Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Life.

Life is a marvelous mystery—one that neither wizards nor Muggles are far from unraveling. So many things happen, second by second, hour by hour, day by day, year by year, century by century… Events that, in their peculiar way, insist on proving that life is just so, that the old phrases our grandparents repeat turn out to be true, that there are indeed undeniable truths woven into everyday existence.

It is precisely by ignoring these truths that mistakes are made, and mistakes lead to regret—and when regret finally comes, nothing can be done.

That is why folk wisdom ought to be part of everyone’s general knowledge. Yet some choose ignorance, and Merlin knows how many errors can be committed because of it.

This is the unfortunate case of Ronald Weasley, who may, at some point, have wished someone had warned him about these clichés—the phrases worn thin from repetition, the words that carry so many undeniable realities of life.

Because all of Ron’s misfortunes hinge on a few simple words. For as the saying goes: “The fish dies by its mouth”. And in his case, it was no exception.

“So that’s young Scorpius. Make sure you crush him in every exam, Rosie. Thank Merlin you inherited your mother’s brains… Don’t get too friendly with him. Grandpa Weasley would never forgive you if you married a pureblood.”

Chapter Text

It happened on the first of September, 2017.

Harry Potter, his wife, and their friends were waving off their children as they left for another school year. Rose Weasley had been left thoroughly confused by her father’s parting words. She was only eleven, but she could already pride herself on being far more mature than most her age. All the same, Ron’s warning had caught her completely off guard: it wasn’t at all common for an eleven-year-old girl to be thinking of marriage or the like. Sometimes her father really didn’t make much sense.

The train had already departed. Albus was chattering beside her, visibly cheered by whatever Uncle Harry had said before they boarded. They made their way back to the compartment where they’d left their trunks—only to find someone inside. Rose looked the boy up and down and followed her cousin in. So this was Scorpius, the boy her father had warned her about.

He glanced at them briefly before turning back to the scenery outside the window. Albus shot Rose a questioning look, but she had no idea what to do; she merely shrugged and shook her head. She saw the uncertainty on her cousin’s face just as he whispered:

“Better find James—maybe he’ll let us sit with him…” He reached for his things, and that was when Rose first heard Scorpius’s voice.

“It’ll be a problem if you leave now.” He spoke slowly, weighing each word as though he might be judged for saying the wrong thing. “Every compartment is full. That’s why I’m here.”

Albus looked to Rose—as he often did—for direction. She answered simply by sitting down opposite Scorpius Malfoy, and Albus copied her. Her brown eyes studied the boy, who was still fixed on the passing countryside and—she was quite sure—would end up with motion sickness sooner rather than later.

She stared at him for several minutes, questions bubbling up that she chose not to voice, remembering her father’s words. Her analysis led her to conclude that the boy seemed calm, prudent, and, quite possibly, intelligent.

She began to wonder how easy it would be to beat him in exams, as her father had said, and why Ron had insisted on making him an enemy. The thought lasted only a moment—hardly productive, after all. Instead, she decided to lose herself in a good book. From her trunk she drew out the latest edition of Hogwarts: A History. Albus, however, was soon bombarding her with questions again.

“Rose, what House do you think you’ll be in?”

“I told you, I don’t know, Albus. It isn’t up to us—it’s the Sorting Ceremony. Maybe Gryffindor like Mum and Dad… though she says she’d be proud if I ended up in Ravenclaw.”

“Dad tried to reassure me… but that dreadful thought won’t go away! What if I’m put in Slytherin?!” Rose noticed Scorpius shoot them a quick glance, only to look away again.

“It won’t be the end of the world, Albus.” She turned a page, sneaking another look at the blond boy across from them. “All four founders were brilliant. They made Hogwarts what it is today. So it doesn’t really matter which House you’re in—the important thing is using everything Hogwarts teaches us. Which is a lot. You’d know that if you read more.”

She snapped the book shut and slid it back into her trunk, trying to ignore the two pairs of eyes now fixed on her: Albus, who shivered at how much she resembled Aunt Hermione, and Scorpius, who was clearly impressed by how fast she’d spoken.

Resolute, Rose turned to the window and let the scenery blur past, sneaking glances now and then at the silent boy who shared the compartment. She studied his profile carefully, searching for what exactly made him so repulsive to her father. But before she could discover anything, she was caught off guard by a pair of storm-grey eyes.

“What? Do I have ink on my nose or something?” His tone was nothing like before—sharp, dry, almost aggressive. Her ears flushed crimson. She turned away to seek her cousin, only to realize with some surprise that Albus was gone.

“He left a while ago,” Scorpius said in the same clipped tone, staring out the window again, chin propped on one hand in a show of boredom. “Said he wouldn’t be long.”

They looked at each other again, as though weighing one another in silence.

“You’re Scorpius Malfoy, right?” she asked, already knowing the answer. He nodded slightly.

“And you’re Rose Weasley, right?” he returned, his piercing grey eyes never leaving hers. Rose felt heat rising in her cheeks as she nodded. “My father said I shouldn’t bother with you. Don’t ask me why.”

Rose froze at the bluntness of the declaration. She had avoided thinking about that, let alone saying it aloud. She didn’t like his attitude one bit. Drawing a steadying breath, she answered:

“Well, that’s funny. Mine said the same thing. Doesn’t make much sense, though—parents never explain properly. Still… there must be a reason.”

“Sure. There must be.” His gaze held a strange mix of disdain and arrogance before he turned away once more. “My father is always right. So I’d rather we didn’t cross paths again.” His eyes flicked back to her, cold as steel. “And stop staring at me.”

Rose opened her mouth to retort, but the door slid open and Albus returned with James in tow. James cast Scorpius a wary glance before grabbing Rose’s trunk, and the cousins left without a word. Just before stepping out, Rose gave the odd boy one last look. He was still staring, absorbed, out the window.

That was her only conclusion: he was odd. A complete enigma. And she had been raised to seek knowledge, to know as much as possible. If Scorpius Malfoy was a mystery, she would solve him. Her father’s prohibition didn’t mean he had to know she was searching for real reasons to dislike the boy. Because, though she hated to admit it, her father’s words alone weren’t reason enough.

She smirked with confidence as she left the compartment. Her mind was nearly as prodigious as her mother’s, if not more so. And if she needed logical, well-founded reasons to despise Scorpius Malfoy, she would find them.

She thought of nothing else the rest of the way to school. She wanted to know him, to unravel him—if only to hate him. Because now that she’d been forbidden to go near him, she needed all the more to understand why her father had imposed such distance from someone she hadn’t even known existed until that morning.

She paid no attention to the chatter in the overcrowded compartment, nor to James gleefully tormenting Albus with the prospect of being Sorted into Slytherin. Her mind spun only with ways to achieve what she wanted—especially since what she wanted was now forbidden.

Her lips curved into a smile as she caught sight of the castle’s towering silhouette across the lake. She had seven years in that magical place. She’d find a way.

Chapter Text

Rose was far too busy holding a mental debate with the Sorting Hat to notice the puzzled looks from everyone in the Great Hall as minutes passed without the magical object giving its verdict. Some even began to wonder if it had malfunctioned.

“Another Weasley… I can see that.”

“I doubt you can see,” Rose retorted in her head, sharp and precise. “No eyes.”—truthful, accurate, rational. One could expect no less from the daughter of…

“Hermione Granger. Your mother is the girl who, many years ago, ignored my advice to be in Ravenclaw, the House of the wise and brilliant-minded. Now tell me, Rose Weasley… will you reject my offer as she did?”

Rose paused to consider. Ravenclaw was a good option, but she would be alone—her cousins were in Gryffindor, and…

“To the House of brave lions as well? You have the courage, decisiveness, and nobility for it—but nothing compares to the power of your mind, Rose. Your intelligence could take you far, and Rowena’s House would nurture that.”

Something else stood between Rose and Ravenclaw, and the Hat now knew it. After a moment’s thought, realizing she would never decide on her own, it took over. After all, that was its purpose.

“One reason to hate those who must be hated: the enduring enmity between Hogwarts Houses, unbroken for over a thousand years. Curiosity is a tool to achieve intellect, Rose Weasley, but it can also become a weapon against those who wield it excessively. I will send you where the deepest part of your heart truly wishes, for whims born of curiosity often lead to regret—and it will make cementing the necessary hatred much easier…”

“GRYFFINDOR!” bellowed the Sorting Hat. The scarlet table erupted in cheers. Rose walked slowly to the place where her cousin Albus was seated with the other first-years, while James rushed to embrace her, relief written across his face.

“Well, Rosie… you took your time,” James said, letting go of his cousin. “For a moment there I thought they’d send you to Ravenclaw… or worse: Slytherin!”

“What nonsense, James!” Albus exclaimed, giving Rose a space to sit as he moved aside to listen to the Headmistress, who was preparing her speech to conclude the Sorting Ceremony.

“Yes… what nonsense,” Rose muttered, her eyes drifting to the far end of the hall toward a blond boy preparing in silence for the upcoming address… and remembering.

“…You may think this old hat is crazy, but it’s better you look for reasons for hatred in rival Houses than your own. I’m sorry, Rose, but even if you now believe you want Slytherin, you are far from ready. By seeking the answers you want now, you risk wasting the seven years you’ll spend here. A decision so impulsive that it disqualifies you from Ravenclaw—if I may give my opinion. Such impulsiveness is worthy only of a… GRYFFINDOR!”

Sometimes Rose was so convinced she was Ron Weasley’s daughter… she sighed, utterly resigned. At least she was in Gryffindor, and her father couldn’t disinherit her. Yet, that delicate matter of marriage still lingered.

Her father could be a real fool if he set his mind to it.

She exhaled dramatically, in true Granger fashion, and tried to focus on her first Great Feast at Hogwarts.

Chapter Text

It was Wednesday, and Rose was running late for Charms. Tardiness was hardly in her nature, but after staying up half the night perfecting her essay for Professor Flitwick, she’d had no chance of waking on time. She slipped behind a tapestry, hurried down a pair of staircases, darted through every shortcut she knew—and collided head-on with the most baffling sight imaginable.

There was Malfoy, cornered by two older boys who had him pinned by the front of his robes. He no longer struggled; instead, he regarded his attackers with such scorn that it only seemed to fuel their anger. The strangest thing of all was that the boys restraining him weren’t from another House, but Slytherins themselves.

Rose wavered. Should she fetch a professor? Step in herself? She quickly dismissed the latter—two months at Hogwarts had hardly been enough time to master any proper offensive spells, even with all the extra reading she’d done. She was just about to turn back when the boys’ words caught her ear.

“My mum told me that while my granddad rotted in Azkaban for twelve years, your lot were sunning yourselves in the Greek Isles!” one shouted, giving Scorpius a rough shake.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Scorpius murmured so quietly Rose was astonished she even heard it. She realised she’d inched a little closer without noticing.

“Don’t know?” sneered the second boy. “Here’s a lesson for you, Malfoy: what your family did twenty years ago ruined plenty of lives.”

“I wasn’t alive twenty years ago, Montague,” Scorpius answered, his voice fading with each word, as if he’d no desire to keep speaking. “Though my father hinted something like this might happen.”

“And what—did he teach you a few curses to defend yourself with?” Montague shot back with biting mockery. “Bet he’s a genius at that!” Scorpius’s grey eyes burned with sudden fury, but the boy pressed on. “Your family’s filth, Malfoy! Should’ve died in the war with the rest of them!”

Scorpius dropped his gaze. His father had warned him, and clearly it wouldn’t be easy. Montague’s mate shoved him hard, sending him sprawling to the floor. Both boys raised their wands, smirking, ready to cast a Jelly-Legs Jinx in perfect unison.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Malfoy.”

“Leave him alone!”

Rose didn’t know when she’d crossed the corridor, or when her books tumbled from her arms, or when she seized one boy by the front of his robes and shoved with all her might. But the spell went wide, striking Montague instead. In the chaos, she and Scorpius bolted down the corridor, not stopping until they reached the far end, breathless and flushed.

They stared at each other, still panting, studying, weighing, measuring—each trying to decide what to say first, before they both wound up unforgivably late to Charms.

Rose wondered what had possessed her to stand up to two older boys for someone she’d spoken to only once—and someone she was supposed to hate.

Scorpius weighed the cost of being indebted to a girl he’d spoken to only once—and someone he was supposed to hate.

“Care to explain why—?” Rose finally blurted, curiosity winning out once again.

“No.”

Scorpius turned toward the classroom. Rose felt irritation rise—she had just saved him, and he was walking off without so much as a word! But before she could shout after him that he needn’t bother thanking her, his voice reached her.

“…Maybe. A long time ago, some chose the right side, like your family. Others—like mine—didn’t. And it’s up to me to pay the price for that.”

Rose opened her mouth to ask if he meant the war, but he added, still with his back to her:

“Thanks, Weasley.”

Thanks.

Well, now she had one more thing to investigate. She knew the broad strokes of the war, of course, but the details? Her parents never spoke of them—only that they were painful days, best left untouched.

She would find a way to learn more. She dashed into the classroom and slid into her seat beside Albus, cheeks burning.

She never noticed the pair of eyes that followed her across the room. Scorpius exhaled heavily, muttering, Wingardium Leviosa, watching a quill float idly above his desk. His father had told him the whole truth the very day his Hogwarts letter arrived—confessing the family’s mistakes, begging forgiveness, and warning him to be strong if the worst should come to pass.

He sighed again. His father had been right, and now, more than ever, he would need courage. He had to prove to the whole castle that he was Scorpius Malfoy, that he bore his name with pride—and that no one had the right to make him atone for the tattoos carved into his father’s and grandfather’s arms.

Chapter Text

Winter had set in. The air was colder, the corridors draughtier, and the library emptier, which meant there was no need to rush for a seat anymore. Rose tugged her scarf tighter around her neck, trying to keep her lungs from freezing as she walked the castle’s endless passageways. Dinner was still a while off, and she needed a book for the Herbology essay they’d been set over Christmas holidays.

So lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice when she bumped into someone standing by the library doors. She carried on walking until her robes jerked back—someone had grabbed her—and she turned, startled.

“Well, well, well… look who we’ve got here, Flint.”
Rose clutched her books against her chest, narrowing her eyes at the two older boys.

“If it isn’t wee Weasley,” the other sneered. “What d’you reckon we should do with her for sticking her nose in last time, Montague?”

“No idea,” Montague replied, tightening his grip as Rose tried to twist free. “How about an ice-cold swim with the Giant Squid?”

Both burst out laughing, while Rose glared furiously. Pair of brainless oafs, thinking they could pick on her just because they were bigger—just like they did with Malfoy. Of course, this was his fault. If only that idiot knew how to stand up for himself…

“I don’t think you want my cousins on your back, Montague,” she said coldly. “We’re plenty, and they’d flatten you in seconds.”

“Scared? Me?” He stepped closer, glaring down at her. “You really think I’m meant to be afraid of the Weasleys?”

“Yes. And the Potters, too.”

Rose raised her eyes—and never in her life had she been so relieved to see her cousin James. Hazel eyes hard, wand levelled at Montague and Flint. Albus stood next to him, arms folded, green eyes just as unyielding.

“Hands off Rose,” Albus said flatly.

The Slytherins smirked but released her, and she bolted over to her cousins’ side.

“Just having a chat, weren’t we, Weasley?” Montague mocked.

Rose stuck out her tongue and hid behind James.

“Not that we came here for you anyway.”

“And you’d better not,” James hissed, voice like steel. “Because if I hear you’ve laid a hand on my cousin again, Hagrid’s hippogriffs won’t even bother with the scraps.”

The two slunk off into the library, and Rose leapt up to kiss James on the cheek.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Oi! I’m here too, you know,” Albus grumbled, as Rose dumped her heavy stack of books into his arms and dragged him inside.

“I’m starving, Rose! Can’t we study later?”

“Ssshhh!” came Madam Pince’s hiss from across the hall.

Rose ignored Albus’s protests and made her way toward the Herbology shelves, Albus in tow and James following to make sure they’d settle down properly. She stopped dead.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, eyes fixed on a too-familiar scene a few tables away. She spun to James. “They’re at it again—picking on Malfoy!”

James only shrugged. Rose rolled her eyes and jabbed a finger at him. “We’ve got to help him. It’s not his fault he wasn’t born with a whole army of cousins to come charging in.”

“I don’t even know him,” James muttered.

“Neither do you,” Albus added, sounding almost suspicious.

Rose flushed scarlet, fists clenching. Sons of the noble and just Harry Potter, and they couldn’t see reason? She opened her mouth, ready to lecture them properly, but James cut across her with a sigh.

“Fine, fine. We’ll help Malfoy.”

They moved toward the table where Scorpius was pacing, trying in vain to snatch back the quills, scrolls, and books that hovered just out of reach—kept aloft by Flint and Montague’s wands. Resigned, he barely looked up until he noticed the trio approaching. Surprise flickered in his grey eyes, quickly hidden.

James cleared his throat and slid a chair out for Rose. She frowned at him, but when he insisted, she sat. Albus dropped Rose’s books beside her, watching closely as James turned to the bullies.

“You said you needed that one, right, Rose?” James asked, pointing to a book floating above Malfoy’s head. Then, with a wicked grin at the Slytherins: “Looks like Malfoy’s using it. But you could share, couldn’t you? Be a shame if I found out a pair of slimy snakes had been interfering with my cousin’s studying.”

In an instant, every quill, book, and scroll came crashing down onto the table, earning Madam Pince’s wrathful glare. Montague and Flint scarpered before James could finish his threat.

“Can’t have my reputation ruined defending a Slytherin,” James muttered to Albus, clapping Rose on the shoulder, “but for Rose, I’d do anything.”

Scorpius gathered his scattered things, sliding into a chair opposite Rose. His cheeks coloured faintly, though he kept his eyes on a book, pretending nothing had happened. Albus took the seat next to Rose, studying him just as intently.

James rapped the tabletop with his fist, startling them all. “Not that I care, but those two gorillas aren’t going to stop hounding you until the day they graduate.”

Scorpius shrugged and tried to return to his book. Another sharp knock on the wood made him glance up again.

“Like I said, not that I care,” James drawled, “but I don’t like knowing my cousin got herself mixed up in this for you.”

Rose swallowed hard. She didn’t like the sound of that. Heat rising in her cheeks, she cast Malfoy a glance and rushed to explain.

“What my cousin means—” she shot James a murderous glare “—is that maybe you ought to… I don’t know, stick with someone. Mates from your house, friends. It’s not right—or safe—for you to wander about alone, not with those two after you.”

Scorpius studied them, puzzled by their concern. Still, he owed them something. Lifting a finger, he pointed across the library.

They followed his gesture and spotted a cluster of Slytherin first-years watching with keen interest. When their eyes met, the group ducked behind their books, flustered.

“Your housemates?” Albus asked. Scorpius gave a small nod.
“Studying Herbology?” Another nod.
“Then why aren’t you with them?”

Scorpius shrugged, glancing briefly at Rose, who was watching him far too closely.

“No idea. But for some reason…” He looked again at the group, who immediately hid their faces. “…they act like they’re scared stiff of me.”

The three cousins exchanged baffled glances. Rose leaned forward.

“Scared? Why would they be scared of you?”

His grey eyes locked onto hers. For a moment she thought she glimpsed something—sorrow, maybe, or melancholy. He only shrugged again, stuffing his things into his bag.

“Don’t know. I suppose it’s to do with my family. For now, I’ll stay on my own—at least until they stop acting so strangely.” He exhaled sharply, then added, “Anyway. Thanks for the help, Potters.”

He paused at the door, eyes flicking to Rose, then to a book on the table. “And thank you, Weasley. Again.”

As he slipped out, Rose snatched up the book he’d glanced at and shoved it quickly into her bag. While James and Albus muttered about how odd Scorpius Malfoy was and how it was best to steer clear, Rose thought differently. Maybe—it was only a maybe—showing up at the right time wasn’t enough to truly help him.

Walking with her cousins toward the Great Hall, she tightened her grip on her satchel strap. If leaving that book behind had been a signal, then Scorpius Malfoy might be asking for help in the only way he knew how. And Rose wasn’t about to let him stay alone. Not now.

Chapter Text

Rose stretched out lazily in one of the plush scarlet armchairs of the Gryffindor common room. The fire in the hearth was dying down, and she closed the book that rested across her lap — one she had finished for the twenty-eighth time.

The Last Dark Decade of the Twentieth Century. That was the title of the volume Scorpius Malfoy had slid across the library table to her the afternoon before the Christmas holidays. The very first time she had read it, tears had streamed down her cheeks at the bleak testimonies within. It was a reminder that while her parents and uncles had once walked these same corridors, they hadn’t only been worried about exams and grades, but about saving the wizarding world — and surviving.

Above all, surviving.

The book, she had since learned, had been banned. Too raw, too heart-wrenching, too close to the bone for the Ministry’s liking. They didn’t want such painful stories — told in the voices of both victims and perpetrators — to ever reach the ears of younger generations. Not in that form.

The “official” version of history was much tidier. Less grief, less blood. Easier to stomach.

So Rose had grown up knowing that terrible things had happened, but with the comfortable distance of abstraction. Yes, there had been a war. Yes, it had been dark. But it was over now, and the details didn’t matter. Until she turned those pages, she hadn’t understood why Malfoy had wanted her to read them.

The full tale of the Malfoys lay before her — their loyalties, their betrayals, the strange half-life of those forever trapped between warring lines. Not trusted by either side. Branded, in whispers, as traitors.

Rose sighed. Over the holidays, she had pressed her mother for stories. Sad, harrowing tales spilled out while they cooked dinner, until Hermione dabbed at her eyes and blamed the onions. Rose stopped asking. If living through it had been agony, recounting it must be worse.

Still, she knew one thing. Back at school, she and Albus (whether he liked it or not) would have to make sure Scorpius Malfoy was no longer the outcast of his House — or of Hogwarts. And tomorrow, though he didn’t know it yet, Rose had a plan.

Dragging her feet up the spiral staircase to the first-year girls’ dormitory, she yawned and collapsed face-first onto her bed, scattering half-finished essays. Definitely, she thought, she needed more sleep. Nights were not meant for studying.

For Scorpius, the morning began as most did: calm, silent, solitary. He wasn’t surprised to find his dormitory empty. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken to his roommates. Before Christmas, perhaps.

After breakfast, he slipped outside for a walk before heading to the library to revise Transfiguration. He tugged his green-and-silver scarf tighter as the chill wind flushed his pale cheeks. Probably not the best idea, he realised, as his boots sank into the snow — especially when he spotted his classmates gathered a short distance away.

He sighed and turned to leave, but then a group of Gryffindors appeared, scarves bright with gold and crimson.

“What if we build snowmen and race them?” chirped a red-haired girl, her eyes alight. “It’s easy enough to get them moving — Professor Flitwick said—”

“All right, Rose,” Potter cut in before she could launch into a full lecture on Charms. “Let’s just do it.”

The Gryffindors set to work, laughing and calling to one another. Scorpius watched, aching with envy. They made it look effortless — belonging.

Behind him came the crunch of boots. His fellow Slytherins approached, sniggering and whispering at the Gryffindors’ game. A few girls shrieked with laughter; the boys sneered in chorus. Scorpius rolled his eyes. What was so shameful about playing in the snow? But of course — it wasn’t the snow. It was the Gryffindors.

Peace was never meant for that morning.

The Gryffindors had noticed the mockery. Tension sharpened in the air, and in the very next breath, every hand dipped into the snow for ammunition. No one would later admit to starting it — no one claimed to have seen it coming. At least, that’s what they told themselves. All anyone could see was a thin, pale boy with unsettling grey eyes, stranded between two enemy camps on the verge of battle. Just as his family had once been.

“Out of the way, Malfoy,” Tim Bletchley muttered. “Unless you fancy a face full of ice like those idiots over there.”

“Do me a favour,” Potter shot back, hefting a snowball the size of a Quaffle.

Better to slip away. Keep his head down. But nothing was ever that simple.

“Then what is it?” Rose Weasley’s voice rang out, cheeks pink, red hair a wild halo in the wind. Her hands clutched a mound of snow as she stared at him across the divide. “Are you with them — or what?”

The words rooted him to the spot. His answer, he realised, might decide his fate at Hogwarts for all seven years to come.

He glanced at Bletchley, McDouall, the others. Blank stares. Shrugs. His throat tightened. Slowly, Scorpius crouched and scooped a snowball. His fingers shook. He swallowed hard.

Then, before anyone expected it, his snowball arced through the air — and landed squarely on Rose Weasley’s face.

Gasps, a beat of silence — then Emily McDouall’s shot found Albus Potter’s open mouth.

“AGHHHHH!”

The battle erupted.

History wouldn’t record this clash of Houses, not the way it had other wars fought at Hogwarts. By lunchtime, the first-years of both Gryffindor and Slytherin were forced to take hot showers, half of them nursing colds. Albus Potter would swear eternal vengeance on Emily McDouall. And, without anyone quite realising, Scorpius Malfoy had taken his first step toward belonging. Or something like it.

“You owe me! And big time! You know I hate snow!” Albus’s voice echoed through the Gryffindor common room that evening, while a red-haired girl quietly tucked a book into her bag and disappeared upstairs for a shower.

Rose Weasley smiled. Her mother, her father, and Uncle Harry had saved the Philosopher’s Stone in their first year. She, meanwhile, had achieved something almost as rare: the redemption of an innocent.

Chapter Text

The whistle of the Hogwarts Express shrieked above the chatter of students. Robes had been swapped for lighter clothes, summer already pressing in, though a soft breeze ruffled Rose’s hair and kept the air fresh.

She gathered her curls into a high ponytail, tugging them under control, and stepped aside so the tide of students could flow past her toward the scarlet train waiting to take them home after their first year at Hogwarts.

“Still standing about, Rose?” A singsong voice piped up behind her—just before a hand mussed her freshly tied hair into chaos.

“Nothing, Dominique,” she sighed, batting her hair back into order and dragging her trunk toward the train. “Just waiting for you and James to help me with all this.”

The words had barely left her mouth when Harry Potter’s eldest son appeared, winking before striding ahead.

“Did you hear that, Dommy?”

“Don’t call me Dommy,” the blond boy groaned, rolling his blue eyes. James ignored him grandly, drifting off as if Rose’s plea had never been made.

“Suit yourself, Nick. You know I adore you, despite the dreadful name your mum lumbered you with—”

And just like that, the pair plunged into a debate about names, leaving Rose behind, her patience fraying.

“Much better. Nick, I can live with. Never understood why Mum insisted on French names. Honestly—Merlin’s beard—we live in England!”

“Quite right. James. Now that’s a name. A Marauder’s name!”

“Oh, don’t start,” Nick shot back, grinning. “Your middle name is just as daft. Who names their kid after a constellation?”

James puffed his chest and slapped a hand over his heart with mock solemnity.

“Sirius! Another great Marauder! Who else but me can boast both names? Both legacies? It is mine to carry proudly!”

Nick rolled his eyes and dragged him onto the train, their Gryffindor mates of third year trailing, already well used to James Sirius Potter’s endless speeches about his family, his bloodline, and his oh-so-illustrious names.

“Oi! Weren’t you going to help me?” Rose shouted after them.

The two boys traded a look and burst out laughing. James shot her a wicked grin, hazel eyes glinting.

“You’re barking. With all those books Aunt Hermione stuffed in your trunk? Want me to collapse my spine? Come on, Dommy!”

“Stop calling me Dommy! It’s Nick!”

Rose stuck her tongue out and continued heaving her enormous trunk along, stuffed full of books she practically knew by heart.

“Just wait until Mum and Aunt Ginny hear you wouldn’t help me,” she muttered, plonking herself atop her luggage.

She turned back for one last wistful glance at the castle rising against the distant hills. A sigh escaped her lips—cut short when a familiar group appeared: Albus, her cousin, flanked by first-year mates, stepping forward to help her wrestle her things aboard.

Albus tugged her trunk, frowning slightly at the racket James had caused boasting about their family. Rose caught his look, and he quickly smoothed it into a gentle smile.

“Need a hand with that?” asked Marie, wiping sweat from her brow after hauling her own luggage with Albus and Jerry to the first empty compartment. She nodded toward Rose’s heavy rucksack and the cage with her owl, Artemis.

Rose smiled and passed her the cage, giving the rucksack a tap.

“Take this for me. I’ll carry a few of the heavier books in my arms—save myself from a hunchback.”

Marie giggled faintly at Rose’s poor joke and bustled off toward the compartment as the train gave its first lurch forward.

Rose lingered, crouching on the floor to ease her load by pulling out the bulkiest tomes. That was when she heard quiet, measured steps behind her. She glimpsed polished black shoes first—and already knew whose face she would find when she looked up.

Since the infamous snowball fight between Gryffindor and Slytherin, the rivalry between their houses had flared spectacularly. First-years now squared off in corridors, goading each other and competing fiercely for points in class. And yet Rose had noticed that, though Malfoy stuck close to his housemates now, he was still the same reserved, melancholy boy she’d first met. She often spotted him in the library, where—by unspoken truce—they ignored each other with a politeness diplomats might envy.

But now he was here. Alone. In the empty corridor of the train.

“Need something, Malfoy?”

He didn’t answer, only stood watching, as if nothing in the wizarding world could be more absorbing than Rose Weasley sorting her books.

Her skin prickled. His pale-grey stare made her nervous, and she found herself glancing back, silently wishing him away. But Malfoy stayed put, cool as if inspecting her work.

“I think you’ve got something of mine,” he said at last.

It took Rose a second. Then her eyes widened, and she smacked her forehead. Of course. She still had The Last Dark Decade of the Twentieth Century. Heart thudding, she rummaged through her bag, praying she hadn’t left it in her trunk. Relief washed over her when she found it.

She held the book out. His hand brushed hers as he took it—just a fleeting touch of fingers. She gathered her things and rose to leave, but his presence rooted her to the spot.

“Anything else?” she asked, twisting her thumbs, eyes fixed on him.

“Did you read it?”

“Bit late to ask,” she retorted briskly. “But yes. I read it.”

“Thank you.”

The words baffled her. Why thank her for reading? Warmth crept up her cheeks, betraying her as his smile—unexpectedly kind, disarmingly sincere—lit his face.

“I knew it wasn’t an accident,” he said, studying her. “The snowball war after Christmas. You were behind it. I never doubted it.”

Rose blinked, unsure whether to take offense or pride. He pressed on.

“You had extraordinary luck, otherwise it would’ve been a disaster.”

She narrowed her eyes, stung.

“It was foolproof, Malfoy.”

His brow arched. He folded his arms, smile fading.

“You lot were easy to predict. And if you hadn’t shown up in the courtyard, I had a Plan B. We’d have come to fetch you. And if your pompous housemates hadn’t taken the bait, we’d have lobbed snow until they snapped.”

“Don’t call them that.”

“I’ll call them what I like.”

They faced each other, arms crossed, locked in silent challenge.

“Just don’t tell anyone” he said finally, eyes raking her as though weighing her worth.

Rose huffed, stung by his gall.

“I wouldn’t brag about helping a Malfoy. I’ve a reputation to keep.”

The air between them turned icy. She saw his eyes harden, saw the book tremble under his grip.

“For the record, Weasley, I never asked for your help,” he hissed. “But you’re right—thanks to you, my housemates gave me a place. Thanks to you, perhaps the wizarding world will too. That isn’t something one forgets.”

He glanced up, cold steel in his gaze.

“But Malfoys don’t like debts. Least of all to people beneath us. From today, I won’t rest until I’ve paid it. Then I’ll owe Rose Weasley nothing.”

Fury shot through her.

“And who exactly do you think you are, Malfoy?”

“My father was right. Best to keep Weasleys well out of reach.”

And with that cold farewell, Scorpius turned on his heel and strode away without looking back. Rose wanted to scream, to kick, to curse him six ways to Sunday. Instead, she stormed down the opposite corridor, marching towards the compartment where her classmates were.

She barely spoke once she got there; when her friends asked her questions, she answered with nothing more than grunts and huffs until the train pulled into King’s Cross at last.

Her mother nearly wept when she saw her, arms crushing her daughter tight. Rose clung back, declaring Hogwarts a thousand times better than any story her mother had ever told.

Then Ron appeared, tall and rumpled, and Rose flew at him. He lifted her easily, booming about the Chudley Cannons climbing three spots in the Quidditch League table. Rose grinned. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed him.

Yet even as she greeted Hugo, her eyes strayed. Across the platform, in a rare moment of tenderness, Draco Malfoy rested a hand on his son’s head while Astoria kissed him on both cheeks, Draco rolling his eyes at the display. Rose’s thoughts darted back to the icy corridor, to Scorpius’s words, his arrogance, his disdain. She felt a rising antipathy for his lofty attitude — the same Scorpius Malfoy who, at first, hadn’t even believed her plan would work. And yet there he was, to her surprise, bidding farewell — with real warmth — to Emily McDouall and Timothy Bletchley, under the watchful eye of his father.

She shook them off. Found Marie. Promised letters. And slipped through the barrier with her parents.

“So then, Rosie,” Ron said, wrestling the family car out of a tight Muggle parking space. “What did you do this first year at Hogwarts?”

Rose leaned back, smirk tugging at her lips. Catching her father’s gaze in the mirror, she said with relish:

“I flattened Scorpius Malfoy in every exam.”

And Ron Weasley drove on, thoroughly satisfied.

Chapter Text

Draco Malfoy stood at the balcony of his third-floor chambers, gazing out at the vast expanse of the manor gardens. The fountain sparkled in the blaze of the summer sun — a day made for tea on the terrace or a lazy flight across the clear skies.

He frowned slightly, scanning the gardens in detail, and then sighed. With little hope, he stepped out of his rooms and walked down the corridor to its very end. From there, he looked over the sprawling back lawn and saw exactly what he had expected.

Slowly, deliberately, he descended the stairs and stepped outside. Astoria was seated alone, a book in hand and a teacup beside her. At the sight of her husband, she gestured for him to join her. Noting the disappointment etched on Draco’s face, she smiled knowingly and asked anyway, though she already knew the answer.

“What troubles you, darling?” she said lightly, turning a page as a house-elf appeared, set a steaming cup of tea before Draco, and vanished again. “Something weighing on you?”

Draco tried to keep the grimace from twisting his features as he lifted the cup, but failed.

“Look at the day, Astoria,” he muttered, waving toward the sky. “Look at the weather. Look at our gardens.”

She chuckled softly at her husband’s boyish sulk. Closing her book with deliberate calm, she gave him her full attention.

“I see. And a beautiful day annoys you because…?”

“It doesn’t annoy me!” Draco snapped, springing to his feet. He gestured sharply — first at the shimmering pool, then at the six distant Quidditch hoops. “It’s a perfect day! Absolutely perfect. So where is our son?” The last words were spoken with sudden defeat, as Astoria rose to join him, smiling gently.

“He’s got everything a boy could ever want,” Draco pressed on, exasperated. “And if he hasn’t, he knows full well we can provide it. Yet he shuts himself away. He could be swimming, flying, sitting here with us — but no. Where in Merlin’s name is that boy now?”

Astoria brushed a hand against his cheek and kissed him softly.

“He’s your son, Draco. More than anyone, you know exactly where he is right now.” She caught his eyes until he glanced away, unwilling. “If you’ve something to say to him, you know where to find him. So stop sulking and go.”

“But… I don’t think—” He faltered, dread in his voice. Father–son conversations had never come easily to him. Not when he was a father, and not when he was a son.

“No buts,” Astoria cut him off briskly, reclaiming her seat and her tea. “You’re his father. And one day, he’ll thank you for it.”

Defeated, Draco sighed and disappeared inside. A mischievous smile curved Astoria’s lips — someone once told her that no Malfoy ever took orders from anyone. However she had since learned, courtesy of his mother-in-law, that if anyone could command a Malfoy, it was his wife.

Three gentle knocks sounded at the door.

“Come in,” murmured Scorpius without looking up from the heavy Transfiguration book in his lap. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father enter, stepping carefully around the piles of tomes he had dragged from the library shelves.

“What do you want, Father?” Scorpius asked, his eyes still fixed on the page, though he felt Draco drawing nearer.

“You’re on holiday, Scorpius. Why bury yourself in study?” His father’s stern tone made him lift his gaze at once. Grey eyes flicked upward; he shrugged, feigning indifference, clutching the book so tightly the pages bent.

“I’m not studying. You know I like reading. That’s all.” He turned back to the text, assuming the excuse would satisfy. It didn’t.

“A little light reading in summer never hurt anyone,” he added lamely.

“Intermediate Transfiguration, Metamorphic Theory Vol. II, Practical Charms, Book Three, Magical Flora of Northern, Mediterranean, and Central Europe, A Thousand and One Potions for General Use…” Draco listed, plucking one title after another from the nearby heap. With every word, Scorpius ducked further into his book, his pale cheeks blooming pink.

“And this,” Draco said at last, smirking, “is what my son calls light summer reading?”

He crouched beside him, waiting. Scorpius stayed stubbornly silent. Draco sighed, pried the book gently from his hands, and tilted his chin until their eyes met.

“This is about that Weasley girl in your year, isn’t it?” Draco teased, mussing his son’s blond hair. Scorpius gaped as his father winked. “It can’t be Potter’s boy — if he’s as hopeless as his father, his only skill’s attracting trouble.”

Scorpius broke into a grin, admiration shining in his eyes. Draco paced the room once, then turned back, his voice low and conspiratorial.

“Being Weasley’s daughter isn’t much of a credential. But, to be fair… her mother is a witch of undeniable talent.” His face twisted as though he’d swallowed something foul. “A bookworm through and through. And I’d wager her daughter is no different. If she bested you this year, you’ll have another chance to surpass her next. But mark this well.” He gripped his son’s shoulders, looking straight into eyes so like his own. “No matter your place, you are my son, and I will be proud of you. Still… if you manage to trounce those two, I’ll be prouder yet. Remember — Malfoy talent runs in the blood.”

Draco hadn’t expected the effect his words would have. Scorpius beamed, radiant with the certainty of being loved. As Draco stepped toward the door, he thought — perhaps he could live with his son’s odd obsession with books and his preference for reading over Quidditch. But what he would not allow was for the daughter of a Weasel and a bookworm to steal his boy’s summer away into dusty libraries.

“Father, do you mind if I keep studying during the holidays?”

Draco shook his head, resigned, and slipped out. He had barely shut the door before a warm hand touched his shoulder.

“You did well,” Astoria whispered at his ear, making him smile despite himself.

“I doubt it,” he muttered, jerking his head toward the library. “Still locked up in there, like some book-mouse.”

Just then, the door creaked open. Scorpius stood with a parchment clutched in one hand, a letter still fresh from an owl. He blinked at the sight of his parents standing close together, but spoke at once.

“Father, Mother… would it be all right if Emily and Timothy came for tea tomorrow?” His eyes darted between them, uncertain — until he caught the flicker of incredulous amusement on Draco’s face. Astoria stepped forward and shook her head fondly.

“Of course, darling,” she said warmly. “In fact, tell them they’re welcome to use the pool — better come prepared. And if they’d like to arrive early for lunch, even better. What do you think?”

Scorpius’s face lit up. “I’ll write them back straight away!” He darted inside, closing the door behind him.

Draco shot his wife a look, eyebrow raised.

“What was that? What are you plotting?”

Before Astoria could reply, Scorpius reappeared, quill and parchment in hand.

“Actually, Mother, perhaps not from the morning,” he said thoughtfully. Then he turned to Draco. “Tim won’t stop boasting about what his father’s been teaching him in Quidditch — he’s been on break from Puddlemere United training. Could we practice a bit tomorrow morning before they arrive? I’ll show him Malfoy talent runs in the blood.”

Draco blinked, then allowed himself a proud smile.

“I thought you weren’t keen to try out your new Nimbus 3000 Asteroid Professional,” he said, arms folded, hiding his satisfaction.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Scorpius mumbled, sheepish for having ignored the broom so long. “I’ll finish these letters, then join you both for tea.” He slipped back into the library.

Astoria laced her fingers with Draco’s as they strolled back toward the terrace.

“Think we should tell him we’ve already had tea?” Draco asked, squinting into the golden sun.

Astoria shook her head, smiling.

“You do realise,” Draco continued, “Timothy’s father is Miles Bletchley — former Slytherin Seeker, now Puddlemere United coach. The boy will almost certainly challenge Scorpius to a match. Which, naturally, is why our son asked me to practice tomorrow.”

As the house-elf reappeared with another tray of tea, he shot Astoria a sidelong glance. She only smiled and murmured her reply:

“Perhaps.”

After all, they were a Slytherin family.

Chapter Text

For Rose, the best part of summer holidays was spending time at the Burrow. The last two weeks before leaving for London had been filled with her grandmother Molly, grandfather Arthur, Uncle Charlie who had come from Romania, and the full, chaotic collection of cousins.

Somehow, her grandparents always managed to fit everyone in, even when the adults stayed as well. Rose never minded the crowdedness—in fact, she found it comforting. All she needed was a good book to block out the racket of the younger cousins. And sometimes the older ones too, since James and Dominique were like walking explosions. Luckily for her, Fred (3 years above her) had gone to Ireland that summer to visit one of his best friends.

Ron Weasley’s eldest daughter didn’t mind sharing a room with her cousins either. Molly and Roxanne, a year older than Lily and about to start at Hogwarts that first of September, stayed with her. Lucy, only six, the same age as Louis, slept in her grandparents’ room. Victoire would have been the undisputed leader of their group, but she had chosen to stay home with her parents after graduating that summer. That left Rose as the eldest, which—much to her quiet satisfaction—made her feel rather important.

Those last weeks of August had been peaceful and wonderful… until she let herself get swept up by James, Nick, and Albus. Her older cousins were entranced by the broomstick Uncle Harry had just sent his younger son by post: a Nimbus 3000 Asteroid Professional. Expensive, dazzling, perfect in every way.

James was red with fury and green with envy—Rose thought he could have passed for a Christmas ornament. Poor Albus had no idea what to say to his brother. He just gazed in silence at his gleaming, brilliant broomstick, ignoring James’s tantrum.

“But… why?!” James shouted, looking ready to snap the broom into pieces. “I always knew he loved you more, but this—this is unfair!”

Albus looked at him miserably, but he wasn’t about to tell his brother to calm down. He was too happy with the gift his father had given him, and nothing—not even James’s jealousy—could spoil the moment. He stroked the polished twigs of the broom while Dominique, for the thirteenth time, pointed out that the Asteroid Professional could accelerate from nought to 190 kilometres per hour in just two seconds. James shot him a murderous look and opened his mouth to insult him, but Rose jumped in first.

“Don’t be ridiculous, James. You’ve already got a broom. Imagine Uncle Harry’s face if he hears you whining that he loves Albus more than you.”

Her cousin glared back furiously and snapped,
“Don’t start lecturing me, Rose! This is none of your business! Yes, I’ve got a broom, but it’s nothing compared to the one Dad just handed the runt!”

“Oi! Who are you calling a runt?” Albus shouted, springing to his feet. James stuck out his tongue and jeered,
“You, of course—runt!”

“That’s enough!” Rose lost her patience. “Your broom isn’t as bad as you say, and stop insulting Albus! Honestly, it’s only a broom!”

James sneered.
“That’s because you can’t even tell the difference between a racing broom and a household broom.”

Dominique and Albus gasped. Everyone knew James had just made the fatal mistake of telling their know-it-all cousin there was something she couldn’t do.

“You’re such an idiot, James!” Rose shouted, striding straight towards Dominique, who was holding the precious broom. “You’ll eat those words!”

And before anyone could stop her, the red-haired girl snatched the broom, swung a leg over, and shot skyward. In two seconds she was soaring, the Asteroid Professional proving its worth.

James was terrified. If Rose got hurt, it would be entirely his fault—and Grandma Molly would have his head. They yelled at her to come down, but she was too high up to hear. In a panic, the others scrambled for their own brooms.

What they didn’t know was that Rose wasn’t panicking at all. She was exhilarated. Once she had steadied the broom, she swooped and circled, flying to a nearby hill and back again. The dots below were still shouting, but they hadn’t even realised she’d gone and returned.

The wind whipped her hair, stung her cheeks, dried her eyes—but none of it mattered. Her face was lit with a grin. She had discovered that not only could she fly—she was good at it.

It was true she’d inherited her mother’s brains, and also her excessive caution. She had never dared ask her father to teach her more than the basics, and in class she had only done what was necessary to pass (with top marks, naturally). But now she understood—at last—her father, her Uncle Harry, her Aunt Ginny, Uncle Charlie, and all her cousins, when they spoke of the thrill of flying, of freedom in the open sky.

Despite her fears, she felt as happy as when she aced an exam or finished a really good book. She liked flying. She loved it.

Two broomsticks approached in the distance. Rose recognised her cousins and began to descend. Back on the ground, Albus stared in open-mouthed shock. He had never imagined his bookish cousin had such skills.

Rose handed him back the broom, still smiling, and collapsed on the grass to catch her breath.

“Were you trying to kill us with fright? Or let Grandma kill us?” James panted.

Rose shook her head and looked at him coolly.
“Well, at least now you know I can tell the difference between a racing broom and a broom for sweeping.”

James opened his mouth to retort, but a trio of owls swooped down, dropping a long parcel into his arms. His heart sank. His cousins’ accusing stares confirmed it: his father had just sent him a Nimbus 3000 Asteroid Professional, identical to Albus’s.

Dominique burst into laughter while Albus muttered something about being ungrateful and owing their parents an apology—even if they didn’t know it. Rose brushed some dirt off her robes, still smiling, and headed back to the Burrow.

“You really are a fool, James…” she murmured, her stomach still fluttering with the thrill of her adventure.

She would write to her father. She wanted one too.

And that was how Rose’s summer ended—on her cousins’ brooms, learning the basics of Quidditch. She had never imagined she’d enjoy something like that.

Now she stood on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, saying goodbye to her parents and to Hugo, whose eyes were filling with tears at seeing his sister leave again.

“Don’t worry, Rosie,” her father said proudly, puffing out his chest. “I’ll get you that broom.”

Rose smiled at him, while Hermione looked worried. She didn’t like the idea of Quidditch for her little girl one bit.

“Ronald, I don’t think it’s a good idea, that Nimbus for Rose…”

“Oh, come on, Hermione. She deserves it. She’s top of her class, a perfect daughter, and she outscored Malfoy’s son in every exam.” He ticked off her achievements with pride. “What better way to reward her than giving her what she wants?”

Hermione had no reply. She kissed Rose on both cheeks, making her promise not to get into trouble and never to fly too high if the broom arrived. Behind her, Ron winked and gestured that she should ignore her mother and soar as high as she pleased.

Rose gave a mischievous laugh, full of affection for her parents. She loved them dearly. Then, from the corner of her eye, she spotted a familiar figure stepping through the barrier. Rolling her eyes, she decided to ignore him.

“…I spoke personally with the owner of Quality Quidditch Supplies. He said he’d order it straight from the factory. They only had three in stock. It’s not the sort of thing just anyone buys. And since Harry bought two already—”

The train whistle drowned out Ron’s explanation. Rose hurried aboard, waving goodbye to her parents and uncles again before slipping into the carriage where Marie, Jerry, and Albus were waiting. They all waved until the train rounded the bend and their families disappeared from sight.

Marie slumped into her seat, staring in awe at Rose and Albus.
“Wow! It’s amazing—you’re the children of the saviours of the wizarding world!”

Both cousins shifted uncomfortably and sat down together, trying to ignore the comment they had heard far too often.

The journey was uneventful until Albus mentioned he was hungry. Rose volunteered to fetch the trolley witch. Her stomach rumbled as she hurried along the corridor and finally found her.

She rattled off the order at speed:
“Twelve pumpkin pasties, six liquorice wands, ten mint humbugs, twenty chocolate frogs, three boxes of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans—and I think that’s all.”

After paying two Galleons and twenty-seven Sickles, she staggered back with the mountain of sweets. But when the train jolted, everything spilled to the floor. Cursing under her breath, Rose crouched to gather it all up—only to find someone kneeling beside her, helping.

She looked up in surprise.
Scorpius Malfoy.

He silently handed her the scattered sweets. Without even a smile, he turned and walked on.

Rose froze. If she remembered rightly, they had declared themselves enemies at the end of last term. Tilting her head, she watched his slender figure retreat—and decided to follow. Before she could speak, he turned, his face devoid of the usual scorn.

“Er… thank you.”

Scorpius shrugged and carried on. “You’re welcome,” he said, simply.

“Um… why help me? I thought we didn’t like each other.”

“We don’t, Weasley,” he replied, a hint of mockery in his eyes. “You don’t like me, and I don’t like you. But you needed help. It’s not as if I want you dead.”

Rose blinked, taken aback. Then she nodded briskly, turned, and walked away, though an odd tightness rose in her throat. “Fine. If you stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours.”

“Exactly.”

They parted, both carrying the same tightness in their throats.

Back in their compartments, each wondered how true it really was that they disliked each other. Neither found an answer—only a headache. From opposite ends of the train, they stared out at the same rolling Scottish landscape, trying to think of other things. Soon they would be at Hogwarts, where there was no room for strange knots in the throat or nerves when they saw one another.

There would only be exams to crush each other in.

And yet, though neither admitted it, both smiled faintly at the view. This new, fragile diplomacy suited them surprisingly well.

Chapter Text

Rose was sitting in one of the big armchairs in the common room reading a Potions book. Well — perhaps the fairer description would be that Rose was trying to read a Potions book while a ruckus filled the common room and Albus chattered at her for the sixteenth time that day about how much he hated Emily McDouall.

“She’s so stuck-up, you know? In Charms she shoved Ralph because, apparently, he was in her way… she’s unbearable.”

The girl lifted her eyes and looked at her cousin, attempting to make it clear she couldn’t care less about what he was saying, but he didn’t seem to notice and continued to fulminate about the Slytherin girl they, sadly for Albus, had a lot of lessons with.

When her “shut Albus up with a look” tactic failed, she cast her gaze around the room and found her cousin Molly concentrating on making a quill hover above her head.

“You know, Albus? I saw Molly chatting at lunch with McDouall’s younger brother — you should warn her off. He’s probably as annoying as his sister…”

Albus looked horror-struck, convinced it impossible that his little cousin would mix with such unpleasant company, and hurried off, giving Rose a clear path to escape.

The redhead sighed the moment she was out of the room and didn’t worry much about what she’d say to her stubborn cousin once he discovered McDouall didn’t actually have a younger brother in first year.

She clutched her Potions book and set off in search of a quiet place to read that wasn’t the library. She muttered a curse under her breath and decided to try one of the empty classrooms on the fourth floor: The library was closed for inventory that month. Just her luck.

Rose wandered down the long corridor and found no door open. She kept walking until she reached the second floor, where, exhausted from so much pacing, she leaned against one of the windows that looked out over the grounds.

From there she could see the Hufflepuff Quidditch team practising on a Sunday. She watched the players wheel through the air and perform little manoeuvres after the Quaffle and felt a private pang of regret that she still didn’t have a broom. Apparently her father intended to wait until Christmas to get one for her.

Rose had never doubted her abilities — but Quidditch made her particularly nervous. She hugged the book to her chest and turned to look for another quiet spot when two people approached, talking, and their voices reached her.

“…I’m telling you, you should have tried out for the team — you’re not terrible, and with that broom you could do wonders,” came Timothy Bletchley’s voice, which made her look up and focus on him and his companion.

“I told you already, I’m not that keen on Quidditch… not as much as—” Tim’s elbow jabbed Scorpius and he straightened at once, spotting the redhead by the window. Both boys halted abruptly, clutching several Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks; Rose guessed they were doing the professor Thompson a favour.

Silence fell between the three of them as they stared at each other, the tension thick. Rose ignored them as best she could, but the brown-haired boy’s voice stopped her.

“Er, Weasley…” Timothy said, mockingly closing the gap. “Feeling the urge to play Quidditch?” She raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “Maybe you should keep your feet on the ground — we wouldn’t want to see another redhead face-plant.”

Rose’s features tightened with fury at the last remark — the fool was referring to the spectacular fall Fred had taken in the first match of the season against Hufflepuff. A Bludger that Fred hadn’t seen, shortly after stoping an score for Hufflepuff, had landed him in the hospital wing for three days.

“Well, at least we showed some skill on the broom, not like that pathetic Slytherin team and their crushing defeat to Ravenclaw yesterday…” the boy sneered, stepping forward and glaring at her with blue eyes full of anger. Just as they were about to raise their wands, a hand closed on the Slytherin’s robes. He turned, surprised, to see Scorpius staring at him.

“Not worth it,” the blond boy said flatly, without even glancing at Rose. “They’ll punish us and call our parents if you try anything. You’d think you’d know whose daughter she is.” Tim looked confused for a moment, then turned his back on the Gryffindor and stalked away with a muttered defence of Quidditch as something sacred and of how that bookish little rat had dared insult his team for one poor match. Scorpius nodded once as they walked off and, before he was out of earshot, he added, “I told you: don’t get so worked up about the sport. It’s just nonsense in the end. And for your own good, steer clear of the Weasleys… they’ll only bring you trouble. My father says so.”

Rose was outraged by the words of a boy who clearly had no concept of discretion. Without thinking, she hurled the Potions book she’d been holding with all her strength — it thudded heavily against Scorpius’s shoulder.

All the Slytherin could do was give a small yelp of pain and spin around, furious, to face the girl who was panting and clenching her fists so tightly she wasn’t sure whether her anger came from his insult to her family or from his audacious tone in speaking as if she weren’t even there.

“What on earth is wrong with you, Weasley?” he barked, startling Timothy — it was the first time he’d ever heard Scorpius raise his voice. “Have you finally lost your mind or what?”

“I don’t even like you, Malfoy!” she shot back. “Let that be perfectly clear. You’re nobody to insult me, and far from it — you owe me more than one thing! You’d better start thinking about how you’re going to pay me back!” She surprised herself with the arrogance of the line, but she didn’t care. “If you feel inferior to me, that’s not my problem. It’s not my fault I get better grades and I’m better at Quidditch than you!”

Scorpius flushed with fury and spat back, full of anger, “You’ll swallow every one of your words! One by one! I have nothing to envy you for! I have nothing to envy anyone who doesn’t even come up to my heels!” — and there he was, talking more than he ever thought he would in front of anyone, let alone that unbearable, incomprehensible Rose Weasley.

“That’s what I want to see!” she finished, as a challenge. “Try to beat me — it’ll be completely useless!”

Scorpius stooped, picked up the book she’d thrown, read the cover carefully, and flung it back to her; she caught it in mid-air. He hesitated before replying because he knew exactly what he was diving into if he accepted that challenge — she was right: up to that point he’d never managed to beat her academically, though he’d tried in earnest all year.

He swallowed hard, ignoring the smug smile on Rose’s face, and said decisively, “That’s what you think, Weasley.” His voice returned to its normal tone and he turned his back again, his right shoulder still throbbing, while Timothy remained speechless at having glimpsed a hidden side of the usually quiet, patient Scorpius. “You’ll be surprised sooner than you think.”

Rose lingered where she was a little while longer and watched them go. Any desire she’d had to study had evaporated; she tried instead to catalogue everything that had just happened in her head: she’d found ample reasons to hate Scorpius Malfoy for the rest of her life. Her father had always been right.

Meanwhile, Scorpius, having delivered Professor Thompson’s books to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, strode quickly towards the Slytherin common room under Tim’s attentive gaze — Tim periodically urging him to calm down and repeating that arguing with Rose Weasley wasn’t worth it.

But Scorpius didn’t listen. That fool had wounded his pride to the core, and he would prove to her she was completely mistaken about him. He clenched his fists, scolding himself for letting anger get the better of him, but that was a different matter: now he had to study — he wasn’t going to lose to her again.

Moste Potente Potions — that was the title of the book she’d been reading, and it was evidently advanced. Well then: if he had to read the entire library, forbidden section included, so that Rose Weasley would swallow every single one of her words, he would. He was as certain of it as he was of his name: Scorpius Malfoy.

Chapter Text

“Come on, mate, it’s not like the world’s ending or anything.”
The look Scorpius shot him could have burned holes through stone. Tim wisely shut his mouth on the spot.

With a small sigh, he turned towards Emily, shrugging in defeat. She caught the gesture and stepped forward, hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Scorpius, that’s enough.”

He glanced up at her from the deep armchair where he was sitting, grey eyes briefly meeting her green ones—only to drop back down to the school-crested parchment in his lap as if it were the most vital thing in the world. He proceeded to ignore them both.

“It’s hopeless,” Tim muttered, folding his arms in a sulk.

Emily McDouall, however, did not share that opinion. A flush rose in her pale cheeks, anger sharpening her voice as she fixed Scorpius with a frosty stare.
“I said, that’s enough!” And before either boy could react, she snatched the parchment out of his hands and marched over to the fireplace as though she might toss it straight into the flames. “Stop being ridiculous! Your average is ninety-eight point five! What on earth is wrong with you?!”

Scorpius clenched his fists and made a grab for it, but she deftly passed it to Timothy, who—standing a head taller—held it easily out of reach.

“Merlin’s beard!” Tim exclaimed, scanning the lines with widening eyes. “A hundred in History of Magic! Another in Defence Against the Dark Arts! … Sweet Circe—you got a hundred in everything! That’s incredible!”

Scorpius’s face darkened. With a sharp swipe, he tore the parchment back out of Tim’s hands. His words came bitter, edged like glass.
“No. I didn’t get a hundred in everything. I got a ninety-five in Potions. That lowered my average. Rose Weasley is the incredible one—she got perfect marks across the board.”

He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to shout or curse or break something. But he held it in—Malfoys did not lose control. Not in public. Not ever.

Without another word, he stalked out of the common room, heading for supper in the Great Hall. Though truthfully, with the storm in his stomach, food would only make him sick.

He was almost at the Entrance Hall when he pulled up short. A crowd of students was clustered around the notice board by the doors of the Great Hall.

“Merlin, Rose! You’re brilliant!” a dark-haired girl squealed at her friend, pointing to the parchment. “First in the year—again!”

Exactly what Scorpius needed: half of Hogwarts reminding him he’d lost to the unbearable Rose Weasley.

He kept his composure and made to pass when her voice cut the air.
“It’s nothing, Marie,” she said airily, peeling herself away from the crowd. “Though it was a little tricky pulling a hundred and ten in Charms…”

That did it. He spun round. She stood there, triumphant smile tugging at her lips, eyes sparkling with victory.

He wanted to shout, to tell her to shove her marks where the sun didn’t shine. But no. He was a Malfoy. Through and through. A Slytherin with silver in his veins. And Malfoys didn’t break—not for a gloating Gryffindor.

So he smirked. Just that—and it knocked her off balance completely. Rose stared at him, puzzled, while her friend looked on, Albus and Jerry were just arriving, and Emily appeared with Tim in tow.

She wanted to speak, to drive the dagger home. But she held back. She had won. He was the one who should admit defeat. Rose Weasley was, once again, at the very top.

Suddenly it was Gryffindor and Slytherin squared off again, the air thick with challenge. Timothy Bletchley rolled his eyes and reached for his wand, bracing himself for whatever rash thing Scorpius might say.

“Congratulations, Weasley.”

Gasps all around. Scorpius Malfoy—face curved in a cynical smile—turned on his heel, tugging his friends towards the Great Hall. Apparently satisfied.

But Rose Weasley was not.

“What the—?! Malfoy!” she shouted after him. He stopped, annoyance etched into his features as though she were wasting his precious time. “That’s it? Congratulations?! What about your defeat? What about all your threats?!”

She was livid—humiliated, even. She had won. She was top of the class. He ought to be the one crushed, not her. He ought to be choking on tears, not smirking like that.

Why, then, did his ironic words sting more than she cared to admit?

“I don’t recall ever promising to collapse at your feet in tears, Weasley,” he said coolly, shoulders lifting in a careless shrug. “You must’ve misinterpreted. But if it offends you so much, I shan’t congratulate you again when you outdo me.”

He turned to go, then paused—grey eyes flicking back over his shoulder, cold as iron.
“Of course… that’s assuming you manage to outdo me again. I’m looking forward to next year, Weasley.”

The Slytherin trio vanished into the Great Hall, leaving the Gryffindors behind. Rose stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, aching to storm in and punch him square on his aristocratic nose.

Then it clicked. She’d been played. While he had been the one to lose, she was the one left flustered and foolish. Scorpius Malfoy had turned it all around.

A slow smile crept across her face, unnerving Albus and the others. Foolish, yes—but she had just learnt how Slytherins played their hand.

Lifting her chin, Rose strode with dignity to the Gryffindor table. As if fate demanded it, her gaze crossed Malfoy’s across the Hall. She smiled, steady and sure, and mouthed the words, certain he could read her lips:

“I’ll be looking forward to next year too, Malfoy.”

The students of Hogwarts were making their way to the carriages that would take them to the station for their journey home. Another school year had apparently come to an end, and the summer holidays were now a reality.

But these wouldn’t be ordinary holidays like all the rest. No—something unique and brilliant was happening in August…

“The Quidditch World Cup, mate!” Tim exclaimed, while his owl, Ares, gave a startled screech.

“Your owl is almost as noisy as you are,” Emily muttered, rolling her eyes as she climbed into one of the carriages. “You should take a leaf out of Scorpius’s book—he only says what’s necessary, and nothing more.”

Tim took offence at her words and leapt into the carriage. He set his owl’s cage down beside him and, in a mock imitation of Emily’s voice, added:

“And you should stop acting like old McGonagall. You’re almost as unbearable as Weasley.”

Emily flushed with fury and the pair launched into another argument, while Scorpius climbed in after them with a faint smile. They were always so entertaining.

“Save me from her, Scor! Our year is full of dangerous redheads!”

“You’re a dead man!” Emily shouted, and Scorpius couldn’t help laughing at Tim’s cheek. Because yes, Emily had long, shiny, enviably straight hair of a striking coppery hue. Both of them knew just how much she hated being compared to the Weasleys—she would swear blind that she was no common redhead, insisting that her colour was purely:

“…Inherited from my Scottish ancestors. So, Bletchley, if you ever dare suggest I’m related to the Weasleys again…!”

“I know, I know—you’ll slice me up and feed me to the Giant Squid.”

Scorpius cast a glance back at the looming silhouette of the castle and smiled faintly. He hadn’t lied to Rose Weasley, and even from across the Hall he had recognised her words and silently accepted her challenge. All he had to do now was wait. Next year, he would prove the worth of the Malfoys—and he already knew which electives he would use to do it. He’d been studying Runes and Arithmancy since the age of seven; he would crush her like a gnat in every single exam.

Meanwhile, the Weasley cousins had overheard part of the Slytherins’ conversation—first because their carriage was right behind, and second because the Slytherins were shouting.

Albus had to summon every ounce of self-control not to leap down and throttle them then and there when he saw the slightly downcast look on Rose’s face.

“They’re idiots, Rose. Don’t listen to them,” Marie whispered.

“Oh, that McDouall! She’s the worst!”

Rose let out a quiet sigh, beginning to understand her cousin’s attitude. Everyone had a different opinion about the little Slytherin gang; if anyone asked her, Malfoy was the absolute worst of the lot.

“Don’t add fuel to the fire, Albus,” Jerry said soothingly. Then, turning to Rose, he added, “It’s just envy, Rosie. It’s only because you’re the best in class.”

Rose gave a small smile, quickly pushing the whole matter aside as the conversation turned to Quidditch. In the end, her father hadn’t managed to send her the broomstick he’d promised—distribution had been heavily restricted in the run-up to the World Cup—but he had assured her she would have it by the start of the next school year.

She let her gaze wander over the distant landscape, and her thoughts strayed—faster than she’d have liked—to a certain infuriating boy with grey eyes. He’d get what was coming to him, because year after year she would make sure he ate her dust. It was only a matter of starting third year and sharing the same electives.

With private lessons from her mother since the age of seven, no one was going to outdo her in Arithmancy or Ancient Runes. First place in her year was hers for the taking—always.

But for now, there were other things to look forward to… The Quidditch World Cup was bound to be brilliant.

Chapter Text

“Dad, are we there yet?” Hugo’s barely audible voice broke through the crunch of fallen leaves beneath their feet as they trudged through the thick forest in the dead of night, a rather sizeable group of people moving together.

“No, we’re almost there,” Ron yawned, resting his drowsy head on the shoulder of his wife, who was walking beside him.

“Merlin, this brings back memories…” Harry Potter sighed, intertwining the fingers of his right hand with those of the red-haired woman at his side. He leaned in for a not-so-brief kiss on the lips—long enough that, even in the gloom, one boy managed to notice.

“Don’t ever do that in front of me again! That’s disgusting!” James strode ahead of his parents as they laughed, muttering something under his breath about parents and mental stability.

“Daddy, wouldn’t it be easier if we just travelled by Floo?” little Lily asked, giving her father a questioning look. He smiled back.

“Well, that wouldn’t be nearly as fun,” he replied, as they finally reached the top of a hill where the battered frame of an old bicycle awaited them.

Both families were ready to head off to the Quidditch World Cup, and knowing that the long walk was finally over was a relief to the younger ones… well, most of them anyway.

“This hasn’t been fun at all, Uncle Harry. I’m exhausted, it’s freezing, and I’ve never used a Portkey before. I just want to sleep a bit,” Harry scratched his head, unsure what to say to his eleven-year-old nephew, when someone else cut in with a sharp voice.

“Stop complaining, Hugo Weasley. You should be ashamed of yourself. You can still go back home and skip the World Cup altogether. Now be quiet and listen carefully to the instructions we’ll be given. And don’t forget—you mustn’t behave like that towards your elders ever again.”

Yes, every adult present thought the same thing. Rose had just sounded exactly like a certain bossy prefect they all knew well, but really, she had simply inherited her mother’s traits.

“Sorry, Uncle Harry…” the boy muttered, embarrassed, shuffling towards his cousin Lily, who was staring wide-eyed at the shabby old thing that was about to whisk them off to the best holiday of their lives.

Harry glanced uneasily at Hermione and Ron. Ron just shrugged and shook his head, while Hermione’s eyes told him clearly that she was not the best person to do what he was suggesting. Ginny squeezed his shoulder gently, encouraging him to go to his niece. In the background, Lily and Hugo shrieked in terror as James explained how, if they accidentally let go of the Portkey mid-travel, their bodies would be sliced clean in half.

“Rose…” the redhead turned to her uncle as she sat down on a fallen log near the Portkey. She was cranky: after all, they’d walked for more than two hours and she hadn’t managed her mandatory seven hours of sleep. “I think you should take things a bit more lightly… After all, your brother is still a child, and as his older sister, you shouldn’t be so hard on him.”

She rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to argue, but was interrupted by a voice that was hardly ever serious—so much so that she was caught off guard.

“You just told Hugo he should know how to behave towards his elders. I don’t think that little eye-roll was very respectful to Dad.” James Potter had walked over to join them. Harry looked proudly at his son before smiling at Rose, who flushed bright red in embarrassment.

“Sorry, Uncle Harry,” she mumbled, cheeks burning as she realised the point they were making. However much she tried to act that way, Rose Weasley was far from perfect—but she was determined to keep trying until she got there.

At exactly five minutes past five in the morning on 6 August 2019, the Portkey activated, whisking the Potter and Weasley families away to a hidden spot in the Pyrenees, on the border between Andorra and Spain. There, a magnificent stadium stood tall, ready to host 650,000 witches and wizards from around the world who had come to watch that night’s final.

Yes, Quidditch certainly brought people together—of that, there could be no doubt.

Ron grumbled a few times inside the tent but was silenced with a short, sweet kiss from his wife. Ginny shot him a reproving look, silently warning him not to say a single word about tents, bad memories, and running for their lives—because all of that belonged firmly to the past.

The younger ones managed to nap a little in the morning, understandable after their sleepless night, but before long they were out exploring the campsite. Wizards and witches paraded around in their most extravagant attire, cheering loudly for their teams.

It was a shame, really, but England had been knocked out in the round of sixteen—a crushing defeat against a superb German side, the match ending 480–90 after they caught the Snitch.

“Embarrassing,” Rose muttered as she strolled with Albus between the rows of tents. The national team, flying their Asteroid Professional Nimbus 3000s, had been an absolute disgrace. A clear lesson in how not to play Quidditch.

Tonight, however, they were set to witness a dramatic final: mighty Germany versus the surprise of the tournament—the American side, who had clawed their way through to the semis and, against all odds, defeated the host nation Spain to reach the last match. Rose still couldn’t believe it.

By some miracle, despite the swarming crowds, they managed to bump into Marie and Jerry. As a Muggle-born, Jerry had needed to stay over at his friend’s house to be able to attend, and the pair of cousins grinned at the sight of his face. The poor boy couldn’t believe his eyes, shouting at the top of his lungs that he’d never imagined anything more thrilling than football.

Rose beamed at her friend, letting her gaze wander over the crowd swarming with Americans. It was the first time their team had ever reached a final… no wonder stars-and-stripes flags were waving everywhere she looked.

Then she froze. For a moment she thought—just thought—she’d felt someone staring at her. But with so many people around, it was impossible to tell. She glanced quickly in both directions but saw no one, except for a pair of girls their age who walked over to greet them, speaking in an accent that was funny, fast, and just a bit too much.

“Hi there, how’s it going?” one of them said, smiling at Albus and Jerry, who exchanged a look that neither Rose nor Marie could decipher. “I’m Carrie, and this is my best friend Lou. We came all the way from North Carolina to support our team—we study at Ilvermorny. What are your names? Do you go to Hogwarts? Wow, I love your hair! How do you get it to stay so perfectly messy like that? Or is it natural?”

Albus suddenly felt overwhelmed, tugging at his cousin’s shoulder while she grinned at their new American acquaintances. Apparently, his cousin had some kind of magnetism with girls.

The stadium was a single explosion of pure emotion and adrenaline. People were shouting in every language, flags waving everywhere, and the match was still more than twenty minutes away from starting.

That was precisely why Rose was certain there could not have been a more inconvenient moment to need the loo. She climbed down from the family’s box, following the instructions—barely deciphered—from an usher who spoke only Spanish and Catalan… neither of which were her strong suits, if she was honest.

She found a small door beneath the stands and correctly assumed that this was the bathroom she had been desperately searching for. Magically expanded, just as she had expected, it was gleaming inside, with two doors marking the entrances to the men’s and women’s facilities.

She sighed in relief, and as she stepped back out, her bladder finally content, she came face-to-face with the most unlikely sight in the world: Scorpius Malfoy, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and an impatient look on his face.

She couldn’t believe it. Of all the people on the planet, in all the places in the world, why on earth did she have to run into that arrogant prat in the loo of a Quidditch stadium?

“What are you waiting for?” he muttered, leaving her utterly confused. That was when she noticed a red-haired figure, just like her, rushing into the stall she had just vacated.

Scorpius cast her one of his trademark cold, empty stares—those looks that radiated disdain and, in this case, were directed entirely at her. Rose didn’t care one bit for being the target of such half-hearted scrutiny, so she straightened up to her full height—all of thirteen years old—and tried to sweep out the door with dignity. But his voice stopped her once again.

“So then, Weasley, who do you reckon will win tonight?” he asked softly, as he usually did. She slowly turned back, hand slipping from the handle. So, back to “civilised terms,” were they?

“Germany, naturally,” was all she allowed herself to say, without a second thought.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise at her answer and gave a small smile.

“I think the Americans might surprise us tonight.”

Rose’s fists clenched instantly—those were the very words Uncle Harry had said hours earlier over dinner. She opened her mouth to argue, but at that moment Emily McDouall emerged from the loo, relief written all over her face. She glanced at them both, then tugged Scorpius towards the exit. He wriggled free of her grip just beneath the doorway.

“Wait, Emily—I think Weasley wants to tell me something…”

Did she ever. She longed to shout at him, to rattle off every reason why Germany were superior tactically, offensively, and defensively. She could list, point by point, each brilliant strategy devised by Hübschmann, Seeker and captain, and finish by saying that even catching the Snitch wouldn’t be enough for the Americans to beat them.

Emily looked questioningly at Scorpius. He just shrugged and smiled.

“I’ll head up to the box. See you there.”

Still doubtful, she left her friend at the mercy of Rose Weasley’s hysteria. Not that it mattered—Scor could handle himself just fine… or at least she hoped so.

He walked over to the door and shut it, turning back to her. She met his gaze and, for the first time, noticed:

“You’ve grown…” she murmured in surprise, lowering her voice. “Merlin’s beard! I don’t have to look down at the floor to see you anymore,” she finished, amused at the realisation that Scorpius Malfoy had grown enough over the summer that she could now look him straight in the eye.

They were the same height now.

He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that—and it still annoyed him. His father always said it must come from his mother’s side, but Scorpius had been on the short side all his life.

“Well, Weasley. And you’re still the same insufferable beanpole. Now, weren’t we talking about Quidditch?”

She swallowed a string of insults and shot back that Germany were superior. He countered calmly with the miraculous track record of the United States.

The argument spiralled out of control. After rattling off team rosters and dissecting every tactical move a thousand times over, they both realised that the Spanish Minister for Magic’s speech had ended and the match was about to begin.

To Rose’s astonishment, it was the longest conversation she had ever had with Scorpius Malfoy. So she allowed herself to end it with a curt: “What a waste of time—you’ve made me miss the start of the match.” And then… nothing happened.

“This is the part where you open the door and leave, Weasley…” he muttered, stepping up behind her. “Could you hurry it up?”

She turned, pale-faced, and barely managed to whisper:

“It won’t open…”

And just like that, the world ended—for both of them. Because if there was anything worse than being stuck in a loo with your school rival, it was being stuck in a loo with your school rival while the Quidditch World Cup final was happening outside.

“Impossible!” he hissed. And no, there was no breaking down the door—it had been firmly sealed shut from the outside by some careless soul.

Magic? Forget it. What were a pair of underage wizards meant to do with their wands at a peaceful Quidditch World Cup? Absolutely nothing.

“I’ll never leave my wand behind again! That idiotic rule from the Trace…” Scorpius fumed.

“Germany scores the first goal of the match!”

Rose dropped to the floor, hands over her head, berating herself. How could she have been so stupid? She should never have argued with him in the first place… because, really, it didn’t even matter!

Scorpius slid down opposite her, leaning against the tiled wall in disbelief. All of this, just because he had to contradict Weasley…

“You must be pleased, Malfoy…” she said bitterly.

“Of course. Who needs the World Cup final when I can spend quality time with you?” he shot back, dripping with sarcasm.

Well. This was going to be a long night—and even more so if they admitted to themselves that this wouldn’t be the first or the last time their differences landed them in trouble.

And yes, a little extra tolerance wouldn’t go amiss.

“Spectacular ten points for Johnson! The Americans equalise!”

Oh yes—this was going to be a very long night indeed.

Chapter Text

As the train rattled along at full speed towards Hogwarts, Rose let her mind wander, staring absently at the landscape rushing past the carriage window.

It was the first of September, again, and before she’d even had time to get her head around it, she was on her way back for her third year. Her summer holidays had been soured by certain events at the Quidditch World Cup—things she’d rather not think about… though, of course, everyone insisted on bringing them up.

Because yes, as ridiculous as it sounded, she had missed the Quidditch final because she’d been locked in a loo. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she hadn’t been alone.

Honestly, of all the places in the world, why on earth did it have to be there, and why with Malfoy of all people? Malfoy, who seemed to despise her very existence… though, to be fair, the feeling was entirely mutual.

Rose shook her head so hard her braids slapped her cheeks, as if she could knock the memory away. But the worst part—the truly humiliating part—was that the stupid Slytherin had somehow managed to be almost tolerable. Almost.

She bit her lip, furious with herself. She, Rose Weasley, had cracked in front of him—her rival (because “enemy” felt a bit too dramatic in times of peace, didn’t it?). She, the proudest of all Weasleys, had shown her weakest side to the very last person who should have seen it.

And who could really blame her? Four and a half hours stuck in there, doing nothing but bickering and sulking, until her temper finally gave out and she ended up crying like a little kid. Anyone would’ve broken.

If anyone cared about details: yes, the United States had won the World Cup. And yes, the thought still made her blood boil—not because Germany had lost (that didn’t matter much, in the end) but because Scorpius Malfoy had been right. And that was unacceptable.

She glanced at Albus, who gave her an apologetic smile while Jerry launched for the hundredth time into a breathless retelling of the American Seeker Moore’s spectacular catch—the way he’d practically snatched the Snitch from right under Hübschmann’s fingers, sealing one of the most thrilling, hard-fought matches anyone had ever seen.

“Well, it wasn’t that amazing,” Albus cut in. “Hübschmann didn’t push off fast enough. Honestly, the best part was the celebration. Did you like the Butterbeer in Spain? Tastes a bit odd, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, it was brilliant!” Jerry replied, eyes lighting up. “And the fireworks—remember? The enchanted ones that replayed Müller and Richards’s moves in the sky—”

Albus rolled his eyes. Lost cause. He threw Rose another apologetic smile and buried himself in the Daily Prophet.

Rose smiled back but didn’t bother pulling out her hefty copy of Arithmancy: The Magic of Numbers. Concentrating was hopeless. Her mind was far away—back in the Pyrenees, where the crowd had roared and Rogers had overtaken Hübschmann. She remembered it all far too well. She wished she didn’t.

Muttering something about buying Chocolate Frogs, she slipped out of the compartment to find the trolley witch.

But it stuck with her—the whole wretched business. She hadn’t managed to shake it off for the rest of the summer. Some nights she’d even dreamt about it, only to wake up wanting to sink through the floor. Dreaming about Scorpius Malfoy was strictly against every fibre of her being.

She leaned against a compartment door, suddenly dizzy from staring too long out the window, and closed her eyes. The memory surged again, crystal clear: the roar of the crowd, the commentator’s excited voice as the two Seekers battled for inches, the players frozen mid-air as the chase reached its climax, and then that deafening cheer as the Americans lifted their first ever World Cup.

And then… Malfoy had smiled. That smug little smile she loathed. He’d been standing there, arms folded, leaning casually against the opposite wall. She remembered noticing—just for a second—that his sharp nose fit perfectly with the shape of his face, that his hair, while looking messy, was suspiciously precise, that his open robes showed trousers without a crease and a shirt not entirely tucked in but perfectly arranged, every fold deliberate. His hands were pale, neat, almost elegant.

And she’d wondered—just briefly—if it was all intentional. If looking that perfect—almost perfect, or just put-together, she corrected herself—was something he planned.

Then, inevitably, she looked at herself. Took in her own reflection, asked whether outside her grades and books she could ever look even half as polished. She’d never cared much about appearances—except when watching Victoire with a sort of wistful envy. And now Malfoy, of all people, had stirred up that same feeling: that voice deep inside whispering that no matter how clever she was, she’d never measure up.

Once again, Rose Weasley found herself at a crossroads, tangled in the most impossible wish of her heart: perfection. Because only then, she thought, would people see her as Rose—just Rose—not the daughter of heroes from a war she hadn’t fought, but one that had decided her fate before she’d even been born.

She opened her eyes and found herself back on the train. The trolley witch hadn’t shown up yet—it looked like she’d be a while—but Rose decided to wait. Her mind, of course, betrayed her, dragging her back to the memory of hugging her knees on the spotless tiles of that bathroom, the darkness when she’d shut her eyes, and how quickly they’d filled with tears as helplessness washed over her again.

Then his voice came back to her: “Come on, Weasley, crying because Germany lost?” But her sobs hadn’t stopped, and she thought—she wanted to think—that her despicable classmate had actually been a little worried. “Oi, what’s wrong with you?”

And the dream always began the same way: his soft footsteps coming closer, his figure kneeling in front of her, his grey eyes meeting her hazel ones while she was still crying—and then his arms around her, pulling her into the most unexpected hug of her life. His scent surrounding her, his hands steady on her back, his voice near her ear: “Don’t worry, Weasley, they’ll find us here soon. I promise.”

And just like that, everything Rose thought she knew—what was right, what was wrong—had unravelled in Scorpius Malfoy’s arms, which held her the entire time she cried, until Emily McDouall and her cousin Albus finally found them locked in.

The train jolted, snapping her back. She scolded herself for letting her mind wander. It was all nonsense. Nonsense from start to finish. Stupid to imagine Malfoy could ever be kind to her without some hidden agenda—and even stupider to waste time trying to remember the scent of the cologne that had lingered while her tears soaked his robes.

She shook her head again, her plaits smacking lightly against her cheeks—just as the cheerful figure of the trolley witch appeared, pushing her cart full of sweets.

Rose walked over and asked for a dozen Chocolate Frogs to share once she was back with her friends.

“One box of Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans.”

The voice behind her made her jump. She spun around to see Malfoy, handing four Sickles to the witch. Should she greet him? Ignore him? Thank him?

When the trolley rolled off with the crowd of students, only Rose and Scorpius were left standing there, not looking at each other but clearly waiting for something.

“I... I...” Rose stammered, torn between thanking him and warning him not to breathe a word about what had happened. Her tongue felt like lead, and her hands fidgeted with the box of Frogs.

“Want one?” he asked casually, stepping closer and holding out the open box of beans. Rose blinked, startled, and barely managed to shake her head.

“What, think they’re poisoned?” he added, his voice laced with its usual bite.

“I don’t like surprises. And that box is full of them,” she muttered, eyes locked on his.

He shrugged and turned to go. “Not all surprises are pleasant, but you get used to them.” Then he glanced back over his shoulder with a smirk. “Life catches you off guard whether you like it or not.”

Rose bristled. She knew exactly what he was hinting at. And yes—she had to admit it—Scorpius Malfoy had helped her. And she owed him thanks. She wasn’t about to run away from it like a coward, however uncomfortable it was. The sooner it was done, the better.

“Malfoy!” she called. He turned, popping a bright-blue bean into his mouth. Rose took a deep breath and forced out the words that had been stuck in her throat all summer.

“Thank you... thank you for... for calming me down that day...” She rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly, watching him grimace—then half-smile.

“Ugh—Soap,” he muttered, as if to explain his expression. Then he looked at her again and shrugged. “Don’t worry about it, Weasley. Wasn’t a big deal. Except I had to head straight back to my tent to change my robes—you drenched them with tears and snot...”

Rose clenched her fists, ready to snap back, until he added, “Guess that means I owe you just one.”

“One? What are you on about?” she demanded, her temper sparking again.

He rolled his eyes and started walking away. “Once, you helped me with those jerks, Montague and Flint. Later, you made my housemates actually start noticing me. So now we’re even. I only owe you one favour.”

“I never said you had to repay me,” she shot back.

“Actually you did and you’ll never understand that I don’t like owing anyone anything.”

A heavy silence hung between them as Scorpius wandered off, tossing a blood-red bean into his mouth—which Rose could’ve sworn really did taste of blood. She stayed rooted to the spot, Chocolate Frogs clutched tight, a familiar scent still in her nose and a weight lifted off her chest... though she knew it wouldn’t last long.

“Oi, Weasley,” Scorpius called, turning back with a half-smile. “Nice plaits.”

And with that he walked off, leaving Rose scarlet as the bean he’d just eaten, clutching her sweets and swearing to herself she’d never wear her hair like that again. Because if Malfoy liked it, it couldn’t possibly be good—or pretty.

Chapter Text

If anyone had ever bothered to ask him, Hugo Weasley would’ve had the decency to answer. But since no one had ever taken the trouble, Ron’s youngest son had kept his opinions about how different he was from his sister—and the rest of the family—to himself.

For starters, if you went by looks, you could easily miss that he was a Weasley at all.

He could say, without fear of being wrong, that he’d inherited the best of both parents: the straight Weasley hair, but in the same chestnut shade as his mum’s, and big, calm blue eyes that were a mirror of his granddad Arthur’s. In other words—he wasn’t ginger. And that alone made him different.

If you judged him by character, though, things got even trickier. Hugo liked to stay still and unhurried, to take life at an easy pace and think twice before making a move. For him, life was a chess game: one bad move and the whole match could be lost.

He wasn’t fussy and bossy like his sister, nor chatty and prank-happy like his cousins. He wasn’t serious like Uncle Percy, or adventurous like Uncle Charlie. He wasn’t wildly curious like Granddad Arthur, or clever and sharp like Uncle George. Maybe he was intelligent, but nowhere near his mum or Uncle Bill, and honestly, he wasn’t even half as passionate about anything as his dad was. As for Quidditch and broomsticks—best not even mention them. His complete lack of interest meant there was no point comparing him with Aunt Ginny.

Yes. Hugo had realised all this from a very young age. He preferred staying in the sitting room watching telly. He hated being told to tidy his room. He could enjoy a bit of reading, sure, but not obsessively like Rose, and chasing after flying balls was never an option.

He preferred music and video games.
He preferred pizza to Grandma Molly’s Sunday roasts.
He preferred the soft comfort of the living-room sofa to the prickly garden outside.
He preferred to keep quiet and smile rather than explain to everyone that what they thought was fun or proper really wasn’t his thing.

For Hugo Weasley, life was like a chess match. And there he was, perched on a little wooden stool with the Sorting Hat on his head, the entire Great Hall watching, when he suddenly realised that destiny had just put him in checkmate:

“SLYTHERIN!”

Only when Neville gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder did the thin, pale Hugo finally stir and shuffle off, head down, to the far end of the Hall.

The sound of his footsteps towards his new house table was drowned out by the applause that followed a few stunned seconds of silence from everyone at the Welcome Feast.

All his cousins stared, dumbfounded, unable to believe what had just happened before their very eyes: after only a couple of seconds in his head, without the slightest hesitation, the Sorting Hat had sent none other than the son of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger straight to Slytherin.

One single word echoed in Hugo’s mind as he sat down among the other nervous first-years: Different. That was all the Hat had whispered to him. Different.

Professor McGonagall had to work harder than usual that year to quiet the whispers, only calming the Hall once Fiorella Zabini was sorted into Slytherin and the Ceremony finally drew to an end.

Curfew. No spells in the corridors. Stay out of the Forbidden Forest. The words floated in and out of Rose’s ears, barely registering as she still hadn’t recovered from the shock of what had just taken place. Her younger brother had been sorted into Slytherin, and that could only mean one thing: far from being a peaceful year, trouble was only just beginning.

She did her best to block out the voices of James, Dominique, Albus and the others, all muddling together in her head, because no matter how she tried to explain it logically, the only thing that made sense was that Hugo was practically designed to be a Gryffindor—or at a stretch, a Hufflepuff—but never, ever a Slytherin.

The chatter of the Gryffindor table faded into the background along with the roast beef and potatoes, fried chicken legs, plum sauce and treacle tarts. Rose still hadn’t touched a single bite, her eyes locked instead on the table across the Hall.

Hugo moved his fork from plate to mouth in a mechanical rhythm, barely looking at the people around him. His new housemates gave him the occasional glance before going back to their own business. Then Rose’s restless eyes drifted of their own accord, landing on the figure of Scorpius Malfoy, who was smiling faintly while Tim Bletchley rambled on beside him.

Why on earth was she looking at him just then? Why did she suddenly remember that annoying prat owed her a favour? Why did Flint and Montague’s cruelty spring to mind? Why did a simple phrase catch in her throat, choked by her pride? Why did she know that even if she had him alone at that very moment, she wouldn’t be able to say those words that stung her eyes with tears? Why would she ever say them, knowing she’d most likely get mocked for it? Why was she willing to say them anyway, even though it was utterly absurd?

“Malfoy, please look after my brother.”

By the time he reached the common room, Hugo’s head was a little clearer. If anyone had asked why he’d spent the whole feast staring so intently at his plate, he would’ve said it was simply because he’d been composing the letter he’d have to write later to his parents about the Sorting.

On the way down to the dungeons, he half-listened to his fellow first-years chatting about their families and the train ride to school. He tried to remember the route, but after down—left—right—down—right—right, he was completely lost among the grey, gloomy corridors that led to the dormitories.

They followed the prefect to the fireplace, where he pointed out the entrances to the boys’ and girls’ dorms. The little group scattered quickly, but Hugo lingered for a moment by the fire that lit up the wide room.

“Well, that was the shock of the night,” a mocking voice startled him, and he spun around to find a tall boy who looked a couple of years older. “A Weasley in Slytherin. We should see Weasley and Potter’s faces when we meet them tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother him, Tim,” came a quieter voice. A blond boy walked at his side, fixing Hugo with a piercing look. Hugo recognised him—Malfoy. He’d heard the name before…

“Oh, come on, Scorpius,” protested the first boy, only to shut up at once when a red-haired girl with a fierce scowl cuffed him on the head.

“All right, all right! I’ll drop it!” he said quickly.

“Thanks. You’ve just done the world a favour,” the girl muttered, giving Hugo a quick glance up and down before turning her back and heading off to the girls’ dorms with the others.

Hugo let out a breath of relief. That hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared. Walking ahead of them to the room that would be his for the next seven years, he allowed himself the faintest of smiles. He had to be strong, had to prove himself, had to face the challenges that were bound to come.

“Hey, Weasley…” a couple of older boys, heading for a different door than Malfoy and his mate, called out to him. “So which one of the millions of Weasleys are you the kid of?”

Laughter echoed down the narrow corridor, making his stomach twist.

“Or better yet—whose brother are you? There must be about a dozen in the castle already,” added an older student further down the hall.

Hugo summoned every bit of courage he had. He knew this was only the first of many tests.

“My parents are Ronald and Hermione Weasley,” he said firmly, “and my sister is Rose Weasley, in Gryffindor.”

The silence that followed was almost tangible. Dozens of eyes bored into him, as though it were impossible to believe that out of all the Weasleys cluttering up the wizarding world, those two were his parents.

So, while Hugo slipped quickly into the first-year boys’ dorm, a pair of grey eyes were still staring, wide as saucers, at the space he’d just vacated.

He was Rose Weasley’s brother.

“Can you believe that, Scor? Did you hear him? Rose Weasley’s brother!”

If it was Tim’s loud voice repeating it, then Scorpius knew his ears hadn’t been playing tricks on him.

He wasn’t entirely sure why, but the nagging sense that things were about to get much more complicated this year had just crystallised in that instant—far more than he liked. Meanwhile, Hugo fell asleep that night knowing that from now on his fight was only just beginning, because—as the Hat had told him—he was different. And to survive what was coming, he’d have to uncover strengths he didn’t yet know he had.

Chapter Text

The sun was slow to rise each morning, and the evenings were drawing in earlier and earlier. Autumn was slipping away, giving in to the chill of winter—cold enough to match the state of Rose Weasley’s relationship with her brother.

Frozen.

It wasn’t as though Rose could claim the family had shunned Hugo for ending up in Slytherin (though in truth, that reason would’ve been both racist and idiotic). But she couldn’t say things were the same as before, either.

Her mum wrote to her more often than usual, almost always to ask about Hugo. What Hermione didn’t realise was that Rose probably knew less about him than she did. Beyond their polite good-mornings and the odd run-in at the library, Rose hadn’t really spoken to her brother in months.

Why?

Because, for once, the girl who always had an answer had no idea what to say to him. Every topic of conversation had slipped through her fingers, and it felt as if everything they’d ever shared had vanished with it.

Hugo had grown distant, withdrawn, monosyllabic. It was like the brother she knew had died, and in his place stood this new boy she couldn’t reach.

The sound of books snapping shut around her jolted her back, and she realized Arithmancy class had just ended. Professor Vector was announcing the due dates for their next assignment and inviting them up to collect their latest marks.

“Seventy-one. Guess I should count myself lucky, eh, Rosie?” Jerry’s voice barely managed to drag her out of her thoughts as he waved his parchment without much interest.

“Rose, are you alright?” Marie asked, her brow creased with worry. Rose blinked a couple of times and forced a smile that fooled no one.

Then came a loud voice behind them, making them turn as they headed for the door.

“Hundred? Another hundred? Tell me what you’ve been eating, mate!” Tim Bletchley again—that unconventional Slytherin who loved being the centre of attention.

“Blaming food for grades? Only someone like you would think of that, Timothy.” Emily McDouall slung her bag over her shoulder and rolled her eyes while Scorpius, between them, almost smiled. “He eats the same as the rest of us. The difference is, you’ll be kicked out of this class if your marks don’t improve.”

“Oi!” But the rest of his protest was lost as the three moved ahead towards the Great Hall.

Jerry and Marie exchanged uneasy glances. Rose’s silence was unlike her, though they both knew why—and neither quite knew how to help. Jerry, raised Muggle, was only just beginning to grasp how much the Sorting mattered in a wizard’s life. Marie, with no siblings of her own, had no idea what to say. Both felt useless.

“Rosie, you never told us what you got in Aritmancy,” Jerry tried casually, hoping to break the awkward silence as they crossed the entrance hall, just as the first-years poured out of the dungeons, fresh from their double Potions lesson.

Both friends noticed how Rose’s eyes darted frantically, searching for her brother’s. She caught them—those deep blue eyes, sad and heavy— and Hugo looked back at her as he fumbled his books, letting them fall in a clumsy heap. His face flushed as he knelt to gather them, deliberately avoiding her gaze while the other Slytherins walked on.

And then her younger cousin Lily appeared, bouncing over with a grin. “You’re such an idiot,” she teased fondly, helping Hugo scoop up his things, ruffling his hair before darting after her own Housemates into the Great Hall.

That was when Rose wondered, for the very first time since term had begun:

Was it just her?

Was she the only one who thought Hugo’s Sorting had changed everything?

Had he stayed the same all along—was she the one who had changed?

She tried to follow him, but his brown hair vanished into the crowd pouring into the Hall.

“Sixty-eight,” she whispered, clutching her bag strap as tears stung her eyes.

“What?” Jerry frowned, resting a hand on her arm as he noticed her crying.

“I got a sixty-eight on the Aritmancy exam…” And before either of them could react, she bolted for the common room, bumping into startled students along the way.

Scorpius hadn’t moved. He stood rooted to the spot, watching until her bright red hair vanished at the far end of the corridor. Only then did Tim call back, shouting for him to hurry.

“Sixty-eight…” Scorpius muttered, shaking his head as his friends looked at him in confusion.

It hadn’t been the best of days for her, but by dinner time Rose knew she had to face her problems head-on, calling on every drop of Gryffindor courage she had.

She walked slowly from the common room towards the Great Hall, choosing the quietest corridors she could find to avoid another bombardment of questions like the one her cousin Albus had fired at her the moment he found out she’d been crying at lunch.

Rose rolled her eyes, thinking how excessively chatty Jerry and Marie could be sometimes. She paused, a little lost, trying to remember where the empty classroom on the fourth floor was meant to be, retraced the shortcut in her mind, and was just about to set off again when two figures appeared at the far end of the corridor.

“I told you this isn’t the way! We’ll never make it to dinner!” A familiar voice, already moaning about food, made her jump slightly.

“Weasley, I think it’s about time you realised we’re not going to the Great Hall until we find them.” Rose squinted to see who the shrill little voice belonged to—the one talking to her brother. She half-reached for her wand, ready to leap out and surprise them, but froze midway, hiding behind an old suit of armour to watch instead.

It was Fiorella Zabini, a Slytherin in Hugo’s year, probably a friend—and one of the many things Rose had never once spoken to him about. Tiny, almost doll-like, with delicate features, she looked like the sort of princess that lived in the Muggle fairy tales Rose had read as a child. Except Fiorella’s skin was a warm golden-brown rather than pale, flawless against her huge green eyes that gave her an air of mystery instead of kindness, nothing like Albus’s gentle gaze.

She was beautiful. And to say that about an eleven-year-old just from looking at her was enough to send a shiver down Rose’s spine.

“This is it!” Fiorella jabbed her finger at the classroom door—the very one Rose had been looking for earlier. “For Merlin’s sake, Hugo Weasley, hurry up!”

Watching her drag Hugo along reminded Rose of herself, back when she’d tried to boss him about. That boy could be impossibly exasperating.

“It had better be worth it…” Hugo muttered, all gloom and reluctance. “Whatever you’re buying had better be worth making me miss my food.”

And with that, they disappeared inside.

Buying? What on earth was he talking about? Had she just discovered that her little brother was sneaking off to buy something most definitely banned at school? Hugo, mixed up in some Hogwarts black market?

Every one of her alarms went off at once. Without a second thought she pushed the door open, wand in hand, ready to drag him away and scold him for hours.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” she burst out.

But what she saw was not what she’d expected.

Tim Bletchley stared at her, eyes wide as saucers, caught in the act of handing Fiorella a fistful of sugar quills and a box of extra-spicy chilli fudge. Rose froze, confused, and then spotted a fifth person in the room:

Scorpius Malfoy, sitting at one of the desks, a book open in front of him, now looking up at her with a puzzled expression.

“Weasley?” Tim blurted, still stunned by her dramatic entrance.

Rose had nothing clever to reply. She didn’t understand what was going on—and no one looked like they were going to explain.

“Come on, Hugo,” she said at last, slipping her wand back into her robes. But to her shock, her brother didn’t budge. In fact, he didn’t even look like he intended to.

“Hugo. Let’s go.”

He folded his arms, pouting, and for the first time in ages faced his sister head-on.

“You ignore me for weeks, and the first thing you do is start barking orders?” His words were sharp enough to make Scorpius raise his eyebrows in surprise. Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad idea to follow Tim on his little errand tonight.

“It’s not an order,” Rose sighed, stepping closer. “I just want us to leave. If we’re caught here in an illegal supply shop, we’ll both be in trouble.”

“Oi!” Tim protested, offended. “This isn’t an illegal supply shop! It’s an unlicensed branch of Honeydukes in Hogwarts!”

“Which amounts to the same thing,” Rose shot back, ever the rational one. She grabbed Hugo’s hand and began tugging him towards the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse us…”

“No!”

The shout was so fierce that everyone froze. Hugo had yanked his hand free, his face set with a seriousness none of them had expected.

The room went utterly silent. Fiorella, Tim, and Scorpius stood back, watching as the Weasley siblings locked eyes.

Rose flushed, her cheeks hot, and cleared her throat, trying to sound calmer.

“Hugo, I just want us to leave. That’s all. We could get into trouble here.”

But then, as if something inside him broke, the fury melted from his face, leaving behind only a deep sadness.

“You don’t care about my problems…” he whispered, forcing back tears with all his strength. Fiorella would tease him for weeks if she saw him cry.

Rose had no answer—because he was right. She’d been so wrapped up in worrying about what their parents would think, about how to handle him, about keeping up appearances, that she’d forgotten maybe Hugo was hurting too.

“I…” Her throat closed up. This was the conversation she’d been avoiding for months. Now she had to say something, anything to reassure Hugo— right there in front of him “I don’t care that you’re in Slytherin.”

Hugo gave her a look that said he didn’t believe a word. Offended, he clenched his fists, trying to hold back his anger.

“Of course you care. That’s why you won’t even look at me in the corridors. You think I’m some stranger dumped in the House everyone hates.” His voice rose, trembling with anger. “Well, I don’t care what you think. Or Mum, or Dad, or anyone else. I thought you would understand! Because you always wanted it! You wanted to be different!”

Everyone else blinked, confused. Tim paused mid-packing of sweets. Fiorella stepped closer, abandoning her stash on a desk. Scorpius finally shut his book and stood up, intent now on catching every word.

“Hugo—” Rose’s voice cracked, harsh with frustration. “Enough. Do what you like. Be with whoever you like. Belong to whatever House you like. You’re still my brother—even if the Sorting Hat dumped you into that pit of crawling serpents.”

The Slytherins bristled at the insult, Tim in particular ready to fire something back, but Rose ploughed on.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t care what happens to you. Maybe you belong there, because you’re just like them. Maybe we never noticed before what made you different.”

She turned sharply towards the door, heart hammering and fully aware of what she had just said—but not caring, not in that moment when Hugo had nearly blurted their deepest secret out—the ambition she’d buried deep, the constant drive to be perfect, the longing to be more than just her parents’ shadow..

“Different how? Dark wizard in training? Future revolutionary against the Ministry?”

Scorpius had stepped forward now, tall enough to make his presence unsettling, eyes cold and mocking. His gaze was sharp, challenging, intimidating. He smirked faintly at her discomfort, positioning himself squarely behind Hugo.

“If you’d be so kind, Weasley,” he drawled, voice sharp as a knife, “do enlighten me. What exactly do you mean by different? Being a Slytherin counts as freakish in your book, does it?”

He was defending Hugo. Protecting him. Against her.

“No… that’s not what I meant.” Rose’s voice shook, and it infuriated her even more that he could make her doubt herself.

But then Hugo spoke again, soft as a breath, as if the words escaped without him meaning them.

“No matter how hard you try, everyone still only sees you as their daughter. I just tried to be myself, and I managed it at the moment I got here. I’m sorry for you, Rose, but I’m proud to be a Slytherin.”

Rose stood frozen, abandoned, while Hugo was surrounded by his Housemates.

“You’re my brother…” she whispered, but the sobs broke her voice apart. Hugo’s blue eyes softened for a moment before he looked away and muttered:

“You don’t know me.”

And then Fiorella pressed a sugar quill into his hand with a smile, Scorpius shrugged, and Tim clapped him on the shoulder as they led him out—leaving Rose with the crushing certainty that she had just lost her only brother.

Chapter Text

There were always too many people in Diagon Alley. Always.

For Rose, shopping could easily be described as total torture, and considering it was Christmas Eve, being jostled in the narrow cobbled streets was completely inevitable.

Her mother insisted on doing Christmas shopping early to avoid moments like this, but it was a family tradition that everyone went together. Between her parents’ many obligations, they had had to postpone until the last possible moment.

As Rose scanned the Quidditch shop’s displays, she thought about her parents’ “Nothing happened here” attitude, never mentioning school, the Houses, or classes. Perhaps it was too difficult for them to accept. They had lived in a different era, dark times, times of fear. Though only two decades had passed, according to the book Malfoy had once lent her, it was as if the Sorting Hat picked the side you would support during the war. No doubt her parents were sure one of their children was on the wrong side.

Rose had no opinion. If it had been complicated for her—simply growing up hearing stories—she couldn’t judge her parents, uncles, grandparents, or any particular family member.

Despite everything, Hugo still wouldn’t speak to her, and after a couple of pathetic attempts to win him over, she had given up: he could be her brother, but he would not trample on her pride.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she passed Flourish & Blotts and noticed the store was empty enough to warm up a bit while browsing for an interesting book. Apparently, books weren’t many people’s preferred Christmas gift.

She hadn’t bought anything for Hugo yet and wasn’t in a hurry to do so, but once inside, she thought she could give him a book. It wasn’t what he expected, and that alone would annoy him enough.

Excited by the idea of buying the last gift, she got to work, and after half an hour alone, she reunited with her parents and brother in front of A Thousand Sweets and Other Marvels, her father’s favorite place to eat in all of Diagon Alley. He had told her that years ago, that very shop sold the best ice cream he had ever tasted. When she asked why it had closed, her father’s eyes seemed to travel back in time for a few seconds, and he gave her that fragile, slightly fake smile he always used when he didn’t want to talk about something.

“Finished with your shopping, Rosie?” Hermione asked. She nodded, showing her several bags from different shops while smiling and adjusting her red-and-gold scarf to keep the icy wind from sneaking through the crowd.

“Well, we’re done too,” her mother said, satisfied, while Hugo helped her with the packages. “Shopping can be really exhausting when you have such a big family…”

Rose wanted to point out that shopping was exhausting any time of year, but she refused to face The Look on her mother’s face as Hugo took the opportunity to tease her for getting angry.

“Let’s go! Dad must already be inside. I want waffles and ice cream and…” she rambled on, swinging the bags deliberately near her brother. She noticed her effort hadn’t been in vain when Hugo peeked inside the bag from the Muggle Tech shop: The Future Closer to Magic.

The restaurant was cozy, and it wasn’t hard to see why it was her father’s favorite: rustic finishes, brick walls, a lit fireplace—and the food was delicious. It was the perfect place to spend a winter afternoon.

Rose had no idea how ugly things were about to get.

“Mum, can I have dessert before lunch today?” Hugo asked hopefully, still just a child despite everything.

“Of course not, dear,” Hermione replied without lifting her eyes from the menu.

“Dad…?” he asked tentatively, seeking support.

“Your mother already answered you, Hugo.”

Rose smiled to herself while deciding on roast beef with potatoes and closing the menu. After all these years, her brother still couldn’t manage to eat his double waffles with triple ice cream and berry-chocolate topping first.

“At school, he starts with treacle tarts and candied fruits, then tries the real food,” Rose recited, leaning on her elbows and forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t speaking to Hugo. “What are we going to do with this little glutton?”

Hugo shot her a furious look, and her parents looked surprised. At first she didn’t understand, then it hit her: she had just touched the family taboo—Hogwarts.

The first thing she noticed was her father blushing slightly and giving Hermione an inscrutable look, whose brow furrowed ever so slightly. She resolved to act as if nothing had happened because, in truth, nothing had… or at least that was what she convinced herself.

She decided to resume life as it had been before, forgetting not to mention the castle, school, or classes—and even Neville—just because Mrs. Molly Weasley insisted it would make Hugo uncomfortable. Hermione, however, didn’t quite share her mother-in-law’s opinion.

“Hugo, is what your sister says true? You’re eating well, aren’t you?” Hermione asked. Hugo rolled his eyes and muttered tersely:

“Of course I’m eating well,” he added with a hint of venom. “Don’t believe Rose.”

Ron frowned at his son, something in Hugo’s tone sounded different, and by Merlin, he didn’t like it one bit. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t remember seeing them talk since arriving home for the holidays.

“Oh, Hugo, don’t speak that way to your sister. You know she wants the best for you,” Ron said, subtly signaling the waitress to take their order. “Right, Rose?”

She stayed quiet, glanced at her brother for a few seconds, and gave a small dramatic smile. Hugo just snorted, wondering why Rose could never be honest with herself and her feelings even once.

He turned his blue eyes to his mother, who now wore That Look.

“And how are your classes going?” Hermione finally asked, after days of stoically avoiding the topic.

“Fine,” Hugo replied. Hermione raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Just fine? That’s all?” she said, looking to the waitress. “For me, roast lamb with mint sauce and butterbeer, please,” she returned her gaze to Hugo. “Surely you have more to tell me.”

“Maybe I need to study more Herbology , Transfiguration went terribly in the first exams. Astronomy is brilliant, and Charms I’ve got at 100%. I even manage to stay awake through all History of Magic lessons. Defense Against the Dark Arts is the best, and if those foolish Gryffindors hadn’t tossed a feather in my cauldron, I’d have had the highest Potions grade in my class.”

The silence was almost tangible around the table. Ron had paused halfway through explaining how he liked his roast pork to stare at his son in disbelief.

“You know what? Bring me a Firewhiskey first, then go for the rest of the order,” he said. The girl seemed confused but quickly left.

Hugo didn’t initially realize what he had done. In his common room, he and his friends had spent hours discussing it: a pathetic attempt to make his cauldron explode and end class—but it worked. He hadn’t spoken to Lily since.

Realizing his mistake, he lowered his head as usual, waiting for the consequences. Hermione knew this was a delicate subject for Ron and didn’t say a word when her husband—who never drank in front of the children—gulped the drink the waitress had just left on the table.

“You shouldn’t blame others that way, Hugo,” Ron said, searching for the right words after a long sigh. “I’m glad you’re doing well, and I know your Transfiguration grades will rise. Don’t worry, it wasn’t my strong suit either.”

Hermione looked at Ron tenderly, knowing the effort involved. What she didn’t expect was that her son wasn’t willing to give in.

“Thanks, Dad,” Hugo began, lifting his head slowly, looking toward his sister with mischief. “But I blame them, because that’s how it happened. Some Gryffindors just can’t stop messing with me.”

“Hugo…” Hermione warned. Rose, if she noticed at all, looked at him over the menu, only managing:

“I can see the influence of your new friends…”

“Rose!” Hermione exclaimed, careful not to raise her voice.

Rose rolled her eyes and looked at her father, who was pale as parchment. She didn’t want to tell them about her argument with Hugo, or that she hadn’t spoken to him since, nor about the fight Lily had had with him over the Potions incident, or that James and Dominique had hexed his green scarf to Gryffindor red and called him “Slyffindor” an entire week. He hadn’t spoken to them either.

Hermione was about to intervene when Rose caught her intentions and spoke before she could:

“It wasn’t really against you,” she began casually, and both parents looked at her in confusion. “I mean the Potions thing. They just wanted to pull a prank and leave class early. According to Lily, her friends put the feather in your cauldron because it was the closest one—it had nothing to do with the ‘Slyffindor’ thing…”

“Rose, for Merlin’s sake! What did you just say?” Hermione exclaimed, scandalized, and Rose just shrugged.

“This has gotten out of hand…” Ron muttered, running his hands through his hair. “Putting this conversation of wasn’t a good idea, and we need to talk seriously with your cousins…”

Hugo was about to retort when the waitress returned for their order. Rose skillfully interrupted, ordering her roast beef and a cherry milkshake.

“Mint-sauce lamb, hunter-style roast pork, roast beef, two butterbeers, and a cherry milkshake. Anything else? Will the boy order something?”

“How about you bring me another drink and come back for my son’s order?” Ron said, his patience clearly running thin. Once the girl left, Hermione quickly exclaimed:

“Ronald! Please…” He just shrugged, crossed his arms, and said nothing.

Rose knew nothing good would come of her mother asking about that strange hybrid word she had used earlier. She tried to evade and ramble a little, but she was facing one of the brightest minds of the century, you couldn’t just trick Hermione Weasley. Resigned, she sighed and said three words that explained everything—or at least almost everything:

“James and Dominique.”

“We definitely need to talk to your cousins,” Ron said.

Hugo was in a terrible mood. All his hunger had vanished, replaced by rage toward his sister, as if she wanted to make him look foolish in front of their parents—and she was doing quite well.

The first term had been hard enough without having to deal with his cousins calling him a crybaby in the second. He let his bad mood show; he wasn’t as good as his housemates at hiding his thoughts and feelings, though they had tried to teach him.

Things then moved fast. Hugo noticed That Look in his father’s eyes—that special kind of sad gaze always held a mixture of condescension and disappointment, a look reserved just for him. A feeling that revealed his father’s immense love, but also reminded him that he wasn’t exactly the son his father had hoped for.

It had been like that before. When, at five, he had cried about not wanting to learn to fly on a broom. When he had complained about wearing a Chuddley Cannons kit. When he had refused to continue testing the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes spell pranks.

That Look from his father now was as unpleasant as the look his mother gave Rose—but that wasn’t his problem.

He was sure that his father’s blue eyes—a trait they shared—had drowned in disappointment when he read the letter Hugo had sent on September 1st:

Dear Mum and Dad,
I’m in Slytherin.
Love, Hugo.

He wasn’t very good with letters. That much he knew.

Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse, and as the waitress returned to take the undecided order, someone called his name:

“Hugo Weasley!”

He turned and saw Fiorella walking quickly toward the table. For a moment, he didn’t want her to get any closer and stood to meet her.

“I didn’t see you, I was having lunch with my parents. Have you got me my Christmas present yet, birdbrain?”

“Yes, I have…” he muttered, smiling to see a friendly face outside Hogwarts. And being called birdbrain was among the best in her repertoire. Then he noticed a tall, dark man approaching from behind her, and a woman walking beside him—presumably her parents.

“Ella, we’ve got to go,” said the man, eyes intimidating, giving Hugo a thorough visual inspection.

Hugo blinked, unsure of what to say. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder:

“Hugo, say goodbye to your friend,” Ron gently said.

“See you at Hogwarts, Ella,” he said, playfully repeating the diminutive his father had used. He saw her tense but she restrained herself. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Weasley,” she replied, arms crossed and brimming with disdain—which wasn’t much.

Ron’s eyes met those of Blaise Zabini, who wore the exact same expression as his own. In no parallel universe had either of them imagined such a situation.

Back at the table, the impatient waitress was tapping her heel, ready to take the last order.

“Have you decided what you’re ordering?” she prodded. Hugo nodded:

“The same as Dad.”

Hermione and Rose exchanged a look and smiled. The waitress scribbled it down quickly with her Quick-Quotes Quill, but before she could leave, Ron added:

“But first, double waffles with triple scoops of ice cream, topped with blackberry and chocolate sauce, and a shower of sprinkles.”

The three others gaped at Ron, who sipped from his whiskey, smiling at his wife, just as she was about to protest. “Hermione, love, it’s Christmas.”

Her expression softened slightly as her husband kissed her on the cheek. Rose watched Hugo’s joyful face. Even though he still wasn’t speaking to her, his smile gave her the same sense of serenity and joy as always.

That night, Christmas Eve, they didn’t go to the Burrow. Their grandparents had traveled to Romania three weeks earlier to meet Uncle Charlie. Ginny and Hermione tried to prepare a holiday feast worthy of Molly while Harry and Ron made sure not to crush their expectations.

Rose had just left her room and noticed Hugo wasn’t in his. The door was open, and his usual mess had been slightly reduced—they’d only been home for a week.

She noticed little Hercules—an ironic name for her brother’s owl, barely able to lift heavy loads—perched and ready for travel, wings spread and eyes bright.

She approached the desk and saw a beautiful eagle feather, half-wrapped in red paper with a green bow. One of Rose’s greatest flaws was curiosity, as the Sorting Hat had once told her. She unfolded a letter beside the package and was surprised by its contents:

Dear Scorpius Malfoy,
First of all, happy birthday. I hope you like the gift. Mum helped me pick it out.
Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me. I think you were right about what you wrote.
I also think things will get better. I have the impression Dad didn’t take it as badly as I thought at first.
If you can, say hi to Bletchley and McDouall for me.
Merry Christmas,
Hugo Weasley
P.S. Do your parents give double gifts as your birthday falls on Christmas Eve?

Rose couldn’t move. She didn’t know what was more shocking: that her brother had written a letter of more than fifteen words, that it was to Scorpius Malfoy of all people, or that it came with a birthday gift.

As she was leaving, Hugo caught her and, of course, got very angry.

“What were you doing here?” Rose looked around, trying to act casual.

“I think I got lost…”

“Rose!” Hugo shouted, and she dashed down the stairs before he could throw a tantrum.

Dinner was good, after Uncle Harry scolded his kids about “Slyffindor,” James swore not to bother little Hugo, and Lily cried, blaming him for always being with the, quote, “Stuck-up, nasty, and spoiled Zabini girl.”

When it came time for presents, many were surprised.

Rose was left speechless when she unwrapped a Nimbus 3000 Asteroid Professional, version 2.0, well hidden under the tree with a Disillusionment Charm. A gift from her father.

She wasn’t surprised by Hermione’s gift: rectangular package. It has to be books. She gave a faint smile and muttered, “Thanks, Mom.”

“Open it, Rosie…” Hermione urged, with That Look she always gave her and that Rose hated, making her feel she was never good enough—a mix of longing and yearning.

Her mother’s eyes held the same look she gave whenever Rose annoyed Hugo or spoke of Quidditch with Dad, or insisted on riding a broom. They could be equally brilliant, smart, and stubborn, yet so different. Rose knew that despite Hermione’s love, she would never be the daughter her mother wished for.

That Look her mother was giving her now was every bit as unbearable as the Look her father gave Hugo. But at least that wasn’t her problem.

Rose carefully unwrapped the gray box from Hermione—it wasn’t a book but a video camera.

She was confused, since Hugo was the one who loved gadgets like this, but she smiled at her mother’s effort.

“You should turn it on…” Hugo muttered, eager to get his hands on Rose’s gift, even though he wasn’t speaking to her.

“Your brother is right,” said Ron with a conspiratorial smile.

So Rose did. Seeing the HD images on the screen, her eyes filled with tears, hands trembling.

She handed the camera to Hugo, who accepted it delightedly, mouth agape as he saw the footage.

Rose threw her arms around her mother’s neck, sobbing out words of thanks along with her tears. She didn’t know how Hermione had managed to get hold of a Muggle recording of that summer’s Quidditch World Cup final—only that she had, and that it was something Rose never would have expected

Hermione held her tight, stroking her hair gently, while Rose cried—not for the gift itself, but because she had just realised that, to her mother, she was finally becoming Rose. Just Rose. Nothing more, nothing less.

Ron watched from the corner of his eye as Hugo turned on his new tablet—Mum’s gift—and a new portable game— Rose’s present, after deciding that no book deserved the cruel fate of belonging to her brother.

Then Ron pushed an old, battered box towards Hugo, who looked up in surprise.

“You know? It’s an old family heirloom… I learned to play with it myself, and it’s even older than I am. I think it’s time it was yours.”

Hugo was speechless as he lifted his father’s treasured chess set. He couldn’t believe Ron was giving it to him. They had other sets, but this one had been retired long ago for its age. Still, if there was one thing Ron could be certain of, it was that his son would treasure it.

“Thanks, Dad…” Hugo forced himself not to cry as he opened the box and set up the pieces for a match with his father, while Rose and Hermione chatted about a book and watched the match replay together.

“I don’t think I ever told you I’ve seen your common room, the Slytherin common room…” Ron began, moving a white pawn.

“How is that possible?” Hugo asked, curious.

“Well, it’s a long story, and as you might guess, your mother and Uncle Harry had a lot to do with it…”

Hugo and Rose listened to a story, lacking many details about their parents’ second-year Christmas at school. Yet they felt happy and content, because even though there were many things pulling them apart, those very things also drew them closer. The ties between parent and child are stronger than that.

And while their conversations didn’t need to be about Houses, Hogwarts, or Quidditch—their shared joy over a good book or a heated chess match was enough.

It might not be perfect, they all thought, but it was their family. And for all their flaws, none of them would have traded it for the world.

Chapter Text

Climate change was taking its toll on the wizarding world too—there was no doubt about that. From the window of the Ancient Runes classroom you could see the Black Lake frozen into a slab of stone, while the snow in the gardens melted away under a sun veiled by clouds, even though it was mid-February. The weather had gone completely mad.

Rose absently stroked her chin with the beautiful eagle-feather quill she’d got from her brother for Christmas, her gaze drifting over the dirty patches of snow still visible from the tower where she was sitting through her last class of the week.

If she ignored the fact that Hugo had given Scorpius Malfoy the exact same present, she might even have called it a thoughtful gesture. But from her point of view, matching gifts meant matching levels of affection—and she would never forgive her brother for putting her on the same rung as Scorpius Malfoy.

With a small sigh she shut her dictionary and glanced sideways at Albus, who was frantically finishing his own translation. Apparently, she was the only one who had already completed the assignment. Her eyes flicked to the twenty inches of “surprise” work Professor Babbling had set them—extra credit for the end-of-year exams—and then back to the window.

She traced the quill over her neck again and closed her eyes. She was tired, that much was true, and this was one of those rare days she just wanted to be over. Days like this reminded her she was, undeniably, growing up.

Friday, 14 February 2020. Hogwarts was in uproar; it wasn’t a normal day, and Rose had wished with all her heart that it were.

Opening her eyes, she took in the desperate faces of most of her classmates, racing the clock to finish their essays. Then she felt it—that prickling sense of being watched. Turning her head, she spotted Malfoy and McDouall a few rows back.

Emily McDouall was frantically flipping through her dictionary, chewing on her quill. A perfectly normal scene. Scorpius, on the other hand, had propped his chin lazily in his palm, finished with his work, eyes fixed forward but—she told herself—not on the back of her neck.

Well, at least that’s what she told herself as she turned back and left him exactly as she’d found him. Valentine’s Day was a complicated business, no doubt about it. Especially when you “accidentally” stumbled, more than once, on couples hidden away in shadowy corridors.

She cringed at the memory, cursing herself for being naïve enough to follow James and Dominique’s “helpful” advice that morning—nothing but dirty tricks to send them into the most popular snogging spots. She blushed at the thought that all three times it had happened, she’d been with Albus and Jerry. It couldn’t have been more mortifying.

All that business with boys and dating—Rose had always left it to Victoire. She was older, had a boyfriend, and was beautiful (no point denying it)…

The truth was, the kinds of couple-y “moments” Rose had glimpsed up until now were nothing like what her innocent eyes had witnessed in just one morning.

With a small huff she set her quill down; the tickle against her skin had suddenly become unbearable. She pressed her palms together and stared out the window, wondering what it would feel like, all the things she’d just seen.

She hated to admit it, but she was curious—how did people even do that with their mouths?

Meanwhile, Scorpius tore his eyes away from the back of Rose Weasley’s neck—because that’s exactly where they’d been—and tried to force his thoughts elsewhere. Happier thoughts, simpler situations, anything but the “night-time incidents” he’d been dealing with lately.

He folded his arms on the desk and dropped his head into them, catching Emily’s glance before she quickly went back to her essay.

He was exhausted. His sleep had been shrinking away bit by bit, partly from studying, partly from the insomnia creeping in around the edges.

He didn’t like admitting it, but dreaming had become uncomfortable since the start of term. Bedtime was his enemy now—almost entirely thanks to his subconscious.

Dreaming about girls, dreaming about grown women, wild fantasies—none of it had fazed him. But after coming back from the Christmas holidays and dreaming about her… that was different.

Tim’s morning jokes about the “surprises” in their trousers weren’t unusual or even annoying. But that January night, while his roommates were snoring, Scorpius had woken up in a panic and—well—had a mess to clean up.

He’d cursed himself that day, and again now, for bringing it back to mind. He couldn’t remember the exact content of his fantasies, only that they involved Rose Weasley and parts of their anatomy that should never meet.

He wanted to bang his head on the desk, but that would definitely draw attention—and besides, it wasn’t the sort of behaviour his mother would call “proper” for a young gentleman.

He hated to admit it, but things that had never mattered to him before had started to matter far too much.

“I can’t believe it—I mean, twenty inches! That woman’s completely mad! She didn’t even warn us…” Albus looked utterly defeated as they made their way back to the common room. Rose wanted to say something comforting, but honestly, that kind of thing had never been her strength.

They walked slowly through the corridors, taking the shortest route to the Tower, though a sulking cousin wasn’t exactly great company. Passionate and moody—that was how Rose would best describe her best friend.

“Hey, why don’t we go and visit Hagrid before it gets dark?” she suggested, playing her last card. Her brown eyes lifted to meet her cousin’s sulky face, and she was relieved to see the hint of a smile. She stared at him for a few seconds and almost startled herself by realising that when he smiled, her cousin actually looked… rather nice.

“Alright, why not,” he said, cheered up now, unaware that Rose had suddenly gone pale. He hooked his arm through hers, and together they turned off towards the grounds. “I just hope that cooking course Aunt Hermione signed him up for has finally softened those biscuits of his.”

“So do I…” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder. For the first time, she truly understood what people meant about hormones and adolescence. The only thing she was certain of was that this whole business was bound to cause her trouble sooner or later.

Visiting the old gamekeeper was as fun as ever. He told them hilarious stories, shared wild old adventures, and offered chocolate chip biscuits that were—miraculously—edible. Apparently, Hermione’s efforts had paid off.

“Well now, you two, it’s about time you headed back to the castle,” Hagrid said, glancing out the window at the sunset. “You’ll want a good night’s sleep. Big trip to Hogsmeade tomorrow, after all…”

Rose had almost forgotten about that—almost.

Most of the third-years were excited for the weekend outing. She wouldn’t have called herself the exception, but with all the Arithmancy, Runes, and Transfiguration work piling up, she thought it might be wiser to spend the day in the library catching up.

Dinner passed quietly. It was a normal Friday at Hogwarts—or at least, it would’ve been, if not for the buzz of excitement about the next day’s Valentine’s weekend trip.

When Albus hurried off with Jerry to show him something “really important,” and Marie stumbled after them, Rose let them disappear beneath the starry night toward the Owlery.

She wandered slowly toward the common room, ready to think about what to do the next day—but she didn’t get far before a pair of Slytherin boys stepped into her path.

“Wee Weasley! We’ve been looking for you for ages,” said Cadmus Flint, appearing at her right side and grabbing her bag as if to carry it for her.

“Missed us, haven’t you? Go on, admit it,” Luke Montague slung an arm casually over her shoulders as they started walking with her. Rose rolled her eyes and tried to ignore the shiver that ran down her spine. “It’s the OWLs’ fault—have us studying all the time!”

The situation might’ve looked strange—and it was—but at some point last year, they’d struck a sort of truce. Nobody, absolutely nobody, knew about it.

Rose couldn’t say exactly when it had happened, but she suspected it began in the library, when they’d sat at her table and refused to move. So she’d sat with them, and hadn’t moved either, despite their awful jokes.

It probably helped that she was always ahead in her subjects, which made it easy to help them with a Potions essay, a Transfiguration paper, and a History of Magic project. By the start of the new school year, they’d become surprisingly civil towards her. Eventually, she’d even dared to ask about her brother. Since Christmas, they’d been her informants on Hugo Weasley’s every move.

Thanks to them, she knew that after a few minor hexes and jelly-legs incidents, Hugo had grown close to Fiorella Zabini and Linus Derrick, that he had a weakness for smuggled sugar quills before dinner, and that he mostly avoided older students—except for his bizarre friendship with that “wimp Scorpius Malfoy.”

If James or Dominique ever found out she had a pseudo-friendship—a “cordial acquaintance,” really—with two Slytherins who were also her family’s rivals in practically everything, they’d flay her alive and brand her a traitor before the entire Gryffindor table. But to be fair, she’d learned that being in Slytherin didn’t automatically make someone… unpleasant. And if she was being really honest, she mostly meant Luke Montague.

“What do you want?” she sighed, stopping in the corridor. She wasn’t about to lead them all the way to Gryffindor Tower.

“This is the part where we’re meant to be offended, Luke,” Cadmus said, feigning injury. “Wee Weasley thinks that every time we come looking for her, it’s because we want something…”

“Well, she’s not entirely wrong—but since we’re offering something in return, I suppose she’ll say yes,” Luke grinned, blue eyes glinting with mischief, and Rose felt momentarily light-headed. “You know I’m hopeless at Potions.”

“And at Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures…” Cadmus ticked them off on his fingers, making Rose smile despite herself—not that it was entirely true. Luke actually had a talent for spellwork. Studying Charms and Transfiguration with him had been great practice; it let her get miles ahead of her classmates—well, one classmate in particular.

“Anyway…” Luke waved a hand dismissively. “OWLs are coming up, and we’ll be studying Sunday morning from nine in the Potions classroom.” Rose opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “Slughorn’s already given permission. I need your help—obviously—since Flint here isn’t exactly a genius.”

Rose hesitated, but honestly, she didn’t have anything better planned for the weekend. She could always come up with an excuse later for Albus and the others.

She nodded slowly, shrugging a little—only to be met with one of Montague’s dazzling smiles. She began to seriously question what was wrong with her. Flint dropped her bag back onto her shoulder and started off, with Luke following.

Then, snapping out of her daze—brought on by Merlin-knew-what—she remembered what Luke had said.

“Oi! You said I’d get something in return…” The two boys exchanged grins; clearly, they hadn’t planned that far. Luke walked back towards her, glanced at Flint, who was watching with one raised eyebrow, and leaned in close enough for only her to hear.

“Are you going to Hogsmeade tomorrow?” he asked softly. Rose blinked a few times, not quite following—until the idea hit her like a Bludger, making her cheeks burn. “Maybe I could buy you a couple of butterbeers. See you, Weasley.”

And with one last grin, he jogged off to join Flint, who looked utterly baffled.

Rose stood frozen in place until they vanished down the corridor. After a moment of overanalysing every detail, she reached a perfectly reasonable conclusion: it was all a huge misunderstanding.

“Arrogant git,” she muttered under her breath as she made her way to the common room. “As if a couple of butterbeers were enough payment for a whole morning of tutoring.”

And with that thought—and still pink in the cheeks—she walked on until the Fat Lady’s portrait appeared before her. Without stopping to greet anyone, she headed straight for her dormitory.

It was a nice day—or at least, as nice as it could be when the sun was shining weakly behind heavy clouds that clearly promised a freezing sleet storm.
The Gryffindor third-year girls were already dressed and ready to head down for breakfast, except for one who was still staring at the neatly folded clothes in her trunk.

Valery Wilson stepped out of the bathroom, her long blond hair perfectly brushed, and looked at Rose curiously. She walked over and asked kindly,
“Need help picking something to wear today? Maybe something special to look extra pretty? It’s the Valentine’s trip, after all.”

The redhead turned to explain there was absolutely no reason to want to look “extra pretty,” but Marie got there first.

“I don’t think so. Rose isn’t going to Hogsmeade today.” She gave her friend a pointed look while tying her dark hair into a high ponytail. When Rose said nothing, she added, a bit uncertainly, “Unless you’ve changed your mind, of course…”

If there was one thing Marie Hanks found unbearable about Rose Weasley, it was her maddening tendency to keep everything to herself. Over time, though, she’d learned to live with it—and even started to admire it. Marie could never keep her mouth shut; being called nosy or indiscreet didn’t bother her much. But after nearly three years of friendship with Rose, she’d learned when to stay quiet—and that was progress.

“I thought about it again,” Rose said, pulling a yellow blouse from the bottom of her trunk and trying her best to sound casual. “Maybe it’s better if I go and grab a few Sugar Quills for Hugo. He’s been obsessed with them since he got to Hogwarts.”

Marie bit her tongue. She wanted to point out that Rose hadn’t spoken to her brother properly since the start of the school year—and there was no way she’d know what sweets he liked anymore. She frowned at Rose, who clearly caught the message but pretended not to.

“Oh, well…” Valery murmured, shifting her attention to the yellow blouse. She smiled sweetly and said, “You might want to skip that colour—it washes you out a bit, and it doesn’t really go with your hair. Try something beige or brown instead.”

She left the dorm, but not before hearing Marie start:
“Thank Merlin, someone else is trying to talk some sense into you about the colour yellow.”
Rose dug through her clothes again, ignoring what she knew was coming.
“So, Hugo’s into Sugar Quills, huh?”

Rose knew Marie didn’t stop being curious—she became insufferable when she smelled a secret. So she tried to explain as quickly and vaguely as possible.

By the time she finished, Marie was sitting on her bed, staring at her in disbelief. Because whether the story began with a polite chat with two older Slytherins or ended with an invitation for butterbeer, it still made absolutely no sense.

Marie walked over and threw her arms around her friend, squeezing her tight before stepping back to look at her like she’d never seen her before. Rose tried to wriggle free, but Marie held firm. Then Rose realized she was crying—or about to—and got genuinely alarmed.

“Marie… are you okay?” she asked, startled. Marie nodded, grinning wickedly through her tears.

 “You’re human! I honestly doubted it, but I see now I was wrong!” Rose was about to tell her she was completely mental when her sharp-tongued friend dropped four words that froze her on the spot.

 “You like Luke Montague.”

Walking through the icy cobbled streets with her friends later that morning, Rose was fairly sure like wasn’t the right word. She could admit she found it fascinating that a Slytherin boy could be so smart, funny, and kind all at once.

When she’d tried to explain this to Marie earlier, her friend only smirked and pointed out how interesting it was that Rose could now see all his virtues—when they both knew Luke had a long history of arrogance and bullying weaker students. Not to mention how much he’d tormented them in first year.
“But I’ll give you this—he’s ridiculously good-looking,” Marie had said, ending the debate there.

Rose knew she’d never get used to talking about boys. The whole subject seemed so trivial—how could anyone find it that interesting all the time?
Still, she was relieved when they finally met up with Albus and Jerry, putting an end to the entire discussion.

The weather got worse, and the sun didn’t shine for a second as the tide of Hogwarts students flooded the little village. Every shop was packed, and there wasn’t a single place to go without being shoved or stepped on.
Except one.

“I say we head to the Shrieking Shack,” Marie suggested, eyeing the haunted structure in the distance and immediately catching the attention of Albus, Jerry, and Ralph—who’d joined them at the gate.
Rose shot her a look of pure disapproval, but Marie pressed on before she could object. “We should go while Rose is actually staying in town. Remember last time? She said the snow would make it too hard to get back.”

“Hey! There was a blizzard last time!” Rose protested, indignant at being painted the killjoy. That’s when Jerry frowned and asked,

“Wait—Rose is staying? Since when? We all know she’s terrified of that place.”

“Jerry!” Rose snapped immediately.

“Rosie? Oh, she’s got to buy Sugar Quills for Hugo. He loves them, you know—ever since he got to Hogwarts,” Marie said smoothly, grinning at Rose’s glare. In truth, Rose had already decided not to meet Luke after all—which, of course, made Marie lose her mind.

Albus looked confused and asked, “So, you and your brother made up then?”

Rose clenched her fists, spun on her heel, and started walking toward the village—more precisely, toward the Three Broomsticks—realizing she’d lost the battle to her devious friend.

“Yes, Albus. We’re perfectly fine,” she muttered, cheeks burning. “We’ll talk later, Marie.”

“Can’t wait!” came the teasing reply. Rose didn’t see it, but Marie was grinning wickedly as she dragged the boys toward the Most Haunted Place in Britain.

Rose grumbled under her breath, already dreading the excuse she’d have to come up with once Albus realized Hugo still wasn’t speaking to her. She walked alone down the path to Hogsmeade, which felt eerily emptier than on her two failed attempts to reach the haunted house—both, incidentally, her idea to turn back.

The sky looked darker than before, clouds churning like angry smoke and tinting the horizon in heavy shades of grey that promised a blizzard.
She cursed quietly and quickened her pace. The hedges and trees flanking the road gave her a bad feeling, and before she could think more about it, the sleet began to fall—icy and relentless.

She hurried toward the nearest shop she could see through the curtain of rain, but within seconds, she realized her mistake. The sleet hit the cobblestones and froze instantly, turning everything into a trap.
One bad step, and she slipped—crashing to her knees into a cold, dirty puddle right outside Honeydukes. As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, when she tried to stand, her hands slid on the ice, and she fell face-first into the slush.

Normally, she’d be mortified, busy brushing herself off and pretending it never happened. But everyone else was too busy running for cover to notice.
Almost everyone.

She looked up—and met a pair of grey eyes watching her from the top of the stairs, beneath the small awning of the shop.
She wanted to snap, “What are you staring at, Malfoy?” but the storm picked up again, making it impossible to speak.

Soaked to the bone, she peeled off her drenched cloak while Scorpius Malfoy looked at her as if he were holding his breath—or maybe his soul. She tried to stand on her own as he moved toward her, clearly intending to help. No, she couldn’t owe him another favour. Her pride wouldn’t allow it.
She got up, mud and snow clinging everywhere, clutching her useless wet cloak that now reeked faintly of sludge.

And just when she thought her day couldn’t get any worse, she found herself face to face with the last person she wanted to see. Her ears burned as she remembered Luke was probably waiting for her—and here she was, a shivering mess.

Scorpius didn’t look away. It wasn’t like Rose Weasley to look helpless, and something in him wanted to help her. Or at least until she shrugged off her winter cloak—at which point he froze solid.
He could hear a group of sixth-year Hufflepuffs leaving the shop and, acting on instinct, he moved before thinking.

He didn’t say a word—his mouth opened, then closed again, colour rushing to his cheeks. Before Rose could even react, he had thrown his black cloak over her shoulders—yes, her shoulders—and pulled her into the narrow alley beside Honeydukes, just in time to get them out of sight.

It was then she realized her beige blouse had gone completely see-through from the sleet. That’s what she got for taking fashion advice from Valery Wilson.

“I think you’d better head back to the castle,” Scorpius muttered, still staring determinedly in the opposite direction. “Can’t fix it with magic—we’d get caught.”

“I… uh… thanks,” she stammered, cheeks scarlet. This boy had an uncanny knack for being around her in the worst possible situations. She didn’t even want to imagine what might’ve happened if Luke had seen her like this.

She froze again when she heard the group of boys leaving the shop. They whistled and shouted things she refused to repeat, seeing them so close together in the narrow alley. Rose sighed—so much for that butterbeer invitation.
She turned her head away, pretending to focus on the icy puddles at her feet, as the sleet hardened into a crystal layer around them.

Scorpius felt the steady drip of water behind him, seeping through his clothes, and glanced at Rose, who seemed utterly fascinated by the ground.

He hadn’t even wanted to go to Hogsmeade that day. He’d gone only because his friends insisted—and then chose to explore the Shrieking Shack, directly disobeying his father’s “never go near that place” rule. So he stayed behind.
Now he regretted it completely.

They weren’t trapped like last time, but the feeling was eerily similar. A moment neither of them had planned, but that fate—or bad luck—had forced them to share. She finally looked at him, and Scorpius saw something raw in her eyes—embarrassment, not her usual pride. That, maybe, was why he decided to speak.

“Maybe I could walk you back. If you don’t want to go alone…”
Rose wasn’t thinking about Luke anymore. Or her clothes. Or even Malfoy. She just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. She nodded awkwardly.
“Sure. Besides, I’ll need my cloak back anyway.”

They stepped out from under the awning together, into the biting mix of rain and snow. Their clothes clung to their skin, heavy and freezing, as they trudged up the path. The walk back to the castle felt longer than ever. Few students were leaving town now; most were crammed inside the shops, clinging to the warmth spilling through the doors.

Rose never imagined that Scorpius Malfoy would help her like that—least of all on that day. She pulled his cloak tighter around her shoulders as drops of water slid down her flushed face and snowflakes tangled in her red hair.

She thought of Marie and the others, probably trapped in the Shrieking Shack by now. Then of Luke—who, if it hadn’t all been a misunderstanding, was likely still waiting at the Three Broomsticks. And finally, she thought of Scorpius Malfoy, of all people, and how she had to run—literally—into him of all people, right at Honeydukes’ door.

She turned her head slightly, watching how half-melted snowflakes clung to his soaked blond hair. He was shivering, jaw clenched, drenched to the bone. She couldn’t understand why he’d helped her, considering they barely even tolerated each other.

She looked ahead again. The path was nearly empty, and every gust of wind felt like knives cutting through her skin. She couldn’t feel her nose or her hands anymore, frozen stiff beneath the borrowed cloak.

Scorpius hugged himself, stuffing his hands into his tunic’s inner pockets, sneaking glances at her flushed face as the castle finally came into view. He hadn’t expected the storm, hadn’t imagined freezing to death—and definitely hadn’t expected to realize, through her soaked jumper, that he could see Rose Weasley’s underwear.

 They heard muffled voices behind them—probably another group of students heading back. At the castle gates, guarded by the winged boars, they stopped. Ahead of them, a Ravenclaw couple kissed under the snow like it was the end of the world before running off into the gardens.

Neither of them moved. For a moment, Rose found the courage to meet his gaze—and saw him looking at her the way that always made her heart stutter.

His skin was paler than usual, droplets sliding down his face. His usually neat blond hair was falling in messy strands that somehow made him look even more attractive—yes, attractive—and his lips trembled slightly, half open, his breath forming a soft mist between them.

That’s when Rose felt things she didn’t even know existed. Her ears were freezing, yet she swore they were about to catch fire. Her heart was pounding like it wanted to break free. Her palms were sweating even though they were numb with cold—cold on the outside, but burning from within.

She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t feel that way looking at him.
Her knees wobbled, her stomach twisted painfully, and the world spun. She struggled to breathe, to stand, to think.

Scorpius’s eyes widened in concern—
—and before Rose could say a word, everything went black.

Everything suddenly felt warmer than before. The numbness was gone, though every muscle in her body still throbbed with a dull ache.

She tried to open her eyes—slowly, carefully—but the bright light blinded her, forcing them shut again.

What had happened?

“She’s awake!” Marie’s voice made her jump and wonder where on earth she was.Rose blinked a few times until her vision adjusted—and there it was: her friend’s rosy face hovering right in front of her.

“She doesn’t look great,” Albus said anxiously, his worried eyes fixed on her. “Are you sure she’s okay?”

“Of course she is,” Marie cut in, rolling her eyes. Albus turned to her, scandalised. “How can you possibly know that?”

Marie’s grin was all mischief. She turned back to Rose and began, “All right then—antidote for any poison?”

“Bezoar,” Rose rasped automatically, her throat sore and dry.

“Spell to fight a boggart?”

“Riddikulus…”

“Three ingredients in the Shrinking Solution?”

“That’s enough,” Albus interrupted, folding his arms before Rose could answer. “How are you feeling, Rosie?”

“Like a herd of hippogriffs just trampled over me…” she muttered. Only then did she realise she was in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing—and, oddly enough, despite her usual hatred of anything remotely medical, she had no desire to leave the warmth of that soft bed.
“What happened to me?”

Marie and Albus exchanged that look. The one they always shared when they were hiding something—or when they thought she wouldn’t understand.
“Well…” Albus started carefully, clearly improvising. “Madam Pomfrey said it wasn’t exactly wise to go wandering in that storm this afternoon. You caught a nasty cold, your body temperature dropped too low, and you fainted right at the entrance.”

Rose shifted under the heavy covers as fragments of memory began returning—what had happened, and why. She turned her head to the side and spotted her neatly folded clothes on the bedside table: her beige jumper, faded jeans, brown cloak—and a black winter cloak.
Her face went crimson. She looked back at her friends, who were still watching her expectantly.

“Well?” Marie asked, staring right at her before finally blurting out, “Care to explain what on earth you were doing with Scorpius Malfoy?”

Rose let out a long sigh. It was going to be a very long visiting hour.

She didn’t share many details, but both Marie and Albus agreed the Slytherin boy had behaved… surprisingly decently. Apparently, he’d stayed in the Hospital Wing for about an hour—just long enough to warm up and drink the cold-curing potion. The whole time, he hadn’t said a single word to either of them.

“That’s odd,” Albus muttered, frowning.
“No, it’s not,” Marie countered with an eye roll. “He’s just careful—not the chatty type.”

Rose nodded faintly, though she wasn’t sure she agreed. Nearly three years at Hogwarts, and Scorpius Malfoy was still the same mystery she’d met that day on the train.

It was past nine at night. Madam Pomfrey had retreated to her office, and Rose lay staring blankly at the ceiling. Now that she was finally alone, her mind replayed how she’d felt right before passing out.

With cool logic, she analysed every odd sensation until she managed to convince herself it was all just the fever.

She didn’t want to think about complicated things. She didn’t want to think about boys. She didn’t want to think about the fact that tomorrow she wouldn’t be meeting Montague to study—or about why that made her feel strangely sad.

Growing up, she decided, was highly overrated.

She was just closing her eyes when two figures appeared in the doorway. For a second, she thought the potions were making her hallucinate. But when they drew closer, her heart stopped cold.

“Hugo?” she gasped into the dimly lit room.

Her brother rushed to her bedside and, before saying a word, threw his arms around her, sobbing quietly like a little boy who’d just lost his favourite pet.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Rosie…” he hiccupped, clinging to her like she might vanish at any moment. “I didn’t mean it—I’m such an idiot—I really am, I’m so sorry…”

Her own eyes filled with tears as she held him close, letting him cry into her shoulder while she gently stroked his hair.
“Come on, Hugo, it’s not that bad. I only caught a bit of a cold,” she said softly when he finally pulled away and wiped his face with his sleeve.

“How can you say that?” he burst out, lowering his voice only to check the nurse wasn’t nearby. “You were blue, Rosie! You could barely breathe! Albus and the others didn’t get there until the storm had already passed! If Malfoy hadn’t helped you, I don’t even want to think—”

He stopped mid-sentence when a hand landed gently on his shoulder. Rose looked past him and saw Scorpius standing there, paler than usual, though the tip of his nose had a faint pink tinge.

“I don’t think your sister needs you scolding her right now, Weasley,” he said calmly, meeting Hugo’s eyes. “She’s still recovering. And I doubt the first thing she wants to hear is that she owes me her life.”

Rose shot him a furious glare as she spotted the small, smug smile tugging at his lips.
“Consider your debt completely paid off, you insufferable prat,” she retorted—though she bit back several much stronger insults.

Scorpius only looked at her, grey eyes glinting, and that infuriating smile still in place.
They’d never get along—how could they? Not with Rose’s fiery temper and enormous pride, and his uncanny talent for provoking her every single time they met.

He folded his arms and stepped back, leaning casually against a nearby bed as he watched the Weasley siblings talk. He’d promised Hugo he’d accompany him to visit his sister—and walk him back to the Slytherin common room afterwards.

Rose took advantage of the rare privacy to apologise properly to Hugo, and before the night was over, the Weasley siblings had finally made peace.
From his spot across the room, Scorpius watched them quietly, thinking that maybe—just maybe—having a sibling didn’t sound so bad after all.

Before leaving, Hugo made Rose promise to support the Slytherin team in their upcoming match against Ravenclaw—since Scorpius was taking over as Seeker after the previous one’s unfortunate “incident” involving a centaur, a bunch of feathers, and a bottle of extra-strength adhesive potion.

Rose watched them leave, still sore and coughing, her throat on fire. Tomorrow she wouldn’t see Luke, and Scorpius Malfoy had done her yet another favour.
But as she drifted off, she decided maybe it had been worth it—because the last thing she saw before sleep took her was the warm, reassuring smile of her little brother.

Maybe, after all, something good had come out of the whole thing.

Chapter Text

7:00 PM

She could feel his breath near her face—so close that blushing like a tomato was impossible to fight. His clear gray eyes looked at her with a strange mix of embarrassment and resolve, and she felt as intimidated as always when, for some absurd reason, they ended up alone together.

Her hands began to tremble, and the video camera—her mother’s gift—wobbled dangerously, threatening to slip from her grip. Neither of them was paying attention to what the device was showing anymore; the cheers in the background were the only sounds that stood out as the deepest silence settled between them.

—Kiss him—whispered a small voice in her head.

Oh, Merlin. This had been such a bad idea.

Twelve hours earlier.
7:00 AM

The atmosphere felt different, and for one simple reason: exams and classes were finally over, and summer holidays would begin the next day.

The morning dawned clear, and Rose stretched lazily in her bed, pleased with herself for finishing another school year successfully. That day, they’d be getting their final grades, and if her calculations were right, she’d take first place again—which meant she’d make Scorpius Malfoy eat her dust for the third year in a row.

With those cheerful thoughts, she got up to go have breakfast. What she didn’t know was that the day was far from peaceful.

The moment she entered the common room, she sensed that something was off. Her cousin Albus was watching her, frowning, arms crossed over his chest from one of the armchairs near the fireplace. She gave him a questioning look as she crossed the room toward him, while the place began to fill with students chatting happily on their way to breakfast for the last time that term.

“Morning, Albus,” she began casually, pretending nothing was wrong—one of the key strategies when dealing with her favorite cousin.

“Good morning, Rose,” he replied tersely, standing up to join her.

Rose frowned slightly, not understanding his attitude. She couldn’t think of anything she’d done to upset him—unless he was still sulking because she hadn’t let him copy her last Care of Magical Creatures essay.

They stood facing each other for a moment before she broke the silence.
“So? What’s going on?”

Albus’s deep green eyes bore into hers, and he let out a huff of indignation just as James and Dominique came down from the boys’ dormitory, both wearing dark looks.

Totally lost, Rose barely had time to react before Albus asked the question that made her head spin.

“How true is it that you’re dating Luke Montague from Slytherin?”

Her two older cousins began circling her like predators, while Albus kept his accusing gaze fixed squarely on her. She stammered a few meaningless sounds before managing to form a coherent sentence. What on earth were they talking about?

“Cat got your tongue, Rosie?” Nick teased from her side before James jumped in.

“Or did a snake get it?”

Rose’s face turned scarlet with fury. “And if I were dating him, what of it?!” she snapped, storming toward the door in two long strides.

She barely made it through the portrait hole, breathless, before bumping into her younger cousins waiting outside. “Oh no—not you three too!”

Roxanne shook her head disapprovingly, while Molly spoke up as Lily peeked out nervously from behind them.

“We figured you’d take it badly. The boys always make a big deal out of everything.” Molly rolled her eyes with a diplomatic air that made it painfully obvious she was Uncle Percy’s daughter. “Rose, you have to understand—the news took them by surprise. You know how James gets along especially badly with Montague…”

“I don’t have anything with Montague!” Rose protested, only for Roxanne to laugh softly.

“That’s not what people are saying—and if I were you, I’d start worrying,” Roxanne said, grinning. Molly nodded dramatically, while Lily looked at her with wide eyes.

“The boys—especially those two idiots, Jamie and Nick—won’t hesitate to fill your dad’s head with nonsense. And that would definitely be a problem…”

The three girls started walking slowly toward the Great Hall, Lily muttering under her breath, “I told you she wasn’t dating Montague. She would’ve told us.”

The other two shrugged as she added, “You each owe me five Galleons.”

“Lily!”.

9:00 AM

After eating breakfast at the farthest end of the table—well away from her cousins—Rose was starting to regret not listening to the Sorting Hat’s kind suggestion that she might fit well in Ravenclaw.

Marie looked puzzled as Rose told her everything in a rush. If there was anyone in the castle who knew every bit of gossip—or at least most of it—it was her.

“Sorry, I had no idea there was a rumor about you and Montague,” the dark-haired girl murmured, genuinely confused that she hadn’t heard of it. She had excellent sources—even among the Slytherins.

“That’s because no such rumor exists,” said a voice behind them. They turned to find Hugo grinning enigmatically. He slid into the space between them and, to the astonishment of many around, casually took a slice of toast from the Gryffindor table beside his sister. “If the only ones talking about it are our cousins, don’t you think maybe…?”

“They started this,” Rose finished, staring at him in disbelief as he poured himself some pumpkin juice. “Those…! I’m going to kill them!”

Marie chuckled at her friend’s outrage, but before she could say anything, Hugo cut in.

“It’s not entirely their fault. You do spend a lot of time with Montague in the library. Everyone who walks in there has seen you together. You should’ve expected James and Nick would end up there studying for their OWLs…”

Rose glared at her brother’s calm expression as he spread raspberry jam on his toast. “Not to mention that Albus and Emily McDouall saw you near the History of Magic section last week, and everyone knows no one’s gone there to actually study since Mum’s days at Hogwarts…”

“Hey! Some people do care about learning that subject!” Rose snapped, looking to Marie for support.

Marie only raised an amused eyebrow. “You sure he took you there just to look up goblin uprisings from five hundred years ago?”

“Marie, you’re not helping,” Rose muttered darkly.

“In any case,” Hugo said, standing and finishing his toast, “our cousins aren’t likely to accept easily that you’re friends with those guys. If I were you, I’d try talking to them—or at least to Albus. He’s the most reasonable of the lot.”

Rose couldn’t believe this was happening. Why did everyone have to twist things?

She sighed heavily for more reasons than one and left the Great Hall, craving the fresh air and clear skies of the school grounds.

First, she hated having such a huge, meddlesome family. Second, she hated people making things up about her and Luke just because they were friends. And third—perhaps worst of all—she hated admitting that, deep down, she wouldn’t have minded doing something a little different with Luke among the History of Magic shelves… something that had nothing to do with books or goblins.

Marie looped her arm through hers as they walked toward the shade of a massive elm by the lake.

“Hey, Rose,” Marie said thoughtfully, “now that I think about it—what on earth was Albus doing in the library with McDouall?”

11:30 AM

It was almost time for grades to be handed out. Uncle Neville—well, Professor Longbottom—would come by the Gryffindor table at lunch to distribute them.

Rose had convinced Marie and Jerry to head back inside the castle, and in the entrance hall, she ran right into Albus, who had been avoiding them all morning—though clearly, not very successfully.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again till next term,” Jerry joked at Albus’s evasive look. “Lunch?”

Albus sighed, eyes downcast, then looked at Rose with a silent plea for explanation.

“Albus,” she said finally, taking a deep breath, “there’s nothing going on between me and Montague. It’s that simple. Don’t let the others fill your head with rubbish. This might sound ridiculous, but honestly—he and Flint, they’re good people deep down.”

“They made James’s cauldron explode right after the OWL examiners finished grading his potion,” Albus reminded her, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, at least it wasn’t before,” Rose said quickly. “And remember—they also tampered with Luke’s telescope during Astronomy. For some reason, it showed the southern hemisphere constellations instead.”

Albus shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe we should persuade them not to tell Uncle Ron about the rumor. He might get really mad.”

Rose grinned, and they started walking together toward the Great Hall.

“Where were you headed, anyway?” Marie asked casually, giving Albus a suspicious look. “The dungeons, maybe?”

“The dungeons? Why would I be going to the dungeons?” he said, running a hand through his already messy hair. Rose and Jerry burst into laughter.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Marie went on, sitting down at the Gryffindor table. “Maybe to pay McDouall a visit?”

“A visit to—WHAT are you talking about?!” Albus exclaimed, scandalized, glaring at Marie while everyone else tried not to laugh.

Rose winked at him, smirking, and confessed that Marie and Jerry had already told her what happened the day of her last trip to Hogsmeade—how they’d run into Malfoy’s friends at the Shrieking Shack when the snowstorm hit.

Albus, ever the gentleman, had given his coat to Scorpius’s redheaded best friend, who’d been shivering by the window.

“Oh, come on! She’s a snob and a pain, but anyone would’ve done the same!” he protested.

Jerry coughed theatrically. “Of course, anyone would’ve done the same… except it was you, mate!” he finished, laughing.

After a while, Rose found herself smiling again. Maybe growing up wasn’t so bad after all.

3:30 p.m.
The beginning of the afternoon had been glorious. Just as Rose had expected, she’d finished first again that year. She’d beaten Scorpius Malfoy by only a few decimals, but honestly, with an average of 96.7, there wasn’t much anyone could do about it.

She walked leisurely through the castle corridors, holding a parchment stamped with the Hogwarts crest. Without a doubt, her Achilles’ heel that year had been Arithmancy. She’d had such a weak start she didn’t even like to think about it. She supposed her family troubles had something to do with it—and with the string of 80s she’d earned in other subjects. She was starting to believe her mood really did affect her performance, so she’d been working hard on controlling her negative emotions.

Smiling to herself—nothing could be better than making Malfoy eat his words—she ran into him right outside the Charms classroom.

He smiled sideways when he noticed the parchment in her hand and said suddenly,
“Good year, Weasley?”

“An excellent one, Malfoy.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and Rose noticed he had grown again—so they were still about the same height. She had a sudden urge to rub her results in his face but remembered how badly that had gone last year, so she held back. She waited for him to continue the conversation, but of course, Scorpius Malfoy never said or did what she expected.

“So, how’s your romance with Montague going?”

Rose froze. She didn’t know what was worse, the quiet cynicism in his tone or that crooked smile he gave her when he realized she’d gone rigid. She wanted to tell him she had nothing going on with Montague, to make it clear that it was all a stupid story her cousins had made up. She wanted to ask him how he’d even found out. But with an unnerving calm, she realized she didn’t owe that nosy boy any explanation.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” she said sharply, clenching her fists and crumpling her parchment, more affected by him than she cared to admit.

“I know. I didn’t expect anything else from you.” He shrugged, looking at her with those sharp, intimidating gray eyes. “I mean, why would you tell me anything about your personal life? It’s not like I ever supported you when you needed it most… or, you know, saved your life or anything.”

If there was one word that could describe how Rose felt toward Scorpius at that moment, it was hatred—pure and absolute.

“I’ve helped you too, in case you’ve forgotten!” she shot back, offended.

“But you didn’t miss the Quidditch World Cup final for it,” he said simply, as if that one sentence summed up all his frustration.

Rose frowned, not entirely sure what he meant, then rubbed her temples and tried to breathe deeply.

“It wasn’t my fault we got locked in that bathroom, Malfoy. You know that.”

He just smiled in response and changed the subject abruptly.

“We were supposed to be even, but things have taken an unexpected turn…”

Rose looked at him in confusion as he gestured for her to follow him into the classroom.

“So, what place did you get this year, Weasley?”

“First. Again,” she replied proudly, hoping to get under his skin at least a little as they walked toward the blackboard.

He turned on his heels and gave her a surprisingly warm smile before picking up a piece of chalk. She didn’t remember ever seeing him smile like that, and suddenly a familiar warmth spread through her chest. Maybe Scorpius Malfoy wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

“Very well. Congratulations, Weasley. Seems you did better than me this year…” he said, turning to the board and writing a series of numbers in perfect handwriting. “But I think I should clarify a few things…”

4:00 p.m.
“You’re completely insane…” Rose couldn’t stop herself from saying it after seeing the calculations on the board. Scorpius was sitting on Professor Flitwick’s desk, absentmindedly playing with the piece of chalk between his fingers.

“No, I’m not. But I’m glad you finally understand what happened.”

Rose walked closer, mouth half open in disbelief. She checked every number, every mark written there matched exactly the ones on her official parchments. But that couldn’t be right. He couldn’t have…

“You… you didn’t…” she began, unable to finish the sentence. She turned to him, full of frustration, and fell silent.

“It’s simple, Weasley,” he said, jumping down from the desk. “Before you decided to freeze to death, this was already planned. There wasn’t much I could do to stop it once we were in the last term, so I just went along with it.” He took a few careful steps toward her, still unsure of her reaction, and pointed at the averages on the board. “I owed you a huge favor—getting me friends wasn’t easy. So I had to make it count.”

If possible, Rose started hating him even more.

“Check the numbers again if you don’t believe me, but this just wasn’t your best year. That’s why halfway through the first term I decided to repay the last favor I owed you—by letting you take first place again.”

Rose was livid. More than livid. She didn’t believe a single word, no matter how much evidence he showed her.

“This is ridiculous, Malfoy. Even for you. You’re saying the reason I beat you again is because you planned it all along?”

Scorpius just shrugged and gave her that infuriating smirk that made Rose want to wipe it off his face with a punch.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake! Can you be serious for once?”

When he didn’t respond and simply crossed his arms, Rose began to panic.

“Seems like Hugo’s situation really got to you—you hit your lowest grade then, didn’t you? A 68 in…”

“Arithmancy,” she interrupted, eyes wide.

“I got a hundred, so I made up for your loss by getting a 34 on the next assignment. That way, my overall average ended up just one point below yours.”

Rose couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Scorpius Malfoy had actually taken his debt of favors that seriously.

“Fortunately, you started to bounce back after that. It took me ages to convince Professor Vector not to assign me extra work to make up for the grade. She was honestly worried… When you got a 94 in Potions, I—”

Malfoy’s voice started to fade into background noise. Rose wasn’t hearing a thing anymore, and she didn’t care. Her mind kept circling back to the same conclusion: thankfully, she’d only started to think Scorpius Malfoy might actually be a good guy.

“…And that’s how you’re the one who owes me now,” he finished.

Her brain reconnected with reality at those words, realizing just how close he was standing. The boy clearly had no sense of personal space.

“That’s true,” she answered before she could stop herself, then quickly jumped back, putting some distance between them.

Scorpius shook his head, confirming to himself that Rose Weasley was even more oblivious than she looked.

“Saving me from that storm on Valentine’s Day wasn’t part of your plan, so I suppose you’ll want to rub it in my face that now I’m the one in your debt…”

He shrugged, figuring he wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way—but yes, that was the general idea. Thanks to him—and the small number of assignments and exams he’d deliberately failed—Rose had once again secured first place, a spot that by rights should’ve been his after months of exhausting study sessions.

At first, he’d thought he just wanted to see her reaction when she found out. But over time, he’d realized that neither Rose nor her pride could have handled losing to him, especially after everything that had happened in her family that year. So he decided to keep it secret until the right moment.

That moment came the night before, when Hugo Weasley told him what their cousins were saying about Rose and a certain boy Scorpius couldn’t stand. That’s when he decided she needed to know—that part of her success was thanks to him, even if only a little. He had to tell her, and that’s why he went looking for her that day before they all left the castle.

What he didn’t count on was that Rose Weasley was just as clever as he was—and already had a plan of her own to settle the score before starting a new year free of debts.

If only she’d asked him what he wanted in return, he already had a list prepared. But instead, she said, right before running off:

“Meet me at six o’clock in the abandoned classroom where your friend Bletchley sells Honeydukes sweets. I’ll pay you back for this favor…”

She spat out the last word like she still couldn’t quite believe the whole story herself.

And then she ran off, leaving Scorpius alone again with a small piece of chalk in his hand—but with a thousand new hopes stirring deep inside.

6:00 p.m.
He was nervous and restless, eager to find out what Rose Weasley had managed to come up with in so little time.

He sighed in frustration, thinking about how his brilliant plan to get her to spend at least one day of summer with him had completely fallen apart. He sat down at one of the desks, waiting for her to arrive. He didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and that long, fiery red hair that had haunted him since his first day at Hogwarts appeared.

“Malfoy,” she greeted as she stepped inside, holding a small box in her hands.

“Weasley,” he replied with a nod. She gestured for him to sit down with her by the wall. Scorpius wasn’t so sure about the idea, but he didn’t argue—just in case it ended badly for him.

Rose showed him a small Muggle device and began talking quickly about recordings, electricity, optics, and LCDs—complete mysteries to him. He nodded silently at every word, focused only on the way her lips moved, sending a strange feeling through his stomach.

“…So this is how you’ll finally get to see what we missed last summer. Look on the bright side—I could’ve never shown it to you at all. Better late than never, right?” A mischievous smile crossed her lips as she switched on the device, its small screen lighting up.

“Wait, are you saying you’re going to show me the Quidditch World Cup final?” he repeated, still not quite believing it. She nodded, smiling even wider at his expression of disbelief. “I have to see this…”

He didn’t have to wait long. The sounds of cheering and a commentator’s voice filled the room. Scorpius couldn’t believe it—his eyes gleamed as he followed every play, completely lost in the match.

“You’re amazing…” he murmured. And Rose instantly knew he wasn’t talking about Patty Smith, the American Chaser who’d just scored a goal.

He was talking about her.

And her heart gave a little leap as they stopped paying attention to the recording and looked into each other’s eyes.

7:00 p.m.

She could feel his breath near her face—so close that blushing like a tomato was impossible to fight. His clear gray eyes looked at her with a strange mix of embarrassment and resolve, and she felt as intimidated as always when, for some absurd reason, they ended up alone together.

Her hands began to tremble, and the video camera—her mother’s gift—wobbled dangerously, threatening to slip from her grip. Neither of them was paying attention to what the device was showing anymore; the cheers in the background were the only sounds that stood out as the deepest silence settled between them.

—Kiss him—whispered a small voice in her head.

Oh, Merlin. This had been such a bad idea. Maybe she shouldn’t have stayed alone with him again, not when those rebellious Snitches were fluttering madly in her stomach.

At that moment, she was sure that nothing she had done that day had been a good idea. Regretting it more than anything she’d ever regretted before, her brain ordered her muscles to move back—to put some distance between them, to break the electric current forming between their bodies that was threatening to drive her insane.

But her body didn’t obey. Her muscles were flooded with blood, pulsing too fast for reason to keep up. All she could do was hope that he’d realize how bad of an idea this was—but luck didn’t seem to be on her side.

Rose let herself be carried away by the scent that enveloped her—the same one that reminded her of the Quidditch World Cup final that summer, the same that had wrapped her like a warm coat through winter. She closed her eyes and breathed in more of that mix of sea breeze and morning dew surrounding them.

By Merlin… this was so wrong.

For his part, Scorpius only needed to notice that she hadn’t tried to escape to understand that all those strange things that had been happening to him over the past few months had probably been haunting her too.

Those stupid flutters in his stomach every time he saw her were becoming unbearable, and Emily’s suspicious looks were growing more frequent. It was new. It was unique. It was… nice.

They were so close—so impossibly close—that his breath brushed her cheek, making her flinch, though she stubbornly refused to open her eyes. But he couldn’t even imagine doing the same. His eyes wanted to look at her until they had memorized every detail, and his hands burned with the urge to touch her.

He tried to regret it, reminding himself that this situation wasn’t anywhere near as simple as he liked to pretend. It was far more complicated than just a boy liking a girl—but the more he thought about it, the less he cared.

He couldn’t stop himself. His right hand moved on its own toward her face—her flushed cheeks, her tightly shut eyes. He let one finger rest softly against her skin, brushing her cheek as if she might shatter at the slightest touch.

He let his other hand drift near her hair. Everything was exactly as he’d dreamed. She didn’t shy away, didn’t try to run—she just stayed there, letting his hands trace the lines of her face slowly, while molten fire burned inside them both; a mix of anticipation, longing, urgency.

When one of his mischievous fingers brushed—almost by accident—against her slightly parted lips, Scorpius knew there was no saving them now. He finally decided to close the tiny space between them, and as his hands moved to her back and hers dropped the Muggle camera to the floor with a soft clatter, their lips met for the first time. They explored, brushed, tasted—sweet and forbidden.

By Merlin… the fact that it felt so good didn’t make it any less wrong.

Rose opened her eyes slowly, wishing with all her heart that she wouldn’t see the face she knew would be there—the face of the person who had just given her her first kiss. But she did. His pale gray eyes were glowing, his cheeks—usually so fair—were tinged with a faint blush. Otherwise, he was the same boy as always.

She turned away quickly, but he placed his hand back on her cheek. Before either of them could react, the door of the empty classroom swung open, shattering in one instant the electricity, the magic, and the warmth that had filled the room.

There was no doubt: this had been a terrible idea.

Rose didn’t have time to think. She stood up and rushed out the door without even glancing at Emily McDouall’s shocked face in the doorway.

She didn’t want to think—couldn’t think. She just wanted to get to her room, clear her head before having to face everyone at the End-of-Term Feast. Rose Weasley vanished down the corridors, leaving behind everything that had just happened. “Confusion” wasn’t nearly enough to describe what she was feeling.

“Scor?”the redheaded Slytherin girl approached her friend, who was still sitting on the floor by the window, a strange gray device at his feet that she’d never seen before. “Wasn’t that Weasley?”

He nodded quietly, gathering the things Rose had left behind.

“And what exactly were you two doing here?”

Her tone was skeptical, accusatory—offended—and her indignant eyes were fixed on him. He had no intention of answering. He turned his back and walked toward the door.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business” was all he said, trying to hold on to the taste of Rose Weasley’s lips as long as he could.

“I really thought you were starting to open up to us… I’m sorry if I interrupted something. I was just looking for yoy…” Emily murmured, walking after him. “But I suppose you’ll talk when you’re ready”.

Scorpius turned to her, saw the sadness in her eyes, and stopped until Emily caught up. They began walking together toward the Great Hall.

He wanted to say something to his friend, but the words got stuck in his throat. He forced himself to calm down, and the memory of Rose’s sincere smile was enough to help him breathe again.

“I waited for this year for so long…” he began, and Emily gave a faint, knowing smile as she listened. “I waited until now to finally see the Quidditch World Cup final.” He pointed to the Muggle camcorder. “And I waited for Rose Weasley to stop seeing me as her enemy.”

His gray eyes shimmered as they descended the stairs, other students joining them on their way.

“So? Was it worth the wait?” the girl asked at last, as they reached the doors of the Great Hall and a beautiful sunset painted the Enchanted Ceiling above.

“You have no idea…”

Chapter Text

It was just past noon. She was sprawled on the living room sofa, a book open on her stomach. One arm rested over her eyes; the other dangled to the floor, fingertips brushing the carpet.

For a moment, she regretted turning down Hugo’s invitation to spend the day at Uncle Harry’s with their cousins. But on the other hand, she was relieved not to have to endure James blasting his horrible music to cover up whatever mischief he was up to.

She sighed, opened her eyes, and stared at the lamp hanging from the ceiling. She’d never imagined she’d be this bored when her parents left for work and she had the house to herself.

She’d tried reading. She’d tried studying. She’d even tried watching television—her father’s favorite Muggle invention—but nothing held her attention for long. She hated doing nothing; it left her mind too free to wander. And when her thoughts had nothing better to do, they betrayed her—bringing up Scorpius Malfoy’s face, for example.

Rose groaned, flipped over, and buried her scream into the couch cushions. The memory of what had happened in that third-floor classroom had haunted her ever since they’d left school three weeks ago.

Everything.
His scent. His hesitant lips nearing hers. His gentle hands. That strange, delicious warmth blooming in parts of her she hadn’t even known existed...

No matter how hard she tried to forget, it all came rushing back.

Rolling onto her back again, she stared at the ceiling. Malfoy was the only one who’d ever made her feel that way—drawn to him and repelled by him all at once.

She’d thought it over a thousand times. They could never be together, not even as friends. And that was depressing, especially on long, empty afternoons like this one.

They were too different. So different that sometimes she wondered if that last day at Hogwarts had been just a trick of her imagination. But she remembered it too vividly—the sensations were too real.

When her mind betrayed her again, her finger brushed against her lips, recalling his touch. That’s when the fireplace flared green, and a messy-haired figure stepped out of the flames.

“Rose! Why didn’t you come to my place today?” Albus’s bright green eyes fixed on her, waiting for an answer, but she had no energy to talk.

“Just felt like staying in,” she muttered, curling up on the sofa and turning her back to him. With luck, he’d take the hint and leave.

“Oh, come on, don’t be such a bore! Ralph invited us to his place in Brighton—he’s got a pool!”

Rose turned toward him, skeptical. “Ralph Summerby has a pool?”

“Yeah!” Albus grinned, already pulling her up by the hands and dragging her toward the stairs. “I’ve been writing to him since the holidays started—you know he doesn’t have many friends. Weird, right? We’ve shared a dorm since first year and he’s always kept to himself. Anyway, he likes me.”

Rose sighed. It was impossible for anyone not to like Albus—unless, of course, you mentioned Emily McDouall.

“Get your swimsuit, we’re going to Brighton.”

“No way. Mum doesn’t know.” She searched for excuses—she barely knew Ralph and had no intention of just showing up at his house.

“I already asked Dad, and he said he’d tell Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione. They’re at the Ministry anyway,” Albus said with a shrug, oblivious to her growing annoyance. “The Summerbys set up Floo access from our house. Now hurry up!”

Rose stopped listening. She half-heard something about Hugo, Lily, and diving tricks, and rolled her eyes as she rummaged through drawers for her swimsuit, Muggle sunscreen, and a towel. She caught her reflection in the mirror—loose shorts, a tank top, her red hair pulled up in a high ponytail—and slung her bag over her shoulder.

Albus was still talking when she followed him to the fireplace.

“It’s gonna be great, you’ll see…”

But Rose Weasley had no idea how wrong he was.

Among the many things Rose disliked, the Floo Network ranked pretty high. She got dizzy easily and fully agreed with her mother that the subway—or even a Muggle bus—was sometimes the better option.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a force on Earth strong enough to convince her cousins otherwise.

After what felt like a thousand spins, she and her delicate stomach landed face-first on the carpet of a bright, elegant living room that looked very much like a seaside villa.
Sitting up, she brushed off bits of ash and soot, meeting the teasing grins of Albus and Hugo, who clearly handled this mode of travel far better than she did. Then, a pale, long-fingered hand appeared in front of her, offering help.

Rose slowly lifted her gaze and met Ralph’s sharp, narrow face, his lips curved in a faint, almost-smile.
Still a little dazed, she accepted his hand, dusted off her trousers, and straightened up.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m glad you could make it,” he greeted them, smiling more naturally at Albus, who was already inspecting the room.

“Oh, it was nothing. Thanks for inviting us,” Albus replied, flashing him a grin. “Were you able to reach Jerry and Marie?”

Ralph started walking toward the door, motioning for them to follow.
“Brown’s already here—arrived about fifteen minutes ago—but Hanks had another commitment today.” They stepped into a wide garden, a cool sea breeze brushing their faces. “Maybe next time. I’m really glad you came, Potter.”

Albus quickened his pace to catch up, slinging an arm around Ralph’s shoulders—earning a surprised look from him—and squinting against the sunlight.

“Ralph, I’ve told you before. I’m Albus. She’s Rose. The little ones are Lily and Hugo. Brown is actually Jerry, and Hanks is Marie. Using last names is too formal and makes us sound like professors.”

Rose couldn’t help smiling at how awkward Albus had just made poor Ralph feel. To her, he was still Summerby, but if she followed her cousin’s logic, she supposed she’d have to start calling him Ralph too.

It was a beautiful day—warm, bright, and peaceful—and maybe coming out hadn’t been such a bad idea after all.
From a sunbed nearby, Jerry waved cheerfully, holding a tall glass of iced lemonade.
It promised to be a perfect afternoon.

The boys barely took a minute to change before cannonballing into the pool, while Lily and Rose, blushing slightly, mentioned they needed a place to get dressed.

“Mott, show them to the tea room,” Ralph said, and with a sharp crack, a small house-elf appeared.

The cousins followed the elf back through the house, past the sitting room with the fireplace, and into a wide, sunlit hallway. Rose wasn’t entirely sure, but she could’ve sworn the place looked even larger from the inside.

Clearly delighted to have guests, the elf opened a dark wooden door to reveal a cozy room filled with soft armchairs and glass cabinets overflowing with porcelain tea sets.

“Mott will wait for you outside, ladies,” he said politely before closing the door behind them.

Lily’s wide brown eyes sparkled as she took in the delicate china and embroidered linens.
“Wow,” she breathed. “This place is gorgeous.”

Rose watched her cousin—the picture of sweetness and charm, the apple of Uncle Harry’s and Grandma Molly’s eye.
The lace tablecloths, embroidered napkins, and soft curtains had her completely enchanted. Lily loved beautiful things—delicate, elegant, and ladylike. She loved looking at them, buying them, wearing them.

She had no interest in Quidditch, which she considered far too rough and dangerous. In her view, girls were meant for other things—like having tea or shopping for fashionable clothes.

Rose sighed, reaching the same conclusion as always: Lily was selfish, spoiled, and vain—utterly obsessed with trivial things and with being the center of attention.
And yet, she was still her cousin. Not a bad person, really. Rose could live with her flaws. After all, if she was honest, she was also—at least a little—selfish, spoiled, and vain. Especially the last one.

When they finally left the tea room, they followed Mott back through the hall. But as they stepped into the sitting room again, a burst of green flames flared in the fireplace, momentarily blinding them.

A petite blonde woman, about her mother’s age, stood smiling by the hearth while a tall figure stepped out of the flames.

“My, look at you! You’ve grown so much—and more handsome every day! No wonder you’re my favorite nephew!” The woman cupped the boy’s cheek fondly as three others landed behind him. “Ralph’s in the garden with his friends.”

“Thanks, Aunt Daphne. Though I’m also your only nephew,” replied Scorpius Malfoy with a small grin.

The woman raised an eyebrow and turned her gaze toward the two girls in swimsuits who had just witnessed the arrival of Scorpius and his friends—Tim Bletchley, Fiorella Zabini, and Emily McDouall—at Pete and Daphne Summerby’s seaside home. (Daphne, whose maiden name happened to be Greengrass.)

Apparently, things were about to get a lot more complicated than Rose had hoped.

They walked to the garden in silence after Mrs. Summerby’s polite but distant reaction to their introductions. Clearly, Ralph’s mother wasn’t thrilled about her son’s choice of company.

Albus stood by Jerry at the poolside, watching Ralph attempt a backward dive. He turned to greet the girls—and froze completely when he saw who they were walking with.

The air grew tense, especially for Rose, who found herself uncomfortably close to Scorpius. Even though he’d tried to meet her eyes, she avoided his gaze entirely.

Awkward.
Painfully awkward.

Daphne excused herself after a few words, leaving the group—and the house—to themselves.

Ralph stepped forward, clearing his throat as if to cut through the heavy silence. Rose shot Albus a glare full of reproach, which finally made him speak.

“Malfoy,” he said curtly.

“Potter,” Scorpius replied, glancing sideways at Rose, who pretended not to notice.

“Didn’t you say, Albus, that using last names was too formal?” Ralph teased, earning a raised eyebrow from Scorpius and making Albus open his mouth as if to answer—but then think better of it.

The silence returned, much to Hugo’s frustration. He looked around, confused, then shrugged at Fiorella, silently asking what was going on. She rolled her eyes, exasperated that the younger boy couldn’t see the obvious: despite being in the same year, the older students weren’t exactly friends. Not enemies, either. Just... complicated.

Emily McDouall finally broke the tension.
“Well, I guess we all know each other here…”

“Unfortunately,” Albus muttered under his breath, earning a furious glare from the Slytherin girl.

Ralph stepped in before things could escalate. He noticed Rose clutching her things tightly to her chest, looking ready to bolt, while her brother stood frozen and her cousin seemed utterly bored.

“I think this is my fault. Sorry, Albus—I should’ve told you my cousin and his friends were coming.” And when Tim looked like he was about to comment, Ralph added quickly, “Guys, seriously—can’t we just try to be civil for once?”

“I’ve got no problem with that,” Scorpius said calmly. “We’ve never actually fought with your Gryffindor friends—in fact, I don’t think we’ve ever really talked.”
He shrugged, carefully skipping over the fact that he’d done far more than talk with Rose Weasley. But no one needed to know that.

Albus nodded reluctantly, and the group began to spread out. Fiorella greeted Hugo with a playful punch on the arm, which he answered by trying to hug her—fully aware of how much she hated public displays of affection.

She shrieked and ran, Hugo chasing her around the pool until he caught up and pushed them both into the water. She hit him once more before bursting out laughing—and so did he. Everyone laughed, actually. Everyone except one.

Lily Potter didn’t like what she was seeing.
She didn’t like that her favorite cousin was in Slytherin. She didn’t like that he was friends with that smug girl. She’d never imagined she’d have to share Hugo, much less lose him. But that year had already been full of surprises.

Clenching her fists and lifting her chin, Lily marched toward her brother, who was lounging beside Scorpius’s friends—complete strangers to her.
She was already plotting. There was no way she was going to lose one of the people she loved most to that interloper.
She was Lily Luna Potter, and she would win her best friend back.

Meanwhile, Rose sat with her feet in the water, gently swaying them as she watched McDouall and Jerry climb the diving platform, her brother chase the Zabini girl, and Lily walk over to Albus on the far side of the pool.

She knew this was a bad idea—one of Albus’s worst—but she’d save the “I told you so” for later.

She could feel someone watching her. That steady gaze had been burning into her for minutes, and that was exactly why she didn’t look up from the water. It was him. Those grey eyes, sharp and relentless, making her shiver despite the warm summer air.

“I hope you can forgive me. I didn’t think things would get that far.”
Ralph’s soft voice startled her. He sat beside her, smiling politely.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, still staring at her feet, stirring the water with her toes. “It’s not your fault you’re Malfoy’s cousin.”

She instantly realized how harsh that sounded—like being a Malfoy was a crime, like family ties were a curse rather than something you were born into. Exactly the opposite of what her parents had taught her.

Her lips parted, ready to apologize, but Ralph’s easy, genuine smile stopped her. His calm blue eyes held no judgment.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said simply, moving his feet in sync with hers. Rose blushed. A few splashes from the divers interrupted the silence before he finally spoke again, voice low and sincere.

“I’m not really the son my mother wanted. I don’t seem to fit in with my family. So if you insult her, I won’t take it personally. It’s not like I feel I belong anyway.”

Rose froze. His expression was serious, distant, eyes lost in the clear blue sky. She wanted to say something, but nothing seemed right. She’d heard those words before and the only thing that came out then was, “Don’t be stupid.”

For a moment, Ralph reminded her too much of her brother.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said quickly. “It’s just… Malfoy and I don’t exactly get along. That’s all.”
Or that’s all she was willing to admit. She shut her eyes, trying not to think of how that name brought back heat, soft lips, and clumsy hands.

He just shrugged.
“I’m the first Gryffindor in the Summerby family in 567 years. And the first recorded Gryffindor in the Greengrass line.” He gave her a sideways glance. “I’ve never really fit in in our House, and everyone knows it. It’s hard when people expect you to be something you’re not.” He glanced across the pool at Scorpius, who was making room on his chair for Emily. “It’s even harder when you live with someone who seems to meet every expectation.”

Rose understood instantly—and though she knew pity wasn’t what he wanted, she felt sorry for him. She could guess, almost certainly, that he’d been racing against his cousin all his life, always losing—until three years ago, when the Sorting Hat finally had finally dealt the decisive blow.

“Maybe I’m not the best person to say this,” she began, “and maybe you’ll get annoyed because we’re not exactly close or good friends, but you should know my brother’s the first Slytherin in our family in generations. No one saw that coming either.” She met his eyes. “None of us ever feel like we live up to our parents’ expectations. And trust me, I know what it’s like to fight just to step out of their shadow.”

Ralph stared at her, studying her face. Rose Weasley had never really stood out to him before—just another girl in their year, though definitely the smartest. Probably the only one whose brain could rival his cousin’s.

He’d learned to hate Scorpius from a young age. His mother adored him; his father compared them constantly. Every mistake Ralph made echoed with his cousin’s name. And Hogwarts hadn’t helped. He’d never understood why that blasted Hat had put him in Gryffindor. So he’d tried to ignore it, to stay apart, to avoid anyone his parents wouldn’t approve of, because after all, they’d been raised in a different world and old habits die hard—no point in denying it.

And yet, Gryffindor had been kind. His roommates—especially Albus Potter—were always friendly, making him feel accepted in a way his family never had, even if he’d never truly opened up—until now.

Away from his parents’ voices, he’d learned that Scorpius wasn’t a bad person—just quiet, patient, calculating, and brilliant. Without his mother’s comparisons echoing in his head, he’d found himself studying with Scorpius and his friends a few times that first year. That was how it began.

He hadn’t realized it then, but Scorpius understood him better than anyone—both driven by the same insecurity, the same fear of rejection, of never being good enough.

He discovered it wasn’t hard to connect with people—with whoever sat beside him at meals or studied near him in the library. Talking to anyone without a lion on their chest was easy. It was Gryffindors he feared would judge him. Because at Hogwarts, your House became your second family—and his first had never felt like home.

Soon he cared too much about what others thought. So he decided it was safer if they didn’t think of him at all.

The closest thing he had to friends were Scorpius and his small circle. Apart from them, Ralph Summerby was completely alone.

A Gryffindor with acquaintances in every House—except his own. Talking to strangers was easy; talking in the common room was impossible.

That’s why he’d followed the only real advice Scorpius had ever given him—the one thing that made him believe for the first time that they could actually be friends. It was the day before the end-of-term feast, just weeks ago. They’d been in the Owlery, sending letters home.

Ralph had nervously admitted that Albus and the others weren’t just polite—they were really kind and friendly. He’d been afraid of what his family would think, afraid he wasn’t good enough, afraid to say it out loud. But Scorpius, always sharp, cut him off halfway through his rambling.

"It wasn’t easy for me either, Ralph. No one wanted me in Slytherin. It’s not like I’m particularly fond of Potter, but if he wants to be your friend, let him. Forget my uncles for a moment—you’re the one stuck living this hell alone. I know what that’s like. Take the hand your housemates are offering. If it helps, Potter and Weasley helped me too, in their own way."

Scorpius had never said how exactly they’d helped him—but maybe now Ralph understood a little. Watching Rose Weasley smile at him, her long red hair tossing in the breeze, and hearing laughter from all corners of the garden, was more than he could’ve asked for that afternoon, and felt like more than he deserved.

“I wouldn’t mind,” Ralph said suddenly, smiling at her.

“What?” she asked.

“If you and I became good friends, Weasley.”

“Call me Rose,” she said with a wink, turning toward the pool—and straight into the gaze she’d been avoiding all afternoon. “Last names are too formal.”

She stood, leaving Ralph to Albus, who promptly shoved him into the pool, and looked ahead at the figure disappearing into the house.

Her pulse quickened. Her mind told her not to follow—but sometimes reason just doesn’t stand a chance.

Without hesitation, she went after him—unaware that this choice could change everything. She didn’t yet know that choices weren’t good or bad; they simply split the path. And later, when everything’s said and done, you’re left wondering: What if...?

As sunlight gleamed over the garden, Rose Weasley stepped into the empty house after Scorpius Malfoy—a space big enough to hold every bit of her confusion and every feeling she’d tried to ignore.

Outside, laughter carried through the air—among people who, though they didn’t realize it yet, might soon become great friends.

Maybe even sooner than anyone expected.

Chapter Text

Her head rested on something soft, her eyelids stubbornly refusing to open. A faint breeze blew somewhere nearby, cooling the air just enough to make it bearable. She stirred, uncomfortable, and felt someone’s breath warm against the back of her neck.

Her senses were sluggish, half-asleep, her body slow to respond. A strange tingling crept up her right leg, and she shifted slightly, trying to change position. She was wrapped in a heavy drowsiness, unwilling to wake.

Then a hand touched her face. At first, it was a gentle, hesitant brush—like whoever it was didn’t really mean to touch her at all. The next thing she knew, someone pinched her cheek.

“Hugo! What are you doing to your sister?” Hermione’s voice rang through the car just as Rose let out a startled gasp, jolted awake by her younger brother’s laughter and the not-so-gentle tug on her face.

“You drool when you sleep, Rosie!” Hugo crowed, ducking away from her swinging fists.

“Shut up, you little brat!” she snapped. It was rare for her to doze off in the car, but this time she hadn’t been able to help it. She hadn’t slept a wink the night before, and for one very simple reason: it was the first of September. Summer had flown by, and now they were heading back to Hogwarts.

And going back to school meant one thing—she’d have to see Scorpius Malfoy again. Something she was absolutely not looking forward to.

Her dad had gotten much better at driving, which was the only reason they made it to King’s Cross on time. It was just past ten thirty when they pushed their trolleys through the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The place was packed, and Rose silently thanked Merlin for that small mercy.

They didn’t have time to look for their uncles or cousins, so before the train’s final whistle, they clambered aboard one of the carriages, waving goodbye to their parents before disappearing into the crowd.

Hugo, still laughing, teased his sister as they walked down the corridor looking for familiar faces. But Rose barely heard him—her mind was too busy replaying the what-ifs of running into him.

When the train finally lurched into motion, she spotted Marie’s dark hair a few seats ahead. Hugo peeked over her shoulder and saw Albus, Jerry, Marie, and Ralph sitting together. He greeted them all cheerfully, then started to move on toward the back of the train.

“Hugo, why don’t you stay with us?” Albus said, helping Rose stow her luggage as she sat down beside Marie.

Hugo grinned. “Sorry, Al—too many Gryffindors in one place. I’ve had enough of that this summer.”

His cousin frowned at the jab, but quickly realized it was just one of Hugo’s terrible jokes. Clearly, the boy hadn’t inherited the famous Weasley sense of humor.

“Your cousin’s funny—in a twisted sort of way—but funny all the same,” Ralph said from behind The Daily Prophet.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Rose muttered. “A carnivorous slug’s got a better sense of humor than Hugo.”

They fell into easy chatter about summer, and for a while, Rose almost forgot the reason she hadn’t slept for days. Until Marie sighed.

“I’m still bummed I missed the get-together at your place, Ralph.”

That single comment sent Rose’s heart into a frantic gallop. That day—that afternoon—she’d done something incredibly stupid. Like following Scorpius Malfoy into an empty house.

The memory made her blush furiously. She fixed her eyes on the passing countryside outside the window, willing her friends’ voices to fade. She hadn’t been thinking clearly that day, and yes, the Brighton sun had probably gone to her head.

Her thoughts drifted back…

The sitting room had been empty, a trail of ashes scattered across the rug between the elegant furniture. Instinctively, she’d looked around for him—but the room was as deserted as they’d left it earlier.

A faint crack behind her made her turn. A small house-elf appeared, handing a glass to the very person she’d been searching for. Scorpius looked at her with mild surprise, then smiled—like he found the whole thing amusing.

Her stomach twisted. What on earth was she doing there? Why had she left Ralph’s company to follow him? But before she could form a thought, Scorpius took a sip of his lemonade and said, his tone maddeningly calm:

“You’ll have to remind me never to doubt my instincts again. I had this feeling you’d follow me if I came inside. Guess I wasn’t wrong after all.”

The train jolted slightly, snapping her halfway back to the present. She barely heard what her friends were talking about. Albus thought she hated train rides; Marie assumed she was mentally reviewing summer coursework; Jerry guessed she was worried about her brother. Only Ralph, glancing up from his paper to study her expression, seemed to suspect that Rose Weasley was hiding something.

They heard noise in the corridor—students running toward the far end of the carriage. Nobody paid it much attention, assuming it was a bunch of second-years chasing after the snack trolley.

Rose didn’t care. She was too lost in the memory—how her whole body had gone rigid when he stepped closer, how she couldn’t seem to look anywhere else but into his eyes.

But none of that compared to what happened next: the moment her lips remembered that kiss—the one they’d shared in that empty room at the end of last term, with only the camera as witness.

When he’d come close enough to touch her, Rose had blurted out the dumbest thing imaginable:

“Malfoy, you never gave me back my recording of the Quidditch World Cup final.”

He’d raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise crossing his face before he broke into that small, teasing smile—the kind he only wore when something truly pleased him. Rose wouldn’t know that until much later, of course.

She very nearly started banging her head against the window. Reliving it only made her realize how completely idiotic she’d been.

Ralph paused his reading to glance at her—at the redhead looking mortified for no apparent reason. Before he could even start guessing why, the corridor erupted again—shouts, running feet, and a flurry of voices moving fast toward the back of the train.

This time, it was too much to ignore.

“What on earth’s going on?” Albus muttered, just as the compartment door slammed open. A flushed Lucas Smith from Hufflepuff appeared, panting.

“Two second-years are throwing curses at each other—at the end of this carriage! They’re saying your sister’s one of them, Potter!”

What followed was chaos—students rushing down the aisle, voices overlapping, bodies squeezing through the narrow corridor as they tried to see what was happening.

Rose clutched Albus’s shirt to avoid getting swept away in the crush of students.

Then came a cry of pain. Albus tore free from her grip and bolted ahead, shoving through the crowd toward the commotion.

“Idiotic girls! Stop this at once!”

That was the shout Rose heard as she shoved past a pair of Slytherins watching from the front row—just in time to see her cousin Lily aiming her wand straight at Fiorella Zabini, who stood cornered by an open window, her dark hair whipping wildly in the rushing wind.

The Slytherin girl was clutching her arm, trying to hide a grimace of pain—so Rose guessed it must’ve been her who screamed. Fiorella Zabini’s eyes blazed with fury, locked on Lily, who stood her ground, trembling but defiant.

“Stop it already!” Hugo shouted and at that moment Rose finally spotted her brother, standing dangerously close to the center of the fight. “You’re acting insane, Lily!”

“Insane? Me? She attacked me first!” Lily’s voice cracked with rage. Around them, students had gathered in stunned silence. The prefects hadn’t arrived yet—their carriage was near the front of the train.

“Right. Because I’d hex you for no reason after you called me a delusional show-off…” Fiorella’s voice dropped, steady but sharp as steel. “Open your eyes to the truth and stop pretending.”

Lily’s glare faltered for a second, the color draining from her face. What Fiorella had said to her—it couldn’t possibly be true. It couldn’t.

“That’s enough.”

Scorpius Malfoy appeared suddenly through the crowd, wand raised between the two girls. His voice was calm but firm. “Ella, this is ridiculous. Let’s go.”

“Yeah, Ella—run away like a cowardly Slytherin,” Lily sneered, her voice slicing through the tense air. The quiet, well-behaved Potter little girl was gone—replaced by something fierce and reckless.

“At least I’m not a maniac—”

“Depulso!” Lily shouted before Fiorella could finish.

The spell shot forward like a cannon blast, but Fiorella’s shield went up just in time. “Protego!” The hex ricocheted off, grazing Albus’s shoulder and flinging him backward into a compartment. The beam kept going, hitting an emergency door, which exploded off its hinges—flying straight into the void as the Hogwarts Express thundered over a bridge.

“I said STOP!” Hugo yelled, running straight into the chaos, the roaring wind whipping his clothes.

“Expelliarmus!” screamed Lily, furious that her first curse hadn’t worked—and not realizing her cousin was directly in her line of fire.

The red flash hit Hugo square in the chest. Everything that followed burned into Rose’s memory in slow motion.

Albus saw his cousin hurled backward, swallowed by the rushing air and the impossible drop beyond the open door. He lunged, grabbing the first thing he saw—a broom that had fallen in the compartment—and without a second thought, he vaulted out of the train.

Before Rose could even process what was happening, something whizzed past her ear—a Nimbus—and she caught a glimpse of Scorpius Malfoy mounting it mid-run, shooting out into the sky after Albus.

Her world went white with terror. Her brother, her cousin, and—Merlin help her—a boy she tried not to care about were now seconds away from dying.

The screams around her blurred. Her body wouldn’t move. All she could do was remember: Hugo’s crooked grin, Albus’s steady eyes, and that fleeting, dangerous brush of Scorpius’s hand against her cheek in Ralph’s house—right before his lips had hovered far too close to hers.

“We’ll be good friends, Weasley. You’ll see.”
“Sure, Malfoy. And maybe we’ll train dragons this year, too.”

She hadn’t believed it then. Her sarcasm had sounded weak, almost hollow—and he’d just smiled before walking away, leaving her in the empty house. As empty as she felt now.

On the other side, Albus’s mind was blank except for one thought: Don’t let him fall.
He could see Hugo spinning helplessly, plummeting through the air. His chest clenched. He couldn’t fail—not like this.

His dad had never let harm come to his friends, not once. So how could he, in peacetime, let his own cousin die because of something so absurd? How could he ever look his father—or any of their family—in the eye again?

He had to prove he could be just as brave… or just as stupid.

He leaned forward, dropping fast, his broom slicing through the wind. Protecting the people he loved was second nature to Albus Potter—or, as Rose liked to call it, his “hero complex.”

Then he heard it—a low hum cutting through the roar of the wind. Someone else was closing in fast. He was diving straight toward Hugo, reaching out to grab him—but now both of them were falling.

Albus pushed his broom harder, until his muscles screamed. His fingers brushed Hugo’s sleeve—and then Scorpius’s hand closed around the boy’s other arm. The three of them were tumbling together now, brooms shaking under the weight.

Scorpius knew this had been idiotic from the start—summoning his broom, diving headfirst off a moving train—but there hadn’t been time to think, only to act.

Potter gripped Hugo’s left arm; he held the right. They fought the pull of gravity together, straining against the air, until—after seconds that felt like hours—their fall began to slow.

When they finally steadied, hovering ten meters above the ground, Scorpius let out a shaky breath. Hugo hung limp between them, white as a ghost—then suddenly leaned forward and threw up.

Scorpius glanced sideways. Albus was breathing hard, pale but grinning faintly—half in relief, half in disbelief. He must’ve looked exactly the same.

They exchanged a look—wordless, raw. Scorpius wanted to ask if Hugo could hold on, but one glance told him the boy could barely stay conscious.

Together, they maneuvered him onto Scorpius’s broom and began the slow flight back toward the tracks. Neither spoke. The only sound was the pounding of their hearts. Scorpius was sure they’d never catch up with the train—that they’d have to fly all the way to Hogwarts like this. The thought was insane.

But just as hope was slipping away, a cluster of broom-riders appeared in the distance. And ahead, the train—now stopped—was waiting for them.

What came next was a blur. Albus would always remember it that way. The damaged carriage was packed, though not as crowded as before. Prefects and Head Students stared, dumbstruck, as the rescue team followed them in.

He spotted Rose exactly where he’d left her—or so it seemed. She hadn’t moved an inch. Lily was sobbing in the corner, surrounded by her friends, while Fiorella was huddled in Emily McDouall’s arms.

They laid Hugo on the floor. The Head Girl knelt beside him, unpacking a small emergency kit, cleaning his sweat, and making him sip an energy potion.

Albus crossed to Rose, who was still frozen in place, eyes wide and glassy. He dropped his broom with a dull thunk and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. The train jolted forward again. Rose blinked twice, then turned to look at Hugo—pale but sitting up—and then at Scorpius, leaning weakly against the corridor wall.

Things were going to change. She knew it. She had no plans to be his friend or even speak to him if she could help it. All she wanted was distance—healthy, careful distance. But life had a way of ignoring her plans.

Albus, meanwhile, had seen enough to understand what kind of person Scorpius Malfoy truly was. He was exactly the kind of person Albus could call a friend. And if he hadn’t realized it before, he did now.

Maybe his parents never asked more of him than he could give—but deep down, he felt the need to prove himself worthy of the legacy he carried. His name weighed heavily on his shoulders, a burden he could never quite shrug off.

What did his parents expect from him? His family? The wizarding world? He didn’t know. Not yet. But he knew this: they trusted his judgment. And beneath the insecurity he hid so carefully was a proud Gryffindor—the son of Harry Potter—and nothing could ever take that away.

So, without a second thought, Albus made a choice that would change everything for everyone.

He held out his hand to Scorpius Malfoy.

For a heartbeat, Scorpius just stared, disbelief flickering across his face as the entire carriage fell silent. Then, after wiping the cold sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his robe, he reached out—his hand trembling slightly from the adrenaline still coursing through his veins—and clasped Albus Potter’s in a firm, resolute handshake.

Rose’s eyes flew wide, just like everyone else’s.

She didn’t know it yet, but her world had just turned upside down—because from that moment on, despite their rival Houses and their tangled legacies, Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy were no longer just acquaintances.

They were friends.

Chapter Text

Her grandmother had once told her she possessed a very special gift—and she knew it was true, or at least she liked to believe so. When she asked her mother about that “gift,” however, she had only received that look—the one that clearly meant she shouldn’t be asking such questions.
What her mother didn’t know was that she had silently followed her afterwards and overheard her calling Grandmother a conceited old witch. It wasn’t exactly news that they didn’t get along, but apparently, her mother had drawn a line at letting the old woman fill her daughter’s head with nonsense.

She tried not to pay too much attention to the meeting she was sitting through, which was why her thoughts wandered to her family drama—in a way, those troubles were easier to handle because she was used to them. She thought of Hugo, too, and realised her family wasn’t the only one with problems.

She sighed softly and lifted her green eyes towards the portrait of an elderly man dozing comfortably behind the Headmistress’s desk. At that moment, Professor McGonagall was giving a rather unprecedented scolding about the irresponsible use of spells aboard the train.
From what little she managed to follow, Fiorella gathered that Professor Thompson’s Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons must have been quite effective, as two second-years had apparently given a most impressive demonstration—or so he’d said before McGonagall ordered him to hold his tongue.

“I hardly think, Professor, that now is the time to praise them for what they’ve done,” she said sternly. He merely shrugged and gave her a cheeky wink.
“We’ll also need to sit down and review your course outlines,” she added pointedly.
“Whenever you like, Professor McGonagall,” he replied, smiling before turning serious again towards the girls. “However, it’s clear that one of your classmates was put in grave danger—”
“Three,” corrected Professor Longbottom, arms crossed, looking only slightly more intimidating than usual.
“Quite right—three. And as you know, your parents have been called in to discuss the incident and to be informed of your detention,” concluded the Headmistress, peering at them over the square frames of her glasses.

Fiorella glanced at Potter’s face—flushed as red as a ripe apple, eyes small and watery from crying, one hand clutching the sleeve of her robe. Fiorella herself was nervous, but she thought the redhead was overdoing it a bit. Then again, she realised Lily was already enduring her own punishment—she’d have to live knowing she’d nearly killed her cousin.

The fire in the hearth flared green, and the figures of her mother and father appeared, both wearing equally grim expressions. That alone told Fiorella she was in deep trouble. They’d clearly been arguing.

Harry Potter and his wife arrived next via Floo. It struck Fiorella that it was perhaps the first time she’d ever seen the Potters not smiling like they always did in the newspaper photos.

“Harry, what a pleasure to see you, my boy,” came a voice from the portrait. Fiorella turned and was startled to see the elderly man who’d been pretending to nap—clearly, playacting came easily to a portrait.
“Pleasure to see you too, Professor Dumbledore,” Harry said, though he didn’t look remotely pleased to be there that evening.

It was the second of September, 2020, and they were standing in the Headmistress’s office after the first official day of term—on trial for “endangering the lives of several students through irresponsible use of magic.” Fiorella found it almost unbelievable that such an accusation even existed; it must have happened far more often than people admitted.

Her mind drifted to more pleasant thoughts, though fragments of the conversation still reached her: holidays in Italy, detention through the first term, summer visits to Malfoy Manor, scrubbing fourth-floor bathrooms, Christmas at Grandmother’s, polishing trophies, Scorpius’s birthday gifts every spring, confiscated wands, her “gift” and the endless talks about it...

“Understood, ladies?” came McGonagall’s firm question. Fiorella barely registered the words but nodded obediently anyway, eager to escape to her common room.

She exhaled slowly as she stepped out of the office. Her parents hadn’t said a word yet—never a good sign. She considered visiting Hugo in the Hospital Wing but spotted her sister Rose near the gargoyle, clearly waiting for her cousin. No, that would not be a good idea.

Still, she took a moment to study Rose Weasley and passed silent judgment: an utterly ordinary girl. Perhaps her hair was rather striking, but there were prettier redheads—Emily McDouall, for one, or even Lily Potter (though she’d rather die than say that aloud).

She hesitated just long enough for her father to give her shoulder a light tap, urging her onward.
If Rose Weasley was so ordinary, why did she make her feel so insecure? Why did it seem that Scorpius only had eyes for her? And why did Fiorella know, with absolute certainty, that if she wanted to test her so-called gift, Rose would be the key?

“Fiorella, I think now’s the time for you to explain exactly what happened on that train,” her father said in that calm, dangerous tone he only used when he was truly angry. He never called her “Fiorella” unless he meant business. She turned to him with a perfectly rehearsed look of sorrow, soft enough to make him ease his expression—much to her mother’s exasperation, perhaps recognising a hint of her own mother-in-law in her daughter.

Apparently, she wouldn’t be going back to her common room just yet.

Rose walked silently beside Lily, who in the past couple of days seemed to have lost her ability to talk—or rather, to chatter endlessly, as was her usual habit.
When her aunt and uncle finally returned to the Headmistress’s office to go home, Rose managed to convince her to visit Hugo. None of her friends or cousins had succeeded in persuading her before that moment.

She glanced sideways at Lily and noticed how shaken she looked, though it still remained a complete mystery why Fiorella Zabini and she had started arguing in the first place. They’d told the teachers it was something about Quidditch, but her cousin couldn’t care less about that—besides, it was absurd, as Professor Thompson had quite rightly pointed out.

They waited in silence for the staircase to swing back into place, and that was when Rose decided to ask the question.
“Lily, I know you probably don’t want to talk about what happened, but… why did it all start?”

Her cousin turned towards her and rolled her eyes with clear annoyance. Rose sighed, exasperated—the unbearable Lily she knew so well was back.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to ask. You’ve always been such a busybody, Rose…”
“Of course I am, especially when it involves my brother nearly plummeting off a two-hundred-foot cliff. But don’t worry, Lily, I always make time for your nonsense.”

Lily bit her lip hard at that and glared at her cousin with genuine fury. Rose raised an eyebrow and took a step forward just as the staircase finally came to a stop before them.
“Are you coming or not?”

If there was one thing absolutely certain, it was that those two cousins could never, by any stretch of the imagination, be called close friends.

Without saying another word, they made their way to the Hospital Wing.

The place was brightly lit, and Hugo was the only patient there. Madam Pomfrey had insisted he stay for a few days—not only because of the shock, but because his blood pressure had been rather unstable, and he’d suffered several bruises where the boys had caught him to stop his fall.

To Albus and Scorpius’s surprise, they too had been made to spend the first night of term in the Hospital Wing—“just as a precaution,” according to the Headmistress. It had given them plenty of time to talk: Quidditch, lessons, professors, summer holidays… until Hugo had ordered them to shut up so he could sleep.

Albus was always the one who talked the most, and the one who asked endless questions, but to his own surprise, Scorpius hadn’t felt particularly uncomfortable with any of it. Perhaps, like his cousin Ralph, he was catching that strange Potter virus of excessive friendliness.

At that moment, Scorpius was sprawled in a chair beside Hugo’s bed while the latter devoured a bag of sugar quills Tim had brought him. His robes hung open carelessly, his tie had lost its perfect knot hours ago—he had the odd feeling that time was moving faster than usual. Albus had told him it was probably due to the nap they’d taken after lunch; Madam Pomfrey’s second dose of calming draught had knocked them both out for a couple of hours.

Scorpius opened his palm, and a small Snitch unfolded its wings, darting through the air. He’d caught it in the last match of the previous season against Ravenclaw, where he’d filled in as Seeker at Tim’s request. His eyes followed the little golden ball, though the monologue about Quidditch with which Albus bored Hugo kept him entertained.

When the Snitch swooped close, he stretched out his fingers and closed them around it once more. Seeker wasn’t exactly the position he fancied most on the team, but he needed to decide soon if he’d be trying out next week.

He opened his hand again, releasing the irritated Snitch, which zoomed across the room like a missile—straight toward the door, where a quick hand snatched it mid-flight. Scorpius barely caught the movement, his eyes widening in surprise. Before he could say anything, two girls were already approaching them.

“Albus, I told you not to leave those beastly little things flying around when I’m here. They can get tangled in my hair.” Lily’s tone carried its usual note of arrogance, but her brother ignored her entirely.
“Yes, Lily, whatever you say—but that ‘beastly little thing,’ which is actually called a Snitch, isn’t mine. It’s Scorpius’s.”

“Scorpius?” repeated Rose, dazed. She couldn’t quite grasp how her cousin managed to make friends with people so quickly.

Still sitting, Scorpius leaned forward on Hugo’s bed, extending his hand. Lily, who had made the brilliant catch as if it were the most casual thing in the world, placed the golden sphere in it.
“Thanks,” was all he said before turning his attention to Rose, who was now focused on Hugo.

“Feeling better? You look less pale now.”
“Tell that to Mum—she cried for fifteen minutes while nearly suffocating me.” Hugo propped himself up slightly, throwing a sidelong glance at Lily, who blushed and immediately looked down. Rose knew her cousin well enough to know that the only person capable of silencing her was her brother. That alone made Rose think those two should probably talk in private.

A small nod from her was enough for Albus—thank Merlin—to catch her meaning. He said goodbye to the younger ones, and Scorpius—Merlin, how strange that still sounded in her head—followed suit.

Neither Hugo nor Lily said a word as they were left alone, so Rose took that as a sign she’d done the right thing. Once outside the Hospital Wing, an awkward silence settled until, of course, Albus broke it.

“Well then, I’ll leave you two. I need to go to the Owlery to fetch a letter from Dad.”
If she hadn’t known how oblivious her cousin could be, Rose might almost—almost—have thought he was doing it on purpose. And by it, she meant leaving her alone with Malfoy.

Her pulse quickened instantly, and she nearly panicked. It wasn’t exactly fear she felt—it was something else, something far more irrational. Just as Albus was about to leave, her mind started working again.

“How can you be fetching a letter from Uncle Harry if he was just here?” she asked. Albus froze, clearly not expecting that. He stammered a few nonsense words, glancing nervously between Scorpius and Rose, looking like a boy caught red-handed.

“He could’ve sent it this morning, right?” said Scorpius with a shrug, throwing him a lifeline. Albus seized it at once.
“Exactly! Sent it this morning,” he echoed, nodding far too eagerly.

Rose frowned, shaking her head.
“Of course not—it would’ve arrived with the morning post at breakfast.”
At that, Albus sighed, realising he was doomed.
“What are you hiding?” she pressed.

Albus rolled his eyes, clearly surrendering.
“Sorry, Rosie! I’ll explain later!” he called, dashing off before she could question him further.

Rose huffed in frustration. Her cousin was not only a terrible liar but also infuriatingly good at getting away with it. Still, she had bigger problems at the moment—like Malfoy’s unwavering gaze fixed directly on her.

She dropped her eyes and stepped back, wanting to flee. She felt uncertain, exposed—fragile, even. Just as she had that day at Ralph’s house, when his hand had brushed against her skin before they’d joked their way out the door. She remembered his words now, ones she hadn’t paid much attention to then, too busy with the thrill of being near him.

But now, looking at Albus, at her brother, at the narrowing distance between them all, every word came rushing back to her like a prophecy—one that only made sense as it began to come true. That stupid, teasing line that had made her blush:

“Like a said, we’ll be good friends, Weasley. You can bet on it. Though perhaps we should step outside—there’s far too much exposed skin between us… Not that I mind that, really.”

And in that moment—standing there, dying of embarrassment—she’d wished the ground would swallow her whole, bikini and all.

Would they ever truly be friends? Rose doubted it. Not if he kept making remarks like that. She could only hope Albus would, in time, realise what kind of person Scorpius Malfoy really was—though, if she were honest, she wasn’t entirely sure she knew that herself.

“Are you all right?”
Scorpius watched her closely for a few seconds when she didn’t move, uncertain whether to feel pleased or guilty for provoking such a reaction in her. Rose gave a faint nod and stepped back again. She drew in a little more air than she needed, preparing to speak, but as she tried to retreat once more, her back met the cold stone wall of the corridor.

“I’m going back to my common room now. Good night, Malfoy.”
She turned, exhaling victoriously—yet before she could take a single step, a hand closed around her wrist, holding her in place.

“Wait…” murmured Scorpius. That single word was enough to send her heart hammering wildly, pumping blood to every corner of her body. He shouldn’t be able to touch her. She had to forbid it—every time he did, her palms began to sweat, and her breathing turned uneven. That couldn’t possibly be good.

She turned back towards him, watching as he rummaged in his bag before letting her go. A few seconds passed in silence until he drew out a small box and held it out to her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Scorpius delighted in the flush that rose to her cheeks as she accepted the package.

“Well. I thought you’d stolen it and wouldn’t bother giving it back,” she said lightly, trying to joke, though the last thing she wanted to recall was how he’d kept her video camera—the one she’d left behind at the spot where they’d kissed at the end of the previous term.

“I’ve no need to steal anything,” he said, with that superior tone that usually belonged to her. “Muggle technology—quite impressive, I must admit. I convinced my father to buy me one just like it.”
Rose stared at him, astonished, but he only shrugged before adding, “And a massive tevelision and a computer, too. I re-recorded the final. It’s on a disc now.”

“Television,” she corrected automatically, and he frowned, not understanding what she meant. She fixed him with a look, clutching the box tightly in both hands. He began to move closer—cutting the distance, shrinking the space between them—and with each step, Rose felt her breath catching further in her throat.

They were far too close, right there in front of the Hospital Wing, where anyone could see them. But not a single muscle in her body obeyed her mind’s desperate orders.

“I’m not much good with Muggle stuff,” he went on quietly. “I wondered if you might—”

“My brother’s brilliant with all that,” she interrupted sharply, cutting him off before he could utter something dangerously close to an invitation. Scorpius sighed in defeat, but before giving up entirely, he lifted a hand and brushed her pale cheek with a tenderness that made her close her eyes and bite down hard on her lower lip. He didn’t notice, but her eyes began to sting, tears pressing behind her lashes.

“Why are you doing this to me…?”
It was barely a whisper, but he heard it clearly. For a fleeting moment, he despised himself for making her feel that way—but the selfish part of him reminded him that, right now, all he wanted was to kiss her, to feel her close, and to deal with what it meant later—if ever.

He cupped her face in both hands, and as she opened her eyes and let her tears spill freely, he murmured just before their lips met:
“I don’t know…”

It was nothing like the first time. Every inch of his body felt as though it might burst into flames from the heat between them. Her shy lips waited motionless, and when they finally met, his heart exploded in his chest. He didn’t want it to end—he wanted to lose himself in her, stay there forever. That soft, burning rhythm of her tongue moving with his was something he wanted to learn endlessly, but only with her. His hands slipped down from her face to her back, pulling her against him with all the strength he had. Rose could only manage a muffled gasp, a sound that reached his ears like music.

Merlin’s beard—why couldn’t it have been any other girl? Why did it have to be her?

He felt trapped in a trance he never wished to escape, but the wetness of her tears against his cheeks brought him back, flooding him with guilt.

“I have to go…” she whispered, finally stepping far enough away to think clearly. Scorpius watched her closely—her flushed cheeks, her lips redder than before. She’d never looked lovelier, and he almost told her so, but he knew it would only make things worse. Rose Weasley was confused—she didn’t want to admit her feelings because it was him. He was certain she wished it had been anyone else.

He said nothing, just watched as her brown eyes filled again with tears. He felt wretched.

“You know this can’t… it can’t happen,” she managed.

“It can happen,” he said firmly, staring at the wall to stop himself from reaching for her again. “It just mustn’t happen. That’s not the same thing.”

Rose nodded faintly. She glanced down at the small box, now dented from how tightly she’d been gripping it, and said quietly before turning to leave,
“I suppose we really could try to be friends after all.”

He turned towards her voice as she walked down the corridor, only catching her last words:
“Good friends, and nothing more, Malfoy.”

And as she disappeared into the castle’s darkness, Scorpius leaned back against the cold stone wall, closing his eyes before a few rebellious tears escaped. He tried to grow angry to hold them back—almost succeeded—but disappointment won. A couple of warm drops slid down his cheeks.

Everything would be easier if he could just be Scorpius and she could simply be Rose—no Malfoy, no Weasley. But he knew those names would never vanish overnight, and that was what tormented her most. It tormented him too.

Then he made his way towards the Slytherin common room, unaware that a pair of sad green eyes were watching him go.

As he walked, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robe, one thought clung stubbornly to his mind—he probably shouldn’t have given the camera back to Weasley. After all, she’d already stolen something far more precious from him, though she didn’t know it.

Chapter Text

“Checkmate.” Hugo’s calm face smiled at Fiorella as his black queen raised her sword high against the helpless white king. Fiorella, brimming with frustration, swept the pieces off the board with one hand and folded her arms.

Hugo arched an eyebrow, leaning back into the armchair by the fire. Now he’d have to pick up the mess.

“She’s always been a terrible loser,” Scorpius remarked casually as he walked over, followed by Tim. They had just finished their last practice before the first match of the season against Hufflepuff the next day. “Time to grow up, Ella.”

“He cheated!” she exclaimed, kneeling on the seat and leaning over the backrest. Her eyes were shiny, on the verge of tears, and both Scorpius and Timothy felt something twist inside them at the sight.

“Hey, Weasley. Apologise to Zabini,” Tim said to Hugo, who stood with his arms crossed, clearly not believing what he was hearing. He looked at his friend, but she only had eyes for Scorpius, gazing at him with quiet sadness.

Fiorella sat back down and thought he caught a mischievous smile flickering across her lips. Scorpius, still watching her, turned to Hugo with a shrug.

“In these cases, an apology might be the right thing to do…” he said, though without much conviction. The young Weasley, indignant, shot up from his seat.

“And why should I apologise? For winning?” he demanded, glaring at Timothy with those big eyes full of reproach. Tim hesitated, glanced at Fiorella—who was pouting adorably—and then remembered.

“For cheating, mate. That’s not how you treat a girl.”

Then Hugo had a revelation. He recalled a certain conversation with his favourite cousin but quickly brushed the thought aside. He picked up the scattered chess pieces from the carpet and sighed dramatically.

“Sorry, Fiorella. Forgive me for being infinitely better than you at chess.”

The boys burst out laughing, and she flushed with anger, though it was barely visible beneath her sun-kissed cheeks.

“You’re such an idiot, Hugo Weasley!”

Quidditch always stirred things up around the castle—no one could deny that. The first match of the season would be played that afternoon: Hufflepuff versus Slytherin. The Badgers had a well-established team, while their opponents were fielding several new players still learning to work together. The graduation of several key players the previous summer had forced the newly appointed captain, Luke Montague, to recruit fresh talent—some of which he wasn’t exactly thrilled about.

“Malfoy, just try not to mess it up,” he said curtly to his new Seeker when he ran into him at the entrance to the Great Hall during breakfast. Scorpius looked even paler than usual. He answered with a disdainful glare, and Luke rolled his eyes, biting back the urge to hex him—it wouldn’t do to send one of his own players to the Hospital Wing before a match. “Forget it. I’ll make sure Bletchley, Durham and I score those extra hundred and fifty points so you won’t have to worry.”

Luke disappeared into the Entrance Hall, and only then did Scorpius allow himself to breathe again—the sad truth being that he was scared out of his mind.

“Ready for the big game, Scorpius?” a warm voice called out. He turned to find Albus smiling at him. Obviously, it wasn’t Albus who had a Quidditch match that afternoon.

“I suppose so,” he replied with a shrug, spotting a flash of red hair approaching them. Oh, Merlin. This wasn’t going to end well.

“Come on, you need to sound more confident. You’re the Seeker—the whole game might depend on you.” Scorpius was about to answer when another voice cut through before he could speak, dry and unimpressed.

“Brilliant, Potter. Now Scorpius feels so much better. You should give lessons on how to deliver encouragement.”

“Sorry, McDouall. I forgot you’re the only one who does everything perfectly all the time,” Albus shot back, rolling his eyes. If he was honest, the only thing he didn’t like about Scorpius was his best friend. Emily McDouall had somehow managed to get under his skin since first year. Him, the friendly one, the one everyone liked, the one who got along with half the school. He simply couldn’t stand her—and she somehow brought out the worst in him, all the things he worked so hard to hide.

She wasn’t even that pretty.
And that thought surprised him.

“At least I don’t compete in the daily contest for who can say the most idiotic things. You’ve got quite the record.”

“Oi—!”

“Oh, please, calm down… See you later, Albus,” Scorpius muttered, dragging Emily towards the Slytherin table before the argument could escalate further. He’d grown to like Albus Potter, really—he was a decent bloke—but things always got unbearable when Emily was around.

With a sigh, he slumped down in front of a bowl of porridge and let his gaze drift towards the Great Hall doors, where Rose Weasley stood talking to Luke Montague.

That wasn’t new. Everyone knew those two were friends—and very good ones. Too good, if anyone asked him.

That alone was enough to kill what little appetite he had. At his table, Tim was devouring a plate of sausages while Fiorella chatted with Linus Derrick and Hugo Weasley as they finished off a tray of honeyed toast. Emily, however, set down her pumpkin juice and followed his line of sight.

Why was she smiling while talking to Montague? He was insufferable, and yet she spoke to him as if he were perfectly pleasant—but when it came to him…

He dropped his head into his hand, still watching, as if staring hard enough might let him read their lips.

When Rose finally moved away from Luke after Albus called her over from the Gryffindor table, he turned back to find Emily watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Have you spoken to her?” she asked. Scorpius exhaled softly. If only it were easier to talk about these things—he should probably update Emily at some point.

“You could say that…”

“And what did she say?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

This time it was Emily who sighed. She wanted to tell Scorpius not to give up on her—after all, Rose Weasley had been practically the only reason he’d started doing anything different from just existing.

First schoolwork, then Quidditch, and now… other, far messier things that were harder to name. But it was complicated—she knew that. She’d seen them together outside the Hospital Wing, but she could never tell Scorpius what she’d seen. She’d seen him cry for the first time since she’d known him, and she’d never imagined it would be because of a girl—especially that girl.

She was sure it would only end up hurting him, so instead she offered the only advice she thought might help.

“It’s not worth it. Just forget about her. You know things were easier when all you worried about was outscoring her in exams.”

“If only it were that simple,” Scorpius said, pushing back from the table and heading out towards the grounds without touching his breakfast. “In the meantime, maybe you could work on getting along with Albus. You’ve noticed we’ve been spending more time with him, and your endless arguments are driving me mad…”

Emily froze, but before she could reply, Timothy—who’d caught that last part—let out a dramatic sigh.

“They drive all of us mad. Why don’t you two just go out already and get it over with?”

“Bletchley!”

It was always the same. Scorpius always pulled the same stunt. Every time she tried to help, he’d shut down and attack from another angle—and with Timothy’s unintentional help, he’d walk away victorious.

What a ridiculous idea.
Her and Albus Potter? Never in a million years.

The only thing she could hear was the roar of the crowd and the excited voice of the commentator, who, thankfully for everyone, was more or less impartial. Quidditch wasn’t really her thing, but she had to show up to support her team.

“Great shot from Bletchley — this boy’s got real talent! He dodges the Bludger sent by O'Connor and… scores for Slytherin! The score now stands at 140–30, Hufflepuff still in the lead! I don’t know about you lot, but I can already smell a winner!”

She tried to spot Scorpius but couldn’t make him out — she guessed he was one of the two small green blurs flying high above the pitch. She didn’t really understand much about magical sports — her grandmother always said they weren’t for well-bred witches — but she wasn’t quite sure it was good strategy to have two players flying so high when the match was mostly happening below.

“Smith takes the Quaffle, feints, and tricks Slytherin’s beater, Jonas! And the score’s 150–30! Hufflepuff dominating this game! Beautiful move. Fun fact: plays like this were first seen in—”

“This is torture… Let’s get out of here. Not only do I have to watch the match, I also have to endure Molly’s voice and her fun facts…” Fiorella turned to look at Hugo and noticed how utterly bored he looked. That alone made her decide to stay put. The punishment for humiliating her at chess would be to watch the entire match. A small, satisfied smile tugged at her lips when she realised — unsurprisingly — that the match commentator also happened to be Hugo’s cousin.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport! We have to cheer for Slytherin!” she shouted above the crowd.

“You don’t even like Quidditch!” he yelled back close to her ear, making her jump. She shrugged and adjusted her scarf, her eyes following—or at least trying to follow—a streak of green darting across the pitch twenty metres in the air, faster than seemed possible.

“Scorpius needs us here, you idiot. I’m not leaving just because I think this sport is stupid.” She gave him a reproachful look with her bright green eyes before adding, “If you want to go, fine. But I’m staying. You’ve no idea what this means to him…”

There was a brief silence between them, though the noise and cheering all around never ceased. Hugo stared at her, but she kept her eyes on the pitch. Was it really that important?

“What does it mean?” he asked, thinking she hadn’t heard him. But she turned to look at him and, with a small shrug, replied wearily,

“Even if I told you, you wouldn’t understand. You may be a Slytherin, but you’re still on the winning side.”

Hugo wanted to ask what she meant by winning side, but a sudden roar of applause, mixed with Emily’s screams — she was sitting on Fiorella’s other side — and the cheers from all of Slytherin house rising to their feet, cut him off. He stood as well and saw the broomsticks and players starting to descend. At that exact moment, Molly’s amplified voice caught his attention again:

“…Unbelievable, folks! I’ve never seen anything like this in all my years! Against all odds, Scorpius Malfoy has caught the Snitch! 180–150! Slytherin wins a match everyone thought was lost!”

Then Hugo saw him as they began to land. A warm feeling spread through his chest, something that made him feel genuinely proud to belong to this house — to his house. As they made their way down from the stands, the cheers of his classmates stirred something deep inside him: the team had fought hard in their first match; they might not be the best, but they had won. Everyone was proud — proud of them, proud of what they’d done.

At that moment, every single one of them was proud to be a Slytherin.

And then he understood. Fiorella’s words made sense as he watched Scorpius and the rest of the team being lifted onto the students’ shoulders. It was acceptance, unity, pride — small victories that, after so many years, still helped the Slytherins hold their heads high, no matter the mistakes of the past.

The sun was already setting as the team left the changing rooms. Montague had barely spoken to him, but Scorpius knew he hated him a little less now — if he’d lost his first match as captain, he’d probably be an even worse person than he already was.

“Well done, Malfoy. You didn’t mess it up,” Luke said arrogantly, though there was a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“Of course. I was just waiting for you chasers to score those 150 points. When it took you too long, I decided to step in.”

Luke Montague shot him a deep look of disdain, but he was too elated by the win to argue, so he ignored him and strode out, followed by the rest of the players.

“Just a bit of advice, Scor,” came Tim’s voice behind him. “Stop winding him up. He’s still our captain, you know.”

Scorpius only gave him a cool, grey look and shrugged. But before he could help it, a genuine smile crept across his face. He was happy — truly happy — and nothing could spoil that moment.

Timothy understood perfectly and threw an arm around him with a shout of joy. The two boys walked out into the orange-streaked gardens, laughing and jostling each other, full of light-hearted bliss. It was the first time Scorpius had ever allowed himself such open affection, which was why he froze when he saw who was waiting for them outside.

“Great game!” It was Albus, smiling broadly and extending his hand. Scorpius stepped away from Tim, who picked up his broom and grinned at the newcomer, while Scorpius shook Albus’s hand. Then Albus pulled him into a hug that made him blush too much to think of saying anything. He stepped back, and they began walking towards the castle.

“Although, if I’m being honest,” Albus went on, “your team’s rubbish. You lot need a lot more training if you even think you’re going to beat us.”

“Sure, Potter. But first you need a decent Seeker.” Albus opened his mouth to reply, but couldn’t — it was true. Timothy smirked and added, “See? For now, that’s our advantage. If Scorpius keeps playing like that, well, we’ll have plenty of time to catch up.”

The castle’s Entrance Hall loomed ahead, filled with students heading to dinner. They were still chatting about Quidditch and placing bets on the next match when four familiar figures appeared in front of them.

Ralph flashed Scorpius half a grin, and he returned it. He expected nothing less from his cousin — Scorpius was infuriatingly good at everything, and Ralph was sure Quidditch would be no exception.

“Congratulations,” Ralph said, stepping forward. “But your team’s still rubbish.”

Albus laughed along with Marie and Jerry, who were waiting to go in for dinner. The only one who hung back was Rose. She watched them, still feeling oddly out of place with this new group of friends she didn’t quite get along with — and yes, that included Malfoy.

The memory of his hands burning against her back came to her every night before she fell asleep, leaving a hollow ache in her stomach that she hated. Not to mention the soft warmth of his lips on hers — just remembering it made her tremble.

She had to admit, to Malfoy’s credit, he’d behaved impeccably — just as she had — as if nothing had ever happened. Still, the occasional stolen glance across History of Magic hadn’t escaped Marie’s notice, and Marie was far too observant for Rose’s liking.

Those glances, floating through the steam of Potions class, made her want to melt — or disappear entirely — to escape the fluttering Snitches in her stomach.

And in Herbology.
And in Arithmancy.
And in Ancient Runes.
And in the Library.
And in every bloody corridor where they “accidentally” bumped into each other.

Just like now. She stood frozen under his grey gaze, while Marie — who had already noticed — raised an eyebrow to where she stood slightly apart from the rest. To everyone else, the comment seemed casual, offhand, but Rose knew that look — the same one Marie had worn when she discovered Rose’s mild attraction to Luke Montague (because of course it wasn’t that she liked him).

“Aren’t you going to congratulate Scorpius? It was a great catch, wasn’t it, Rose?”

Rose cleared her throat, caught off guard, and tried to keep her composure, though she knew her carefully built defences were about to crumble in front of her friends — and her cousin’s friends.

She opened her mouth to say yes, that it had been brilliant, but time seemed to slow. Her eyes took in Scorpius’s face, and she forgave herself for giving in to him: he was handsome — too handsome — and he was looking at her in that way that had made her knees weak from the very first day.

She was going to give herself away — she knew it — because nothing sensible was going to come out of her mouth. Not “Great catch,” but something more like “I like you so much,” or “Why do you have to be so bloody perfect?” or the one she wanted most to say, “Did you really have to be a Malfoy?”

But then he smiled — that small, mischievous, almost teasing smile he only showed when he was truly happy, though Rose didn’t know that yet.

“Weasley’s not going to congratulate me. She’ll just say something like she’s waiting for the next match so you can turn us into paste.”

“That does sound like something Rose would say,” Jerry remarked as they started walking into the Great Hall.

“Glad to see you all know me so well!” she grumbled, following them inside. “And yes, Malfoy, let’s just wait for Gryffindor versus Slytherin — then we’ll see who’s congratulating whom.”

The Slytherin boys made their way to their table in silence. Once seated, Timothy leaned towards Emily, who was already there, writing a letter to her parents on a bit of parchment.

“You really love teasing Weasley,” he said, smirking. “She hadn’t said anything yet.”

Scorpius only smiled in response, shrugged, and glanced at Emily, who looked back at him, puzzled.

“If you two keep this up,” Timothy went on, “you’ll never have anything close to a civil relationship.”

“I know,” Scorpius said with a grin, his voice dripping with mockery as he looked across the hall. “But why on earth would I want a civilised relationship with Weasley? Treat her decently? Never!”

Emily rolled her eyes at her best friend’s shameless sarcasm.

If he wasn’t mistaken, curfew would begin in half an hour — he had to hurry. It hadn’t been easy to distract the others, but now that he was finally alone, he couldn’t waste a single minute.

He crossed the grounds faster than a breath, running uphill and veering by the Quiditch pitch under the deep black of night. Out of breath at the foot of the stairs, he climbed them two at a time until he reached the top of the tower and slipped into the room filled with windows and owl droppings.

There were only a few birds inside at that hour — most had gone hunting — which made it easier to spot the one he was looking for. The animal’s bright eyes glinted in the moonlight as it turned its brown-feathered head towards him. With a soft hoot of recognition, it swooped down and landed familiarly on his shoulder. It was rather forward, but he liked it all the same, though he still hadn’t quite got used to the feeling of talons pressing through his robes.

The owl lifted its left leg, and Albus untied the string with ease. A smile crept across his face as he began to read, handing Uncle Sam a few vitamin biscuits he’d bought over the holidays at Eeylops Owl Emporium in Diagon Alley. He’d send his reply the following day — Uncle Sam deserved a night’s rest.

He’d always told Carrie it was an odd name for a pet, but she’d gone off on some long, nonsensical explanation about patriotism and democracy.

He stepped out onto the stairs and lost himself in the letter — a piece of parchment that had just crossed the ocean to reach him, full of chatter and the little details of life at the Ilvermorny, where Carrie and Lou studied, the girls they’d met during the Quidditch World Cup.

But it was with Carrie that he’d kept writing ever since, and absolutely no one knew. Not even Rose.

It was hard trying to live up to everyone’s expectations. There were stranger who, when they met him on the street, called him Harry — because unlike his siblings, he was almost a mirror image of his father.

That was why he was pleasant, easy-going, and never lost his temper. Why he chose his friends carefully. Why he seemed spontaneous, carefree, and fun. Why, at only fourteen, he was already tired. Through those letters, he could show everything he hid — but only to one person.

He sighed as he reached a part of the letter and looked up at the clear sky, where a handful of stars twinkled faintly. Carrie was telling him to let himself be angry — to shout and curse when things didn’t go right instead of bottling it up until it hurt. But that bad habit, he’d picked up from Rose.

Being the child of heroes and famous parents wasn’t easy, and unfortunately, his American friend could never really understand that.

A soft breeze stirred his hair, making it even messier — but it also caught the parchment in his hand and sent it fluttering away. The letter drifted down the staircase, and he followed it with his eyes. As he started down the spiral steps circling the tower, he froze.

A red-haired figure stood below, holding his letter up and reading it slowly in the moonlight. Albus felt the blood rush to his head, anger rising like fire. No one knew about her, and it had to be Emily McDouall of all people — standing in his way, reading his letter as if she had every right to.

He was about to explode, and he knew it. His temper was the worst, though he’d learned to control it — at least on the outside. When things had once floated, fallen, or shattered into pieces at home, only Aunt Hermione had looked at him with that knowing, unreadable gaze. She was the only one who knew that his anger ruled his magic.

She’d never really scolded him — only said he had great power, that his father Harry had been the same at his age, and that he’d inherited it from him. Albus couldn’t tell whether that made him proud or furious. Either way, the incidents had lessened since he’d started school… but in moments like this, he felt he could bring the Owlery down stone by stone without lifting a finger.

He opened his mouth to shout at her to give his letter back, but it wasn’t necessary — McDouall simply folded it neatly and handed it to him as she climbed the steps to meet him.

Albus reached out, their fingers brushing as he took the parchment. A strange tingling spread through the skin she’d touched, and the anger began to fade.

Emily looked at him for only a moment before continuing up to send her own letter — the one she’d written to her parents during dinner. She left Potter behind, but before she could go any further, a hand caught her wrist and spun her around.

The breeze tossed her hair across her face, and she had to push it aside to meet Albus’s eyes. His gaze held something like anger — something that didn’t bother her in the least — but there was also… something different.

His grip was starting to hurt, and it brought a tightness to her throat. Every hair on her body stood on end — though she couldn’t tell if it was from the cold air off the lake or from the intensity of his stare.

She tugged her hand slightly for him to let go, but he didn’t. Instead, he stepped up a few more stairs until they were face to face, close enough that she could see the faint freckles on his nose. Emily blushed — more deeply than she ever thought she could in front of Albus Potter — so before her voice could fail her completely, she gave him a defiant look and jerked her wrist free.

“Don’t worry, Potter. I won’t tell anyone about your American girlfriend.”

She flicked her hair sharply, the movement hitting him square in the face. A scent of wild berries and a trace of sandalwood filled his nose as she turned away, and his mind went completely blank. It didn’t even occur to him to say that Carrie wasn’t his girlfriend.

The anger had vanished the instant he’d touched her — she’d drawn it right out of him. Maybe that was what she always did when they crossed paths. He watched her disappear into the Owlery and then started down towards the castle before he was caught out after curfew.

He looked down at his hand thoughtfully and considered going back to apologise, but decided against it. Crossing the grounds just as quickly as before, he didn’t waste a second in the Entrance Hall, and once he finally reached the warmth and comfort of his common room, he looked at his hand again in quiet bewilderment.

He made his way to the dormitory, and it wasn’t until he finally fell asleep that he managed to push the Slytherin girl’s insolent expression from his mind.

Or at least he thought he had — because while she returned to her common room thinking about the furious look in his eyes, and whatever it was that made him seem different, Albus Potter dreamt of Emily McDouall for the first time that night.

Chapter Text

It was freezing in the library, but unfortunately, there was nowhere else she could be.
She rubbed her hands together, trying to coax some warmth into her fingers, but it was useless. In the end, she decided to pull on her purple-and-pink wool gloves — a Christmas present from Grandma Molly. She had insisted she needed fewer jumpers, and Lily hadn’t dared argue.

Now her fingertips were warm again, but writing was devilishly hard, so she decided to thaw out a bit before continuing with her homework. First year had been easy, but now she wasn’t sure if it was her imagination or if she genuinely had far more work than before.

“Hi, Lily.”
She turned to see Hugo taking the seat across from her at the otherwise empty table.
“Merlin, this place is freezing. No wonder nobody comes here this early in winter…”

She smiled as he began rubbing his hands too. The library felt like the South Pole. The heating wasn’t turned on until the depths of winter, when the temperature steadied; otherwise, the rising damp would ruin the books. And every year she wondered what use magic was if it couldn’t simply waterproof the entire library.

Rose had once told her that would take too long, but Lily was certain that was just a lazy excuse.

“Your nails are turning blue. Honestly, this is educational malpractice.”
Lily reached across the table, took Hugo’s hands in hers, and wrapped them tightly. He looked at her in mild alarm for a moment, then his expression softened. He smiled, and she instantly felt better. Hugo always had that effect on her.

“Thanks,” he murmured, tightening his grip so that their fingers intertwined. “Looks like I won’t be needing my hands amputated after all.”

The gentle warmth from her gloves spread through both of them, and Hugo was reminded just how much he adored his favourite cousin. They’d grown up together, and almost every happy memory he had featured Lily — his best friend, the one who knew him best.

She, for her part, missed him terribly. He’d abandoned her for Slytherin, and she wasn’t entirely sure she’d ever forgive him for that. She knew Hugo wanted to stand out, but she hadn’t realised how literally he’d take it. Especially now that there was an intruder in the picture…

“So,” she said, breaking their grip and searching for her Potions book, “where are they? I thought they didn’t let you out of their sight — not even to go to the loo.”

Hugo rolled his eyes, picking up his quill and a scrap of parchment. Those two would never get along, and that left him stranded somewhere awkwardly in the middle.

“If you mean Fiorella and Linus, I told them I was coming to help you with your Potions essay. Since neither of them can stand you — and the feeling’s mutual — they decided it was healthiest to stay in the common room.”

“Definitely the healthiest choice,” Lily said dryly, pointing at him with her quill. “As for the other thing, have you confirmed I’m right yet?”

“Oh, Merlin, Lily — not this again.” He opened her textbook and began underlining key notes for her essay. “It’s nonsense. I haven’t even noticed—”
He lied, focusing hard on the page.

Lily’s lips curved into a knowing little smile.
“You and Rose are both terrible liars.”

Hugo rolled his eyes again and opened his mouth to retort, but she cut in before he could speak.
“You know strange things happen around Ella,” Lily teased, emphasising the diminutive of Zabini’s name. “You’re clever, Hugo. Surely you’ve noticed.”

“Flattery won’t work on me, Lily. And no, I haven’t noticed anything. And if you actually want to pass Slughorn’s assignment, we’d better start — I’m starving already.”

She gave him a sceptical look but dropped her gaze back to the book, murmuring softly,
“Fine. Just remember the promise you made me when you were in the Hospital Wing…”

He glanced up over the parchment and sighed. Lily was incorrigible — but just in case, he’d be cautious.
“You’ll keep your promise, won’t you, Hugo?”

She looked at him then, eyes hazel and shimmering with what might have been tears, and he found himself unable to refuse. Manipulative or not, she was genuinely worried about him.

“Yes, Lily,” he said at last, exhaling. “I promise that if I ever find out Fiorella Zabini can actually bend men’s will to her own, I’ll resist and tell you straight away.”

And with that, Lily Luna Potter was satisfied.

Below zero — that was the temperature among the shelves of Advanced Charms.

Her quill tore relentlessly across the parchment as she tried to finish a long essay for Flitwick, her other hand flipping rapidly through the scattered books on her desk. The library was almost empty, and although cold and solitude made a poor combination, she was grateful for the quiet. She was only a few paragraphs away from finishing.

“Rose! How could you come to finish your essay without me?”

She rolled her eyes and looked up just in time to see Albus pushing aside her neatly stacked pile of books to make room for himself.

“Don’t be dramatic. I was certain you wouldn’t want to come to the library. You hate the cold, and we’re practically turning into icicles here.”

Albus shrugged and began pulling out his things. She wasn’t wrong — he did hate the cold — but without Rose’s help, he’d never get that essay done. Enduring a few of her lectures was a small price to pay.

He smiled politely, then bent his head to the parchment, took a deep breath, and opened a textbook for inspiration.

What he didn’t notice was that Rose was staring at him, thoughtful and a little intrigued. She placed her quill back into the inkpot and clasped her frozen hands together, not taking her eyes off him.

He looked up, puzzled — not because he felt her gaze, but because the steady scratching of her quill had stopped.

They stayed like that for several seconds without speaking, and that silence was enough to confirm Rose’s suspicions. Something was wrong with him. And since Albus acting normal was usually a clear sign that he wasn’t, she decided to break the quiet first — which was unusual for her.

Maybe he’d finally realised that the mask wasn’t working anymore.

“Is something wrong?” she asked suddenly, catching him off guard. Rose wasn’t exactly famous for her emotional intuition.

He tried to smile and shake his head, but she rolled her eyes and cut him off.
“That’s the fakest smile I’ve seen from you in years. And trust me, you’ve built up quite the collection.”

Albus froze, bewildered. How could she say that? How could she see that?

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Rose…”

But the uncertainty in his tone made her lips curve into that small, knowing smile she wore whenever she knew she was right. Leaning forward, elbows resting on her books and chin in her cold palms, she murmured:

“You’re a very good actor, Albus. But I don’t know how long you think you can keep pretending with me.”

Her voice was warm, almost gentle, and for a fleeting moment she reminded him of Grandma Molly. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry.

When he still said nothing, she continued, his bright green eyes widening slightly with each word.

“You’ve got a whole repertoire of fake smiles — convincing ones, to anyone else. But I’ve known you since before we were even born. It’s a bit unfair of you to underestimate my intelligence like that.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” he tried again, defensive now.

She arched an eyebrow, and then she let it out — all the weight they’d been carrying for far too long.

“Of course you do. You smile like that when people tell you you’re the image of Uncle Harry, or that you’ve got his eyes — or your Grandmum Lily’s. When they ask why you don’t try out for Seeker, since it’s clearly in your blood…”

“You don’t like being compared to your mum, either,” he snapped back, the bitterness in his voice surprising them both.

Rose blinked, taken aback for a second, then smiled again. She reached out and took his hands, which were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

“That’s true,” she said softly. “But when people do it, I don’t smile politely and thank them. I just ignore it and shrug. James is proud of all that, and Lily too. If you don’t feel the same, then just say so.”

Her hands covered his, and — to her quiet surprise — he didn’t pull away. Instead, he relaxed a little, opening his fists and lacing his fingers with hers.

“I don’t…” His voice broke before he could finish. “I don’t hate my dad…”

Rose squeezed his hands gently, breaking through all that icy tension, her warmth steady and real.

“Don’t worry,” she murmured. “You don’t need to explain. I understand. I don’t hate my mum either.”

Albus looked at her for a long moment, watching her return to her essay as if nothing had happened. He tried to do the same, but it was far harder than he expected.

How had Rose — the girl everyone said had the emotional range of a teaspoon — managed to crack through his perfectly practised mask?

A thousand questions circled in his head. If she could see through him… did his parents already know too?

He couldn’t stop looking at her, his mind racing. She glanced up from her nearly finished parchment and caught him staring.

“Why now?” he asked at last, his green eyes searching hers.

“Because it’s time to grow up,” she said simply. “Because I can’t stand watching you pretend to enjoy Grandma Molly’s lamb stew — we both know you hate it. Because I wish you’d get angry once in a while. Because those pep talks after we lost to Ravenclaw last week weren’t sincere. Because I know you better than you think, even if I don’t boast about it. Because you’re hurting yourself, and you know it. Because I love you — you’re my best friend. Because I didn’t have enough proof before to confront you.”

She paused, smiled faintly, and added, “And if I start mentioning touchy topics — like your siblings or Emily McDouall — we’d better stop here.”

It was nearly dinner time, and Lily hurried Hugo to pack up his things so they could head to the Great Hall. She adjusted her scarf, pulled on her purple-and-pink wool gloves and dragged her cousin toward the corridor. They nearly collided with Scorpius and Emily as the two Slytherins were just walking in.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Hugo muttered as they passed. “It’s freezing in there.”

“Thanks for the warning, Weasley,” Emily replied with a small smile before turning her clear gaze on Lily. “Good evening, Potter.”

Lily gave a curt nod and watched the pair disappear into the library’s cold, dark interior. Then she turned back to Hugo, who waited impatiently beside her.

“Is McDouall Malfoy’s girlfriend?” she asked.

Hugo frowned, shaking his head. “Not that I know of. But since the start of term, they’ve been practically glued together…”

“Yeah,” Lily said bitterly. “Reminds me of another pair of Slytherins I know.”

“Oh, not this again, Lily—please!”

Meanwhile, Scorpius led his best friend through the rows of books toward the Charms section, where Albus was supposed to be. This new friendship of his was… refreshing—especially since Albus had generously offered him his Broomstick Maintenance Kit while he waited for his own to arrive next week.

His mind wandered to simpler things, nothing heavy or complicated—until he spotted Albus standing up from a table where Rose was still sitting. She looked up by chance, and their eyes met for only an instant. It was enough to make him forget why he’d come at all. He hated when that happened.

Albus greeted him, and Scorpius returned the gesture, ignoring Emily’s huff and Albus’s sharp reply. Better to tune them both out; he wasn’t interested in their petty squabbles. Besides, he knew full well that arguments like those had a tendency to end the same way his and Rose’s had: with tangled tongues and stolen breath.

He risked another glance at her, but Rose didn’t look up again—her focus buried in her parchment. Maybe Emily was right. Maybe it was time to move on. If he kept obsessing like this, he’d lose his mind. With a sigh, he followed Albus toward the exit.

“Coming, Rose?” Albus asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder and gesturing toward the two Slytherins.

“I need to sort these books and double-check something,” she replied without looking up. “Go ahead.”

He shrugged, deliberately ignoring McDouall, and started chatting with Scorpius about Quidditch. Emily murmured something about finding Madam Pince to ask about a Divination text and walked away in the opposite direction. Scorpius barely managed a nod before she was gone.

The red-haired girl hurried through the aisles until she reached Rose Weasley, who was still absorbed in her reading. Rose looked up briefly, taking in the other girl’s slim figure, her long hair, her clear eyes. She had to admit—Emily was lovely, and by all appearances, a decent person.

“So?” Emily asked softly, glancing over her shoulder to make sure the boys were out of earshot. “Did you tell him?”

“Yes,” Rose answered, eyes fixed on the page. Emily understood immediately that she wouldn’t get much more than that, so she turned to leave—but Rose’s quiet voice stopped her again.

“Thank you. I needed some proof that this was getting out of hand.” Her eyes flicked to Emily’s right wrist—the same one that had been bruised a few weeks back from her cousin’s grip. “I think things will get better. Though I’m not entirely sure he’ll be any kinder to you—especially if he ever finds out you told me what happened.”

Emily shrugged, smiling faintly. She hadn’t been wrong about Rose Weasley after all, and that was a relief.

“I don’t care if he’s kind to me,” she said with a soft laugh. “It wouldn’t be half as fun if he were.”

Rose smiled too, because she understood her perfectly.

The warmth and noise of the Great Hall faded behind him as he stepped outside. She hadn’t shown up to dinner, which could only mean one thing—she was still in the library. Scorpius walked slowly, trying to give himself time to talk himself out of what he was about to do. Unfortunately, time ran out when he found himself standing before the library doors.

His thoughts always built up too fast, crowding his mind until he couldn’t keep up with them—like now. No one would guess it from the way he spoke, so deliberate and measured, but chaos lived behind that calm exterior.

A blast of icy air hit him the moment he stepped inside. The cold was inhuman at that hour.

He walked down the aisles, looking for the table where Rose had been. He still didn’t know what he was going to say. Excuses, all ridiculous, tumbled through his head, and he decided he’d probably end up distracting her with some silly argument instead.

Peering around a corner, he spotted her table—empty, save for a few books and a bag. He frowned, and then his heart nearly stopped. There she was—Rose Weasley—balancing on a step ladder, reaching to shelve a few heavy tomes.

He might have smiled at her meticulousness if he hadn’t been struck dumb by the sight of her legs from below. His chest tightened painfully. Every beat of his heart seemed loud enough to give him away.

She didn’t notice him as she slid a book carefully into place, stretching a little farther than she should have. He fought the sudden, reckless urge to touch her. The cold in his body vanished, replaced by a slow, intoxicating heat that made him dizzy. His gaze lingered, tracing her calves, the line of her thighs disappearing beneath her skirt. If she shifted even a little—

Was it wrong to look at her that way? To see everything he wanted in a girl and still think of sex? He wasn’t sure—but he did know self-preservation.

So after sorting through the thousand thoughts crowding his mind and choosing the least dangerous one, he finally spoke.

“Need a hand?”

The voice startled her so badly she nearly fell, but he caught her just in time, his arms closing around her before she could hit the stone floor.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s fine,” she replied quickly, though she doesn’t know he was also apologizing silently for the fact that he’d just seen her underwear. She took a step back, gathering her things, intent on leaving even though a few books still lay on the table.

“Why are you leaving?” The words came out almost wounded, and she caught the tone. Her fingers tightened around her bag strap.

“Why would I stay?” she asked softly.

Scorpius knew then—it was a losing battle. Everything about Rose Weasley was impossible. No matter what he did, how much he cared, she always found a way to undo him.

“Why would you go?” he countered, reaching for her hand. His fingers brushed hers, but Rose jerked away.

“This isn’t funny, Malfoy,” she said sharply, meeting his eyes.

He looked at her, almost broken, and then tried again—this time enclosing her hand in both of his.

“You’re freezing,” he said quietly. “That can’t be good. You should bundle up if you’re going to stay here.” He lifted her hand closer to her face. “Your nails are blue. And your lips…”

He reached out as if to touch her cheek, but she turned her face aside. He sighed, knowing it was pointless to push.

“Don’t make this harder,” she whispered.

“It already is,” he murmured, fingers still entwined with hers. “Just… don’t make us keep pretending we don’t exist. Let’s be friends.”

Rose looked down at their joined hands, then up into his eyes—the cold, stormy gray she could never quite stop thinking about. Her trembling had eased; his warmth had seeped into her fingers. Maybe it wasn’t impossible. They could share time together, maybe even stop bickering so much in public. Study, work side by side. It didn’t sound that bad…

She gave a small nod. Scorpius smiled — that small, mischievous, almost teasing smile he only showed when he was truly happy, though Rose didn’t know that yet. He released her hand only to pull her into an embrace, as if it were the first and last time he’d ever dare.

She froze for an instant—but then, between the shadowed shelves and the slanted glow of moonlight, all she could feel were his arms around her, steady and warm. Her head rested against the space between his neck and shoulder; her fingers pressed into his chest.

It felt right. Safe. Like she could stay there forever.

The scent of sea breeze and morning dew from his cologne filled her senses, dredging up memories of kisses, warmth, and tears. Still, she didn’t want him to let go.

Her heart raced in rhythm with his, her cracked lips tingling with the temptation to meet his—but she had to be stronger than that. She had to remember that this, whatever this was, could only end badly.

She closed her eyes as he finally pulled back. When she looked again, Scorpius was smiling faintly. He took her right hand in his left and gently tugged her toward the exit.

The books stood silent witness as they walked hand in hand—just for that night. Because when they reached the door, Rose slipped her fingers free and said, with all the conviction she could gather in lungs that had forgotten how to breathe:

“We’ll be friends, Malfoy. I think Albus will like that idea.”

And before she could surrender to the urge to kiss him, she turned and hurried toward the Great Hall, hoping dinner wasn’t quite over.

Scorpius Malfoy smiled, because that was exactly what he’d wanted to hear. If they were friends and spent enough time together, Rose Weasley would eventually give in — she’d fall for him sooner or later.

After all — he was a Slytherin.