. 

“Much, I know. Magical theory doesn’t take any magic at all, just someone with an ounce of critical thinking. And based on the history I know of the magical world, not a lot of wizards come readily equipped with that.” Rose says, her good humor evaporating as her annoyance with the pretentious blonde in front of her grows. 

Al eyes her and Scorpius, sensing tension as he glances between them, giving a tight chuckle. “Yeah, sad but true, can confirm— anyways Rose, about that homework…” Al makes a mad dash for the parchment but Rose intercepts him, squatting his hand away. 

“Come on, if you don’t learn how to apply the chain rule then you’ll never be ready for your N.E.W.Ts.” Rose tuts, folding the parchment into a neat square before sliding it into her back jean pockets. “I’ll go through it with you next week. Anyways, boys, it’s been fun.” Rose stands up suddenly, roughly swiping her compact back from Al. 

“Aw what, you’re leaving me with him already?” Al sighs. 

“I have something important I need to get back to. Anyways, I’ll see you later. Scorpius, a pleasure as always.” With that, Rose takes her leave, quickly moving down the rickety staircase with a practiced ease. 

So Scorpius is a prat, big deal, Rose thinks viciously, walking through the eerily quiet home. The adults were all loudly chatting outside over drinks, enjoying the wonderful weather. I expected the possibility. It hurt Rose to be talked down to like that by someone who she, which she would never willingly admit to out loud, wanted to respect her. It hurt, always seen as a Squib rather than well, a functional person. Rose sighs, clearing her mind as she walks into the deserted kitchen, seeing her mother tiredly look up from her book, snapping it shut with finality as she smiles at her.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away for long after I said the word ‘opportunity.’ Come on, let’s take a walk.”